Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 (32 page)

Grinning, she climbed from the bed and headed back to the shower. Might as well clean up and get ready for the day, her last day in Tampa with Ethan, but not their last day together. If she’d doubted his feelings before, she didn’t now. Though he might not have mentioned the “L” word, she’d felt it in his touch, seen it in his eyes. He shared those indescribable feelings that she had for him, whether he realized it yet or not, but in case he needed to hear it from her first, she planned to tell him. Today.

Within twenty minutes, she’d showered, dried her hair and put on her usual minimal amount of makeup. Ethan seemed to like her face natural, which made him even more perfect in her book. He liked
her,
in spite of her extra pounds and her lack of feminine finesse. She smiled giddily at her reflection in the mirror. Today, she’d tell Ethan she loved him and wanted to be with him forever. And, unless she’d totally misread the genuine passion in those crystal blue eyes, he’d tell her he loved her too.

A loud knock at the door broke her reverie. Exiting the bathroom, she grabbed her robe, wrapped it around her body and headed toward the pounding noise. Surely Ethan hadn’t forgotten his key. Then again, maybe he couldn’t open the door if his arms were filled with her “special” breakfast, or maybe he simply needed to be welcomed back by a curvy lady in a pink satin robe.

“Your hands are full?” she sang sexily, swinging the door open.

Jake Riley, his dark hair tousled wildly and his eyes unbelievably bloodshot, stood on the other side of the door. “I didn’t believe it,” he said.

Clarise nervously tugged the sides of her robe together and attempted to tighten the sash. Then she glanced down to make sure all of the important parts were covered. They were. Barely. What did he want?

“Jake?” she questioned. “You didn’t believe—what?” Though she thought she knew.

“You and Ethan. You, sleeping with the boss.” His breath was rank, and she suspected he’d pulled an all-night drunk. Not totally unheard of when it came to Jake, but still, she was surprised he had found the nerve to: one, locate their room, two, knock on their door, and three, question her for sleeping with Ethan. Who did he think he was, anyway? He was a coworker and a friend, simple as that. And yeah, he’d given her a semiproposition a few days ago, but she’d thought he was over the fact that she’d declined his offer. Hadn’t he been putting the moves on Jesilyn? But obviously, he wasn’t over the rejection, and Clarise was appalled. She suspected that if he were being completely honest, he’d have added a few words to his accusation. He’d have said, “You, sleeping with the boss, and
not
sleeping with me.”

“Jake, you’re my friend, but I don’t see that what I do in my room is any of your business.” Then, when his glare intensified, she added, “We care about each other.”

He stepped toward her, filling the entrance and making it impossible for Clarise to close the door and leave him in the hall until he sobered, which, judging from the sickening smell of his breath, was going to take a while. “I can’t believe it doesn’t matter to you. I mean, hell, it was Gasparilla then too. Doesn’t it bother you at all knowing the two of you have slept with the same guy?” He leaned forward and swayed. “He’s going to dump you like he did her, you know, right after Gasparilla. This is a yearly trip for fun and games. When we get back, you’re simply another notch on his bedpost, and how are you going to work with him, to even look at him, after that, Clarise?” He shook his head again and winced. “I thought you were better than this. I thought you were different.”

Clarise processed his words, then asked the one question that formulated in the midst of his tirade. “What are you talking about?”

Jake’s eyes widened, jaw dropped open, then hung slack.

“What?” Clarise repeated, wondering when Ethan would walk up on this odd interchange. What would he say about Jake’s attempt to sabotage what they shared? She really didn’t want any trouble between Jake and Ethan. From the look of things, Jake simply pulled an all-nighter and wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Hell, Clarise. I thought you knew. Last year,” he stammered.

“Jake, Ethan will be back any minute. I think you should leave,” she said, her irritation with this situation growing by the second. “And what Ethan did last year doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re doing now.”

A hint of a smile crooked his features into a sinister sneer. “I can’t believe the bastard didn’t tell you. Hell, I can’t believe she didn’t.”

“Jake,” Clarise warned, her hand cupping the edge of the door in an effort to show him his visit had ended, “I’ve got to go now.” She eased the door toward him, but he refused to budge until he said the words that cut straight to her heart and stabbed it completely.

“Your sister. Last year, she was the one in his bed.”

It took Clarise less than two minutes to get Jake Riley out of the doorway and less than two seconds to slam the door once he did. Her head throbbed so intensely she had to squint to see, throat pressed in so tightly it hurt to breathe, heart clenched in her chest, skin burned. The giddy emotions that had bathed her in the euphoria of a woman in love now took a bitter, drastic turn. She no longer felt warm and gooey inside. She felt cold. Betrayed. Fighting the impulse to fling herself on the bed and have a good, hard cry, she took a deep breath and calculated how much time she had before Ethan returned. No way did she want to see him now. Or ever.

She replayed Babette’s advice from their last phone conversation. She’d warned Clarise to be careful and instructed her not to do anything she wouldn’t do. Clarise cringed. Babette also asked her who would be attending the trip—specifically asking about Ethan.

The cotton candy felt sickeningly sweet in her stomach. Ethan. And Babette? No, she wouldn’t think about her perfect little sister now. She didn’t have the time . . . or the inclination. Ignoring her streaming tears, she crossed the room, grabbed her suitcase, whipped it open, and flung all her belongings inside. By the time she finished, sweat beaded her forehead. It wasn’t due to overexertion; it was due to the sick churning in the pit of her stomach. Babette. How could she? How could he? All of those sisterly conversations throughout the past year replayed in Clarise’s mind. Babette knew. She knew exactly how Clarise felt about him, didn’t she? Or did she? Clarise had never spelled it out exactly, but wouldn’t a sister be able to tell? And couldn’t she have once mentioned she spent last Gasparilla with him?

And Ethan. How could he have kept this from her? An entire year of Friday afternoon coffee chats talking about everything under the sun—except the fact that he’d done
everything
with
her sister!
In the midst of her cryfest, Clarise sucked in a thick gulp of air and inadvertently started coughing. Great. She’d probably stop breathing and pass out if she kept this up. Her head throbbed, hands shook, stomach quivered uncontrollably. And he—correction,
they
—weren’t worth it.

She got a grip on the cough attack and concentrated on channeling her despair . . . and converting it to anger. It didn’t take much effort. All she had to do was focus on the facts. Ethan didn’t love her. He never had. Shoot, he didn’t even care enough to tell her about Babette. He’d been just fine having the skinny sister during one Gasparilla and the fat one the next.

“No,” Clarise said aloud. Then she swallowed and clarified, “Hell, no. Not fat. Curvy.” Because there was no way she’d dub herself as “fat” again. If there was one thing she’d learned over the past five days, it was that she was abundantly curvy. And undeniably sexy. Ethan might have hidden his past with Babette, but he hadn’t hidden anything when he’d looked at her last night. He’d wanted her. Bad. Well good. She hoped he still wanted her, because he damn sure wasn’t going to have her again, and she hoped that hurt the massive male ego that convinced him he could have two sisters without repercussion. Though the skinny sister may have been willing to let him get away with it, the shapely sister wasn’t. No way. No
how.

For three years, she’d shared a friendship with him, but never, ever had she told him about her resentment toward Babette, about the pain involved with the constant comparisons of the two by everyone from their high school teachers to their family members. Never had she shared that with him, or with Babette, for that matter. It had been too personal, too painful, and too close to the heart, something she’d only confide with the man who’d help her overcome those insecurities for the rest of her life. But yesterday, she
had
told him. And more than that, she’d given him everything,
everything
she had to give. Her body, her heart, her soul. He effectively took them all. Then left her empty.

Clarise’s jaw clenched tight. She’d wanted to convert despair to anger. Mission accomplished. Storming from the room, she left Ethan Eubanks, and her dreams, behind.

Whistling, Ethan entered the elevator and punched the button for the third floor. Yesterday had, without a doubt, been the most phenomenal day of his life, and today promised to be even better. Clarise had thrown him for a loop last night. She confided in him about how she’d always felt about her sister and therefore let him see her vulnerable side. Moreover, she’d seemed thoroughly convinced, finally, that she had no reason at all to feel inferior to Babette Robinson. No reason whatsoever. Then Clarise asked him to make love to her on the beach, and they had. Made love. Because what they shared on that cool sand was much more than mere sex. They’d bonded completely, physically and emotionally. Then the incredible woman had shown him an even more intoxicating layer forming the multifaceted lady he loved. Cotton candy sex. Yeah, it sounded sweet, but hell. He nearly came when he saw her in the flaming red outfit. Add a jar of cotton candy dust, a feather and Clarise’s talented tongue, and he hadn’t lasted longer than a first-time teen, which seemed to turn her on even more. She loved having that power over him, and hell, he loved giving it to her. Besides, it had provided her with an even bigger goal—making him come twice in one cotton candy tumble. Incredible, that woman of his. Rather, that woman who’d be his, if today went the way he wanted.

Shifting the large breakfast carrier to his left hand, Ethan fished the keycard from his pocket. It’d taken him longer than he’d planned thanks to the heavy Gasparilla crowd, but he wanted Clarise to have a delicious breakfast in bed. The Belgian waffles and strawberries would provide a unique treat for them to savor as he informed her of his plans for their future. He couldn’t wait to hear her say she wanted the same thing. He’d felt it in her touch, seen it in her eyes, but he wanted to hear it affirmed from that beautiful mouth. Needed to. He’d planned it perfectly. They’d confess their love over waffles and strawberries, and make a beautiful memory, one that they could tell their kids and grandchildren. That thought made his smile widen even more.

Slowly opening the door to the room, Ethan prepared to wake Clarise with breakfast . . . and his love. But the bed was empty. So much for making breakfast in bed a part of the morning that he confessed his true feelings. Ethan fought the urge to curse at the crowd of people who had filled the restaurant and slowed his progress, but he wouldn’t let his frustration with tourists ruin the moment. They’d simply share breakfast on the balcony, then he’d explain how he planned to make her happy, to satisfy her every need, forever.

“Clarise?” He walked through the room then peered into the bathroom, also empty. Turning, he walked toward the balcony and pushed the curtains aside. “Honey, you out here?” He grinned at his tone, so domesticated, but the balcony, like the remainder of the room, was devoid of life. Where had she gone?

Ethan stepped back inside and noticed his note from this morning in the center of the bed. He moved toward it, wondering if she’d written something at the bottom. Placing the breakfast carrier on the bed, he lifted the page. Nothing had been added. However, a second sheet of paper, smaller than the first, was tucked beneath his original letter. Picking it up, Ethan read her note, the letters sharp and slanted, nothing at all like her usual curly script. He also noticed more—the paper had several puckered areas where the words were blurred and misshapen, as though it’d been splattered with water. Or tears.

“No.”

How could you claim to care for me and keep something so important from me? How stupid could I be? I thought my dream had come true, but it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. You. Babette. You should have told me, Ethan. Since we were girls, she has had everything I ever wanted. Everything. I guess this really isn’t that different, but it hurts so much more.

Damn. He was going to tell her about what had happened; he really was. Today, after he told her that he loved her . . . and after he told her that he’d never felt anything toward her sister. With his heart heavy in his chest, he continued reading, and it went from bad to worse.

I don’t want to see you again. I mean it. Consider this my notice—I’m leaving the store. I won’t come back. I can’t. I never want to see you, never want to hurt this way again.

He wadded the note in his fist and flung it across the room with fervor, then let a stream of curses fly, not holding back one overenunciated syllable. How had she found out? And why did she have to hear it before he had a chance to tell her himself? Surely Babette didn’t tell her. She didn’t want Clarise to find out any more than Ethan did. But Clarise had found out, and she’d been hurt. Who told her? And what exactly did they tell? He didn’t think anyone knew about that night. Anyone besides Babette Robinson, that is, but obviously, someone did.

He crossed the room and yanked open the drawers her clothing had occupied. All were bare. No more sexy lingerie. No more cotton candy dust. No more Clarise. He moved to the bathroom, then the closet. Sure enough, any presence of Clarise Robinson had been removed from the room. Her toiletries, her suitcase, her clothing. Gone. Damn. Where did she go? As if he didn’t know. The Clarise he knew, the Clarise he loved, would return home, back to her shell, probably never to venture out again. Thanks to Ethan. He had to stop her, had to tell her that he’d been trying to make her dream a reality, not squash it to a pulp. But squash it he had.