No More Lonely Nights (44 page)

Suddenly she had a vision of Clay above her the night before in bed, gazing at her with lust and, yes, love. She felt a spasm in her stomach, then the taste of bile in her throat. She had to find the powder room or she would humiliate herself right in the lobby. She shoved herself away from the phone booth and spun. With a resounding bang and a scrape of wood, she collided with the coffee table. Her shin screaming with pain, she lurched past it and scurried down the hall. Frantically, she shoved the bathroom door open. Then she collapsed on the floor in front of the toilet and spewed the contents of her stomach into the bowl. Gasped. And then vomited again.

When the spasms subsided, Dominique shakily pushed herself to her feet, flushed the toilet and—clutching the sink for support—dropped the lid and sat down. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. She felt faint, completely without volition or control. A great, shuddering sob exploded inside her and she moaned, “Oh, God!” Her agony was so great that it seemed dying would be better. It was like a living creature slamming upward into her chest, encompassing every negative emotion: betrayal, anger, hatred, fear, and despair.

Clay’s lies! He had sworn that he wasn’t having an affair. Over and over. Dominique thought of him in bed with another woman. Who was she? That he could touch another woman as he had his own wife—murmur the same endearments, perform the same acts—sickened Dominique. She thought of what he’d done the previous evening. Something he’d never done before. The other woman’s style of lovemaking! And he had tried his new technique on his wife! How could he! How could he!

The contents of Dominique’s stomach surged upward again and she was barely able to get her head over the sink in time. She clung to the cool white basin for support, sure that her trembling legs would give way if she let go. Yet she wanted nothing more than to return to her room and scrub her body under the shower. Scrub away the filth of the other woman. He had made love to that stranger, then he had come home and made love to her! The idea was revolting. Why hadn’t he simply left Dominique alone? But Dominique knew the answer. The affair had given him new sexual energy. He had been more stimulated than ever. He had derived a secret thrill from making love to two women. He had never felt more virile, Dominique was certain. He had taken up exercise and bought new clothes to make himself yet more desirable.

And Dominique had succumbed. Knowing that he planned to leave her, she had still let him make love to her! The degradation!

Yellow liquid spurted up from Dominique’s stomach and she heaved helplessly over the sink, tears stinging her eyes. There was nothing left in her stomach, yet her body continued to be wracked by uncontrollable spasms.

She had to get to bed —couldn’t remain upright. She didn’t have the strength. She fumbled for the tap and turned it on, splashed cool water on her face. She let the water run until the yellow bile had vanished down the drain.

Dominique lifted her head and looked in the mirror. She wiped away a bead of yellow from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were hollow, her face pale and worn-looking. She turned away and grasped the doorknob, then hesitated. If only she could simply stay in the little powder room and never have to face reality. Once outside, she would have to deal with her life—an unbearable thought.

Ever so slowly, she turned the knob and opened the door. Directly opposite her stood Clay. He wore a stricken expression. His tan had drained away.

“You overheard…” His voice was resigned.

Dominique stared at him, hating the sight of his handsome face. She wanted to hurl herself at him and tear at his skin. She wanted to pummel him with her fists until she had no energy left. She wanted to humiliate him as he had humiliated her. And yet she felt too weak to make a move. Too weak even to speak.

Clay took a step toward her, concern on his face. He reached for her arm, but Dominique recoiled.

“Get away! You make me sick!” she hissed. From somewhere inside her, she found the strength to walk past him, through the lobby, and back to their room.

Their last night in St. John was hell. Dominique pled illness and stayed in the room, forcing Clay to host dinner. When he returned, he found Dominique in bed. A pillow and blanket, obviously meant for him, rested on the sofa.

Dominique hadn’t spoken since their encounter outside the bathroom. But now she pushed herself up to a sitting position and asked, “Who is she?”

Clay walked toward the bed and prepared to sit down.

“Don’t sit there!” Dominique’s voice slashed through the air.

Clay, looking startled, straightened. He faced Dominique.

“Who is she?” she repeated coldly.

“Marie Annis,” Clay said flatly.

“The decorator?” Dominique asked incredulously.

Clay nodded, a single crisp motion of his head.

“The one who wears all the makeup?”

“She’s very stylish,” Clay said defensively. “She has to be in her job.”

Dominique threw back the covers and sprang out of bed. She pushed past Clay, then, when she reached the space beyond the foot of the bed, whirled to face him. She pointed an accusing finger at him. “She’s young enough to be your daughter! How old is she? Twenty-five? twenty-six?” Dominique had an image of the slender young brunette. She was undeniably chic, in a steely, New York sort of way. She wore her hair in a severely cut, shiny dark pageboy. Her makeup was always precisely applied in strong, dark colors. She had a slender, tall, well-proportioned figure, which she showed off in clothes that were ultrafashionable, yet a little too sexy to be entirely businesslike.

Clay, obviously stung, answered, “She’s twenty-eight and she loves me!” He jammed his fists into his pockets and stuck his jaw out defiantly.

Dominique slammed her palm to her chest. “What about me?
I
love you! What about Gabrielle and the rest of the family?”

A look of impatience crossed Clay’s features and he turned his head away. “It’s not the same…. Marie’s given me back… passion. She’s made me—”

Dominique interrupted, her voice scornful. “She’s made you feel young! That’s all! It’s nice having a twenty-five-year-old pet idolize you. It makes you forget—”

“She’s twenty-eight!” Clay cried. “And it has nothing to do with age. I love her! She’s the person I’ve been looking for all my life.”

Dominique marched toward Clay until she was standing directly before him. “I thought,” she spat, “that you stopped looking when you married me.”

Clay curled his lip with annoyance. “Don’t be so literal!” Now it was his turn to stride past Dominique. She pivoted to follow his progress. He went to the armoire and withdrew the bottle of port that the hotel supplied to its guests. With a harsh clank, he slopped some of the deep ruby liquid into a glass and took a long swallow.

“Clay!” Dominique’s voice was demanding.

He turned to face her.

“This woman is everything you’ve always made fun of. She’s cold and always overdressed and over made up. I don’t understand.”

Clay’s eyes softened in an expression of pity. “I know you don’t,” he said softly.

The pity was too much for Dominique to bear! That was worse than anger, worse than defiance. Pity! “Clay!” she cried. “This can’t be anything more than a passing thing.” Her voice betrayed her desperation. Men had affairs. She hadn’t thought Clay would do it, but he had. Still, it was impossible that he would leave her for that woman.

Clay drained his glass, then refilled it. He brought it to Dominique and handed it to her. She shoved his arm away, not caring that the liquid sloshed onto the tiles.

Clay looked surprised by the violence of her gesture. Abruptly, he sat down on the edge of the bed, his shoulders wearily slumped. He looked down at his glass, then drained the liquid that remained there.

Clay’s passive attitude infuriated Dominique. She wanted his involvement. She wanted him to look at her. To explain. She raised her voice bitterly. “What could you possibly have in common with her?”

His head remained down as he replied, “Our ambition, our outlook on life. We have…” Now his eyes sought Dominique’s and begged her for understanding. “The passion between us is magical.”

Dominique felt her stomach lurch in disgust, humiliation, betrayal. She had to get hold of herself or she would be sick again. She swallowed and said with stiff dignity, “We’ve never had a problem in that area.” She dared him to deny it.

Clay stood up and began pacing. “It’s not the same,” he murmured. He stopped near the armoire, turned, and looked at Dominique standing at the bedside.

Dominique didn’t want to know more. Couldn’t ask. It was too savagely hurtful. Instead she focused on another point. “Is she going to give up her work for you?” she asked sarcastically, her voice trembling.

Clay made a noise of exasperation. “Of course not. She has a career!”

Dominique’s mouth dropped open. For a moment, it was impossible to formulate a coherent thought. Then she burst out, “You didn’t want
me
to work!”

As though explaining things to a child, Clay replied evenly, “Marie and I have an equal relationship. I don’t tell her what to do. She’s too independent for that.”

Dominique gasped and crossed the floor until she was standing directly in front of Clay. “You bastard! How can you say that to me?” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. Her arms slashed downward to punctuate each word. “After your father died, you plagued me about working! You wanted me at home. What’s so different now?”

“Marie and I don’t have a child for one thing!” Clay riposted, his voice also rising. He looked at the glass in his hand and went back to the armoire to refill it. He took another long swallow, then began to speak more calmly. “She’s a very creative person. To deprive her of work would be to deprive her of the very force that makes her what she is. You never had her creativity. You were simply working until you had a child.”

“That’s a lie!” Dominique shot back. How could he distort their common history that way? She had been as creative an event planner as Orman’s had ever had. And since then, her reputation had grown. Just because she didn’t get paid, Clay didn’t value it? How had her skill been so downgraded in his eyes? Dominique wanted to argue, but she was choked by emotion. Clay thought so little of her that he couldn’t even acknowledge her talent! And since when had that been a criterion for Clay’s admiration? He didn’t want a “career girl.” Or so he had always professed.

“Look,” Clay said gently. He took a step toward Dominique, but didn’t touch her. “There’s really nothing to argue about. We’ve just grown apart.”

“Grown apart?” Dominique shrieked. “We planned our lives together! Since I got pregnant and quit work, when have we disagreed?” She threw up her hands in a wild gesture of bewilderment. “You were happy with our entertaining, my volunteer work.” Dominique counted off the list on her fingers. “I supported the expansion of your business, even when it meant you had to travel so much—” She stopped short. It suddenly struck her that Clay’s numerous business trips might have been fabricated. Boiling rage welled up in her.

Before she could hurl the accusation at him, Clay cried, “Don’t you see?” He put down his glass and spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Marie has her own life, independent of mine. And I need a woman like that.” He put one hand to his throat, the other he balled into a fist. “If I stay with you, I’ll feel… I don’t know… stifled.”

“Stifled!” Dominique mocked bitterly. She put her fists on her hips. “By your own family? When have I ever questioned you or tried to prevent you from doing something you wanted?”

“It’s not you!” Clay backpedaled, and his voice became soothing. “I just need—”

Dominique couldn’t listen.
“You need!
I’m sick of hearing about what you need!” She put her hands on her hips. “What about your family? What we need?”

Clay turned away and resumed his pacing. “You’ll be provided for,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, I know that!” Dominique said in a threatening tone. “But I’m not talking about money.” Now her tone grew insistent. “I’m talking about the fact that you have a daughter who needs you. And a mother. And I’m…” Dominique’s voice broke. She couldn’t continue. She loved Clay. He and Gabrielle were the focus of her life. Dominique couldn’t imagine her life without him. “I need you, too, Clay!” she cried.

Clay came toward her and wrapped her in his arms. Dominique knew she should push him away, but she hadn’t the strength. She put her head on his shoulder and wept. It was so comforting to be held by him. How many times had she cried like this against his shoulder? There had been the miscarriages. The car accident that had resulted in a broken leg for Gabrielle. The time Solange had been in the hospital with pneumonia and the doctors had thought she might die. Clay had been there to comfort Dominique every time. Now he was the cause of her heartbreak, yet it was difficult not to seek him out for comfort. He was her husband, her ally, her friend.

Clay caressed her hair and murmured soothing words. She wrapped her arms around his waist. Why couldn’t they simply stay this way forever? How could he be so tender and caring if he didn’t love her anymore?

Clay rubbed her back, then raised his hand so that he was gently massaging her neck. That always made her relax. Released the tension from her stiff muscles. Clay cradled the back of her head with his fingers, all the while rubbing her scalp in a comforting way. Dominique let her head relax against his fingers. She hadn’t had any of the port, but her emotions were so intense that she felt almost drunk.

Clay slipped his hands under the straps of Dominique’s nightgown so that they fell from her shoulders to her upper arms. He massaged her shoulders. He slid his hands slowly up and down her arms. The straps of Dominique’s nightgown fell further. With a barely perceptible movement, Clay slid the straps all the way down. The bodice of the nightgown clung to Dominique’s breasts. Clay slid his hand around Dominique’s waist, up over her shoulders, and pushed down the stiff material of Dominique’s bodice until it was barely held aloft by her erect nipples.