Authors: Patricia Coughlin

Borrowed Bride (12 page)

BOOK: Borrowed Bride

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“Look,” she said, coming to a halt a few away from him. “I'm sorry. That was a rotten thing for me to say.”

He shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head and squinted at her as if she'd just woken him from a long nap. “What was?”

“Knock it off, Connor. I shouldn't have made that crack about not trusting you to baby-sit a cat and ... and about you making a play for me.”

“Oh. That.” He dropped the glasses back into place. “Forget it. No blood, no foul.”

“Don't do that,” she snapped.

He sighed. “What am I doing wrong now, Gaby?”

“You're closing up again, playing the part of the big, strong tough guy whom nothing can ever hurt.”

He unleashed an insolent smile. “I am a tough guy, remember?”

“Even tough guys have feelings.”

“Honey, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were worried about hurting my feelings.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Is this the same woman who once called me a no-good, lowlife jerk? The same woman who said Iâ”

“Yes, yes,” she said, cutting him off. “And I still hate you for keeping me here and I don't share your suspicions about Adam, but deep down I guess I know that you believe you're doing the right thing and that your motives are sincere.”

“Careful, Gaby, you're getting mighty close to calling me your hero.”

“Don't hold your breath, DeWolfe. I just want to say that I know how hard it was for you to open up to me about things in your past that were extremely painful and I wasn't very gracious in return.”

“Forget it. I'm not the only person in the world whose mother died.”

“I wasn't talking only about your mother's death. I'm sure it was also hard for you to talk about your feelings for me.”

“My feelings for you,” he repeated, as if trying to figure out what she was getting at.

“Yes. You trusted me, and I repaid your trust by overreacting and I'm sorry.”

“My feelings... Oh, you mean about you being an itch I never got to scratch?”

Gaby flinched. “I suppose that's one way of putting it.”

“I'll live,” he said, shrugging. “You can't blame a guy for trying when you're everything he likes in a woman.” The dark glasses did little to conceal the hungry look he ran over her before casually adding, “Not that there's very much I don't like in a woman.”

“You're impossible,” she said, not sure whom she was angrier with, Connor for his insolence or herself for turning around and apologizing in the first place. After all, you could hardly fault a panther for pouncing on raw meat. “I don't know why I waste my time talking to you.”

“My irresistible charm maybe?”

“Hardly. It's probably because for one brief shining moment I thought there was a scrap of something redeemable inside that obnoxious shell.”

“Don't take it too hard, Gabrielle. We all make mistakes.”

She resisted the urge to punch him. “Just tell me one thing, Connor, if you're really so tough and nothing anyone says gets to you, why did you drink too much beer last night?”

“Why?” He tipped his head to the side carelessly. “Why else? Because it was there.”

Liar
, she thought as she strode away.
Liar
,
liar
,
liar.

Inside the cabin she paced for a while, eventually finding an old mystery novel on a shelf in the living room, and carried it down by the lake to sit and read. Or tried to. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on the words on the page when her own thoughts were in such turmoil.

Connor could say he drank too much simply because it was there, but she wasn't buying it. Not for a second. She knew differently and she'd be willing to bet he'd gotten drunk to escape an old and persistent demon. She knew because the same old demon haunted her, as well. She'd just never tried to hide from it in a bottle.

For years she'd relied on self-control, ignoring her demon, denying it, locking the mere thought of it away in a safe place where she didn't have to acknowledge the truth to herself, much less to anyone else. It was just too upsetting to think that she could ever, in any way, be attracted to a man she disdained as vehemently as she did Connor. But Lord help her, she was attracted to him. That was her demon...and his, she suspected. She knew it now just as she had known it that afternoon years ago when he had kissed her toes and made her shiver with a longing she had no right to feel.

That day, too, she had left him alone on the deck and run off feeling guilty. And afraid. Afterward she had wanted to tell Joel what had happened. She'd wanted to hear him laugh and tell her in his levelheaded way that just because they were married didn't mean they were immune to a little temptation now and then. She'd wanted him to dismiss the whole incident, reassuring her that he trusted her and that she hadn't done anything wrong.

Because she hadn't. She'd loved Joel with all her heart. She was never unfaithful to him and never would have been. Still, what had happened that day with Connor had felt wrong, and she'd known that was because it hadn't happened simply as a result of too much sun or too much beer. That moment on the deck had been a long time coming. And the aftershocks of it had lingered long afterward. In fact, she realized, they were still being played out today, years later.

Beneath the irreverent retorts and the low-level animosity that characterized their relationship, something else was always simmering between Connor and her. It had been there from the start. If she was totally honest, she'd have to admit that in part her resentment of Connor was due to this other feeling, this attraction or chemistry or whatever it was. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” That line could have been written for her, she acknowledged wryly.

She'd always kept Connor at a distance, professing to find him irksome and irresponsible, because deep down she was afraid. Not afraid of Connor, but of a side of herself that he alone seemed to understand and that his very existence silently threatened to unleash. In subtle ways he made her aware of a reckless, uninhibited side of herself that had been systematically shushed and squelched by parents and teachers and society's expectations . . . by life itself, she supposed.

It was a side of her that wasn't afraid to ride a fast motorcycle or let the wind mess up her hair, that wasn't afraid to take a chance or to sometimes choose having fun over being responsible. A side of her that wasn't afraid of the way a man like Connor could make her feel. Worse, that other, alien side of her wanted to feel that way, she wanted it all and she didn't care who or what stood in the way.

At least that's the way it had seemed to her sometimes when Connor was around, and so she had gone to great lengths to hide that reckless streak inside from herself and from others. She'd played it safe by keeping that other side submerged inside the more sensible, practical Gabrielle, and by always staying out of Connor's way. She became the perfect wife and mother, standing on the sidelines, watching and worrying and making sure that the grocery shopping got done and the beds got made and that everyone bad clean underwear.

And for what? she thought now as she let the mystery novel fall to her lap and stared out over the quiet lake. Her heart was twisting inside her. Clean underwear and nutritious meals hadn't stopped Joel from being killed or Toby from getting sick. She thought of what Connor had said about his mother never leaving the house without an umbrella and then she thought about the folding umbrella always tucked under the seat of her own car, and her mouth curved into a sad smile. If she had only a short while to be with those she loved, would she rather be remembered as the woman with the umbrella or a woman with the wind in her hair, a woman who knew how to laugh and how to live?

Gaby drew a deep breath. Making the choice was easy. It was living it that took courage. She had always shaken her head in disapproval whenever Connor had involved Joel in one of his exploits. She'd never acknowledged, not even to herself, how easily she could have been swept up in one of those adventures and loved every second of it. She'd accused Connor of bringing out the “worst” in Joel because she was able to see so clearly how easily he could bring out the “worst” in her, too.

Only all of a sudden the worst didn't seem so bad. Connor didn't seem so bad, she thought, shocking herself. Even his philosophy of life, which she had always dismissed out of hand, was understandable when you considered the events in his past. And in her own, she realized, sighing heavily.

They had a lot in common, Connor and her, and yet she'd always been wary of him. Guilt and fear, all of it kept carefully hidden beneath the surfaceâthat's what had shaped her relationship with Connor through the years. Guilt over the fact that part of her connected with him in a way that she didn't even connect with her husband. And fear of what might happen if that part of her was ever set free.

She could see now that the guilt had been misguided. She had been singularly faithful to Joel and she would be still if he had lived. In the end that's what counted. She had done nothing to be ashamed of and she'd been wrong to blame herself for a feeling. She'd also been wrong a little while ago when she snapped at Connor about the kind of man Joel would want her to fall in love with now that he was gone. The fact is that Joel would never have presumed to tell her such a thing. What Joel would tell her was to follow her instincts and do whatever made her happiest and damn the consequences. As solid and dependable as he was, she thought, smiling gently, he hadn't been Connor's best friend all those years for nothing.

Guilt and fear. She lay back on the grass, the book forgotten as she felt a long-held tension draining from her. Guilt and fear. Such a waste of time and energy. Her eyes closed and the warmth of the sun relaxed her muscles, making them feel like jelly. All those years of guilt and fear. Oh, well, she thought, letting go with a yawn, at least now the guilt was gone.

She felt herself drifting off to sleep and didn't fight it. She awoke gradually, aware of Connor calling to her from the deck. Sitting up, she twisted around and peered at him through the low-hanging branches of the willow tree behind her. The angle of the sun suggested she had been asleep for several hours.

“What is it?” she called to him, reluctant to rouse herself further unnecessarily.

“Are you hungry?” he shouted.

She was, Gaby realized suddenly. Very. Although she'd eaten a late breakfast, they had skipped lunch and that cinnamon muffin seemed ages ago.

“Yes, starving.”

“Then come on. Dinner's ready.”

She stood, brushing grass from her shorts, and walked toward the cabin, staying on the grass and avoiding the crushed-stone path that was murder on her bare feet. As she crossed the deck, she caught a whiff of something so delicious her mouth watered and stomach growled. Inside, the aroma was even more tempting. She paused just inside the kitchen and stared at the table.

White plates had been set atop a dark-blue-and-white-plaid tablecloth. There were matching napkins folded beside each of the two plates, and chunky dark blue wine goblets and white candles in rustic wooden candle holders. There was even a bunch of wild daisies stuck in an old metal jug. But what caused Gaby to stare in amazement was the dinner set before her. There was salad in a wooden bowl, a platter of crisp barbecued chicken and corn on the cob, and a basket of buttermilk biscuits. It was obviously a meal that had been carefully planned and prepared with as much attention to detail as the table setting. It was also a long way from the grilled hot dog or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich served on a paper plate that she'd been expecting since Connor yelled to her.

“You can cook,” she said, dragging her gaze from the table to where he was uncorking a bottle of wine.

He finished twisting the cork loose before turning to her with a shrug. “There wasn't a whole lot of cooking involved in this meal, but yes, I can cook. You don't have to look so shocked,” he added dryly.

“I am shocked. It's easier to picture you jumping out of a plane than wearing an apron.”

“Real men don't wear aprons,” he retorted, deadpan. “And I look on cooking as sort of the ultimate survival skill. You ought to taste my Shanghai shrimp.”

“Right now I can't wait to taste this. It smells wonderful.”

“Then have a seat and dig in,” he urged.

He followed her to the table, holding her chair for her as she sat. As if, Gaby couldn't help thinking ironically, they were a couple dining at a posh restaurant instead of captor and captive, stuck together in the middle of nowhere. He poured the wine and lit the candles, holding the lighter aloft afterward.

“I told you we might need this later.”

“Silly me,” she retorted, “I had no idea there were candlelit dinners in my future. You're just full of surprises, Connor.”

BOOK: Borrowed Bride

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