Chapter Four
“Damn phone! Go to messages, for God’s sake,” Mike cussed as he slouched in his hotel room, a thick terry robe warm upon his freshly-showered skin, a glass of single malt scotch within easy reach. His hair fell across his forehead, “looking boyish,” the not-so-young chick told him when he emerged from the lap pool.
“Those silver-white temples? Yum, yum,” she smacked her glossy lips just in case she hadn’t made clear her availability.
“Sorry, not happening tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders at her and shot her a grin that he hoped suggested he appreciated the offer. Then he ambled from the pool with his best John Wayne shuffle. Not easy when wearing flip-flops.
He looked down at his feet, bare and big, perched upon the cocktail table in front of the sofa, and swigged another swallow of scotch.
“Damn snow,” he swore softly at the white stuff still falling, but not as heavy now. He had too much to do to be cooped up in this hotel all day. His first break was to the gym and lap pool. He needed that.
Tension ridged his thick neck. He leaned his head back against the sofa’s high edge. Okay, the place was comfortable, for a hotel room, but he’d had too many of these lately. Lifting his glass, he sipped the amber liquid.
When his phone rang again, he saw the message light blink and he retrieved the call. Caitlin’s voice. The plant would be open tomorrow. Nothing personal in her tone.
He itched to call her. He hadn’t planned on seeing her so soon. Hadn’t planned on her working closely with him. That was only one of the problems in his recent personal life. He didn’t plan enough. Or maybe sometimes, he didn’t plan at all.
Would Caitlin’s presence screw everything up for him? Had leaving Atlanta behind, and in such haste, been another mistake? Errors riddled his life lately.
Shifting his solid, baseball-player body into a more comfortable position, he stared glumly at the build-up of snow on his balcony. As a kid, he loved snow and worshiped snow days, off from school and spending the time outside. He’d shovel snow, build snow forts, have snowball fights, sled down the hill in the park not far from home. Those carefree days were long gone.
“You’re all grown up,” he muttered—an adult male with responsibilities and desires. Damn.
His cell phone lay on the end table. Making a call wouldn’t require much effort. Caitlin’s number danced in his head. It jumped out at him like a teasing image against the patio doors leading to the balcony overlooking the rolling lake. All day he’d battled the urge to call. The temptation became serious when he’d finished all the paperwork he’d brought with him. He fought the desire—two hours in the gym, three stints in the sauna, an hour doing laps in the pool.
Afterward, off to a big meal since he couldn’t even remember what he’d eaten. Somewhere between soup and some kind of beef, he fended off a come-hither glance from a leggy, sexy blonde, also eating alone. He smiled and pantomimed he had other commitments. He shied away from leggy blondes these days. She looked disappointed.
That episode and some serious heartburn from eating too much sent him back to the lap pool and the second close encounter of the female kind. Another discouraged woman. They littered his life today.
His karma must be changing.
It had been a long time since any female seemed disappointed because he wasn’t interested, but in Anne’s case, he’d been a disappointing washout. At least in her mind. When hell finally broke loose in his marriage, only he appeared saddened, mainly because of the kids. While Anne had been unfaithful, he had been wrong first and worst, though he hadn’t realized that at the time.
He eyed the scotch bottle, then the still-mocking cell phone.
“What the hell.” He added more amber to his glass, pretending the liquid offset non-existent ice.
His wife—ex-wife now—the ever perfect Anne, gracious, loving, leggy, blonde, sexy, and submissive. To a point. At first. But later, he found his work demanding and life away from her proved as interesting, or more so, than being at home. Home—where life centered only around Anne and her wants, her needs, her demands. She emerged insatiable in everything. He became disappointing to her and disappointed in her. The harder he worked to provide the material objects she craved, the less time he had to cater to her sexual and psychological needs. She had multitudes of both.
Pretty soon, gracious gave way to vicious and sexy turned frigid—at least toward Mike. Love evolved to hate. Submissive? Well, that had been an illusion from the get-go. Anne was no fragile female. He learned the hard way about steel magnolias. Anne was no magnolia, but more barracuda than flower.
Their twins, oh they suffered, too, and because of that, his guilt at being an absent dad piled higher each day. Anne soon replaced him with a wealthier husband, one who disliked the kids, but who had time to cater to his wife and still make mega-millions.
Did that satisfy her? No, she still wanted Mike, if only occasionally. It reaffirmed her stranglehold on him. Sometimes he weakened and surrendered. The consequence? More guilt and increased tension. More shit.
The struggle each time he picked up Brendan and Beth took its toll—on the twins and on him. Only Anne bloomed with the stress. Enjoying the turmoil she created fed a fire deep within her.
One evening, just before leaving Georgia, he found Anne in his apartment. That memory still haunted him. He swigged from his glass and added an ice cube, splashing more scotch into the tumbler. The snow-filled balcony mirrored his frigid heart regarding his ex and what happened.
Before she showed up, she’d been drinking; he smelled the alcohol. From her dilated pupils, he figured, it was possible she had popped some pills. He had learned she did both things too often, but she had little else to fill her time after Pilates and lunch, especially if hubby was busy making money.
He tried to get her out of his apartment. Instead she moved toward him, lust riding her body and invitation flashing in her eyes. She offered herself; he rejected. Her speech was slurred as she screamed obscenities, no longer the gracious southern femme fatale. She lashed out with fingernails, ripping his cheek, tearing his shirt. Building security arrived and pulled her off him. She pressed charges for assault, which went nowhere.
So he went north. Away from the ravages of divorce wars.
His phone rang again, drawing him from his tormenting reverie. Probably his mother—he hadn’t checked in yet today. Right now, he was in no mood to hear her list of problems.
He sipped his scotch. Anne was gone. Georgia was finished. He desperately missed the twins, but he’d have them here all summer. Life would go on.
And Caitlin had re-entered his life. He could say she fell into his professional lap. How easy was that? He hadn’t even started a serious search. Caitlin. Still beautiful, bright, but always cautious. Her thick auburn hair shorter now, sleeker. The silver, gray-green eyes were luminous, expressive, assured, no longer haunted. A woman out of her time. Unaware of her powers, she bewitched and entangled with her cool, pragmatic approach, her level-headedness.
For years he’d blamed her for whatever went wrong in his life. He’d learned—as she must have known he would—once he grew up and got hurt with life’s serious heartaches. He understood her much better now. Understood her heartaches. Understood her rejection of him years ago.
This time, well, this time she wouldn’t slip away. He’d given up too much. He had his own heartaches and they’d tempered the steel in him.
This time around, he wouldn’t lose her.