Perfect Timing (19 page)

Isabel looked over her shoulder, knowing she had a better chance of being pregnant. “That just goes to show you, Fitz. You don’t know the first thing about Aidan Royce.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Las Vegas

B
ECAUSE
IT
WAS
APPROPRIATE
,
I
SABEL
SMILED
AS
SHE
AND
A
IDAN RODE IN THE
elevator, chatting with a couple who’d been in the audience. Aidan was on such a high he couldn’t see the cement wall that had dropped between them. And maybe it was better this way, that he didn’t see it coming. As the couple gushed on, Isabel’s smile dissipated. Who was she kidding? Among the scenarios Fitz had laid out, her worst fear wasn’t any future unfaithfulness on Aidan’s part. Her worst fear was the present, telling Aidan that she was leaving him. No matter his outward reaction he’d only be relieved. Before exiting the starstruck twosome insisted on an autograph, thrilled to shake Aidan’s hand. The elevator doors closed and Isabel cued up calm. Aidan buzzed in her ear, ecstatic about performing in front of a real crowd, people who’d pay money to listen. He was a sweaty, stunned golden statue of awe, claiming it was more exciting than the Selma County Fair, a place where he’d filled every seat. “Did you hear them, Isabel? It’s one thing for people to get into a cover song, something they already love. But they went for my stuff.” Forcing the smile back around, she listened as his voice softened, the everyday Aidan falling slightly short of the consummate performer. “At . . . at least I thought they did. They did . . . right, Isabel? They liked my music?”

The smile turned genuine. “Yes, Aidan, they loved it. The world is going to love everything about you.” The elevator doors opened. Isabel self-comforted by guessing her only wifely act would be not to stand between Aidan and his one true love.

After arriving in the room, Aidan took a shower. He was running on pure adrenaline. Isabel moved out of pure fear. She didn’t dare lose sight of the plague-like prophecies that would befall him if she didn’t follow through. She needed to put things in motion, thinking hard but not for very long. Her assets amounted to a one-way plane ticket and a lint-covered Life Saver. She reached for the human lifesaver that had been offered. While Aidan was in the bathroom, Isabel made two calls. The first went to voicemail. She almost left a message, but what for? It wasn’t like she had somewhere else to go. The second call was to the concierge, informing him of her travel plan, which did not include California. Methodically, she packed her things into one of the bags from Joe’s Strip Souvenirs, putting most of Aidan’s cash back into his wallet. She kept thirty dollars, just in case. Isabel executed each move deliberately and with composure. It was a warm-up for what came next.

She turned. With the abruptness of a scream in church, their marriage license interrupted. It and the strip of pictures from the photo booth sat atop the dresser. She told herself it was just a piece of paper. It didn’t mean anything. She considered throwing it in the trash, but her hand veered left at the last second, slipping it inside the bag. Isabel tore away one photo—the one of them kissing, tucking it inside the pocket of Aidan’s tux. It was symbolic. Besides, he’d never find it. But she did think about it for a moment, the kiss. Aidan did kiss her. Not the other way around. And what happened at the farmhouse . . . This time Carrie interrupted, Isabel hearing her warning about such foolishness. The thought was punctuated by Fitz’s logic. The scene at the farmhouse was fear seeking comfort, not unlike the past few hours. Aidan was upset, they both were. Comfort is what he expected from Isabel. How could it be anything else? He wasn’t in love with her, not like that. Even if the world had tipped off its axis and Aidan did love her, like a wife . . . Well, it was a moot point. Fitz Landrey had seen to that. Really, it was a huge blessing. Isabel couldn’t imagine the devastation if Aidan’s feelings amounted to any more than friendship. Of course, the alternative, Aidan in jail, was even more disturbing. She’d follow through with whatever it took to keep that from happening. She couldn’t do anything less. Not after Aidan was prepared to do the same for her.

Shoving the strip of pictures into her purse, Isabel’s first instinct was to take the coward’s way out. She could leave a heartfelt note and vanish. No, it was too open-ended. It would fall short of Fitz’s instructions. “
Tell him what he needs to hear. Most important, Isabel, be very clear.”
There was zero margin for error. Aidan needed to believe everything she was about to tell him. Counting on hardy calm, Isabel waited, constructing the framework of her manifesto. Like Aidan said, he trusted her with his life. That was a good thing. It would make it easier for him to swallow the whopper of a lie she was about to tell him.

A
IDAN CAME OUT FROM THE BATHROOM, A TOWEL AROUND HIS WAIST, ANOTHER
draped over his shoulders. “Where were you and Fitz while I was singing? I couldn’t find you in the crowd.” As he spoke Aidan peered in the mirror, thinking about how it would feel to wake up to the snake for the rest of his life. A wedding ring and marriage license; it was nothing. Orlando had it right. Every glance at the tattoo would make him think of Isabel, forever bound to her. Patting it dry, he tossed the towel onto the floor. “Isabel?” he said, watching her in the reflection. A wide-eyed gaze was trained on him. She leapt to her feet. It was as if Aidan in a towel, or perhaps less, was the furthest image from her mind. Damn, maybe he should have put his pants back on. “Isabel, are you okay?”

“Yes, yes . . . fine,” she said, pulling a hand through a tangle of hair. She brushed by, picking up the discarded towel. “I, um, I just didn’t think you’d get out of the shower and be, you know, naked—half-naked.”

He shrugged. “Is there a way to get out of the shower and not be naked?”

“I suppose not.” Isabel kept moving, returning the discarded towel to the bathroom, picking his clothes up off the floor. Coming back around the corner, she stopped. She leaned tight against the wall, clutching his pants. Short of standing in the tub it was as far as she could get and still be in the same room.

“Anyway, where were you? I was going to sing the Spanish song I usually do at the farmhouse. I thought tonight was the right occasion. I was going to sing it in English. But I couldn’t find you.” It was the perfect opportunity to tell her how he felt. But when he couldn’t find her, Aidan didn’t follow through. He’d purposely written the song in Spanish, never translating it, explaining its evolution, or how it applied to them.

“Really? I thought you said that song didn’t fit with your usual set. That it didn’t belong.”

“It doesn’t. It’s not meant for a crowd, but I did want to sing it for you.”

Isabel cocked her head, an annoyed look on her face. “That’s ridiculous, Aidan. All the gigs you played back home and you never sang it, not once. Why waste Caesars Palace on some meaningless song—in Spanish no less. I don’t think C-Note plans on promoting your Latin side. You’re going to have to be savvier than that. Every song counts from here on out.”

The romantic notion was lost on her and, just once, Aidan wished she’d weaken, maybe even succumb to his charms. He turned from the mirror, facing her. “What are you getting so upset for? It’s one song.”

She popped away from the wall and stalked to the opposite side of the room. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I was in the back. Fitz and I were watching from the back of the room.” She folded the pants, placing them neatly on a chair. Her gaze drew to his. “He believes in you, Aidan. I can’t even begin to tell you how much. He’s going to do everything in his power to make this happen. He told me that, exactly that.”

“Yeah, I hope,” he said, a thick wave of Isabel’s hair catching his eye. He was done performing, working the room. He didn’t want to think about anything but the two of them. There was zero pressure to perform with Isabel. He loved the stage, but he enjoyed shedding the persona almost as much. And there was no better place for that than Isabel’s company. To her, the everyday Aidan mattered so much more. In turn, he loved everything about her. Isabel’s quirky nervousness, it was a rare phenomenon that overrode her serene exterior. On occasion, in the right circumstance, there was a sweet and sexy appeal that affected him like nothing else—certainly no other girl. Tonight he’d get the chance to show Isabel exactly what she meant to him. But slow. He had to approach this slowly. Aidan didn’t want a repeat of this afternoon, and thought that maybe he should get dressed. He hesitated. No, let her mull it over. “Hey, do you want to order more champagne?” he asked, knowing she really didn’t care for beer. “They don’t seem too concerned with checking ID in this place.”

“Not right now. Listen, Aidan, we need to talk.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to talk to you all day. But it’s just been, you know, crazy.”

“
Crazy
’s a good word. Insane might be another.” Isabel sunk onto the edge of the bed and Aidan didn’t hesitate, sitting next to her. He watched her eyes brush over his chest, inching toward a tented towel that was showing sure signs of man waiting to stake his claim. An alarm-filled gaze shot to his. “Aidan?”

“Yeah?” he said softly, stroking her arm with his fingertips, anticipating the moment.

“Could you put your pants on?”

“On? You want me to put them on?” He sighed, fighting a nudge of frustration. “No, Isabel, I can’t. I don’t wear pants when I go to bed. In fact, I don’t wear anything at all.” He crossed his arms, staring. If they sat and stared at one another for the next eight hours, fine. But he wasn’t putting his damn pants on.

“I see, I guess,” she said. “But let me talk first, okay? What I have to say is important and it will save you the trouble.”

“What trouble?” His hand rose, fingertips touching her hair.

“What are you doing?” She grasped his wrist, pushing it away.

“I was going to kiss my wife.” Aidan didn’t wait for her reaction, guessing it might call for some assertiveness on his part. He was stunned by the intensity with which she resisted, pushing hard against his shoulders.

“Oh God, Aidan, don’t do that!” she gasped, stumbling across the room, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

He followed, dumbfounded. Nervous, yes, but this was just weird. “Don’t do what? Kiss you?” She nodded, her hand clamped over her mouth like a shield. And he fought the absurd image of Isabel spending their entire marriage that way, her legs crossed too. “Isabel,” he said, forcing her hand away. “What’s going on? Maybe we do need to talk. I don’t know about you, but it was my intention to finish what we started at the farmhouse.”

“It . . . it was?” She blinked widely, frantically tucking her hair, like two ears weren’t enough.

“Well, yeah,” he said, hands firm to his hips. “I thought that getting married made it a no-brainer. Jesus, I don’t know, really insane people might call it a honeymoon!”

“A honey— I . . . But Aidan—” Her mouth dropped open, then shut. It was as if the concept was utterly mystifying. “Aidan, we need to stop this. I think it’s time we quit playing house and admit what a mistake this was.” Isabel took a huge step back, standing out of his reach. “It’s only a honeymoon if two people are in love.”

Two people.
Air wouldn’t move in or out. Had she stabbed him through the snake with an ice pick it couldn’t have hurt any worse. There, she said it. Isabel wasn’t in love with him. Aidan felt the man drain out of him, a boyish tear stinging at his eye. He forced air in, running a hand through damp hair. Staring past her, he squinted into the distance. No, he wasn’t going to give up that easily. He didn’t believe it. There was no way he could feel so much for her and she feel nothing . . . nothing but friendship. His gaze jerked to Isabel, reaching for the right words. Elaborate lyrics flowed effortlessly, melodies following freely. But it was plain prose that Aidan needed and it wouldn’t come. “What . . . what about the farmhouse, what we were just about to do, what we did before . . .”

“What about it?” she snapped, as though it were nothing more than a vague irritation.

“Don’t tell me that didn’t mean anything.”