Regrets Only (25 page)

“I
don’t know,” she lied. “I guess it seemed rude to beat everyone on my first
visit.”

She
had tried to sound light and flirty, but he eyed her suspiciously under one
raised eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as the type to pull punches,” he said. “I
don’t know. I’ve got my eye on you, Scarlett.”

“Seems
to me you’d be better served with your eyes on your cards,” she said, trying to
mimic his homespun accent.

He
laughed. They played two hands, which she won, and agreed it was time to call
it quits around 1:00 a.m. She was debating hanging out to sleep on Jake and
Marci’s couch, but he held the door open on his way out and she followed him
without thinking. The night was cool and humid. Suzanne realized it was the
second time in two nights she had walked out to her car with Dylan Burke by her
side. She shivered involuntarily, and he put his arm around her.

“I
guess this is ending better than the last time we played cards,” she said
awkwardly. He looked at her without speaking, and she felt suddenly exposed. “I
mean, at least you’re not pissing off some busty blonde just by talking to me.”

“You
realize, don’t you, that you yourself are a busty blonde?” he said. “You’re
always mentioning it so I thought I would point out that it applies to you as
well.”

“Yeah,
but it’s different. I don’t wear those astonishingly tiny, revealing outfits.”

“Hmm…”
he said. “I seem to have vivid memories of a silky lace thing that wasn’t
exactly modest.”

“But
that wasn’t in public—”

“Calm
down, Scarlett. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

She
smiled noncommittally.
He remembers my pajamas
.

“There
is something else, about Misty,” he said cautiously, pausing at the driver’s
door of her car and leaning against it. His truck was directly behind her car in
Jake and Marci’s driveway.

Here
it comes,
Suzanne thought.
They’re engaged. She’s pregnant. She’s his cousin or
something.

“One
reason she was so pissed, and so rude to you, was that I slept in a hammock on
the deck that night. After the poker game.”

“Ah,”
Suzanne said. She felt silly that she had no idea how those things were
connected.

“Shit,”
he said, to no one in particular, confusing her even more.

Dylan
leaned his head back against the roof of her car, looking up at the few stars
visible with all the lights around. He looked brooding and dramatic, like one
of his videos. He seemed to be gathering himself for something. “Yes. She was
in my bed, waiting for me, and I couldn’t…I couldn’t be with another woman with
you on my mind. Couldn’t even sleep next to her. I know how ridiculous that
sounds. It’s why she was completely pissed at me. And why the guys made fun of
me the whole next day.”

“You
told the guys?”

“No,
but they knew something was going on. You left so fast, and Misty’s not exactly
discreet when she’s angry.”

But
what
was
going on? They had flirted a little, maybe. He’d hurt her
feelings and she’d folded her cards. She had walked to her cabin alone and they
spent the next morning talking like old friends. Then he’d showed up to return
a scarf and been a perfect gentleman last night. Now, here they were. One in
the morning in a driveway in the suburbs. Like teenagers out past curfew.

He
reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind Suzanne’s ear, letting his hand
linger there.

“You
piss me off,” he said abruptly, and pulled her into him. The kiss was
unexpected and a little rough. Then he softened, bringing up his other hand to
hold her head on both sides. She wanted to pull back, to escape the confusion
his closeness created. But she wanted to be closer, too. Dylan held her and
kissed her for a long moment, leaning against her car, her head and mouth
captive in his hands. Her heart swelled in her chest, and warmth spread all the
way to her toes.

“Sorry,”
he said eventually, pulling back and breaking the spell. “I didn’t plan to do
that.
Dammit
.”

“It’s
okay,” Suzanne said uncertainly.
Was it?
She thought of Misty, grinding
on his lap at the cabin. And in her head, about fifty glossy magazine pictures
of him with various women. She had seen them all during her research before the
gala, and now she couldn’t erase them from her mind. The images spun in front
of her: awards shows, parties, concerts, beaches. Dylan coiffed and styled,
wearing anything from a trendy tuxedo to carefully ripped jeans to a bathing
suit and naturally, the camouflage hat. Always with a crooked little grin for
the camera, and always a perky pair of double-D’s in easy squeezing distance.

She
could not erase these images, nor could she reconcile them with the man standing
here, leaning against her car like a lost kid and holding her hand. She felt as
though the guy in front of her had, not an evil twin, but a famous one. Tonight
he wore glasses, several days’ stubble, and a look of frustrated longing,
clearly torn by something she didn’t fully understand. She could virtually feel
his heart beating against hers, entirely and miserably human.

But
it
is
the
same man,
she reminded herself.
You can’t pretend that other life
doesn’t exist.

“Suzanne,”
he said, saying her real name with deliberation, sounding tortured. Not
Scarlett. He lingered near her neck as though any moment he might sink into her
and lose himself. “I—God—I’m an idiot for saying this…but I don’t think this is
a good idea. Not now, at least.”

She’d
half-expected it, even thought it herself. But hearing him say it stung.

She
saw sadness in his eyes as he started to explain. “It’s just—”

“Please,
don’t,” she interrupted. No speech. With the exception of Jake, who had spurned
her early advances in college before showing a slow-building preference for
Marci, this was the first time in her life a man had rejected
her
, and
the one thing she did not need was a laundry list of reasons.

“I
want to,” he said, almost pleading. “I need to say why.”

“Why?
How does that help?” she fired at him. “Anyway, I know the reasons. I mean,
there are so many of them. They could fill up my dining room wall.”

He
snorted, nodding grimly.

“There
are the hundreds of women. No, hundreds of
thousands
of women, out
there.” She gestured wildly in the direction of what might have been Atlanta.
Or New York. But who cared? It was true in all directions. “All in love with
you, and all fantasizing about what would happen if they could get you alone
for just a few minutes. There’s the fact that not only do we work together,
sort of, but that your sister is my one and only client at the moment. The fact
that you spend half your life on the road, that neither of us could hold an
adult relationship together with superglue, our age difference—”

“We’re
only seven years apart,” he protested, raising his head to meet her eyes.

“Whatever.
It’s enough. And we don’t have to talk about any of it. There’s no point,
right?” Her surprising anguish was coming out as hostility, not at all what she
intended.

“No,
we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. But,” he put his hand on
her cheek and wiped away a tear she didn’t realize was there, “age has
nothing
to do with it.”

“Only
someone your age would think that,” she said sardonically.

He
smiled ruefully. Suzanne had the sense that neither this evening nor this
conversation was turning out as he’d hoped. Their playful flirting over gin
rummy felt like forever ago, rather than just a few minutes. He looked tired.
Resigned.

“Can
I follow you home again? Please? I’ll feel better if I know you’re safe.”

“No,
thanks,” she said bitterly. He nodded. She tried to follow up more softly. “I’m
fine. Really.”

“Can
I call you sometime?” he persisted. “As a friend, I mean?”

“It
seems to me you have more than enough friends, Dylan.” Starlets. Groupies.
Drinking buddies. Fans. Old friends. Wait, no, only
young
friends. The
chasm between twenty-six and thirty-three felt suddenly massive. Especially
when twenty-six was active, talented, and obscenely famous and thirty-three
wanted to be in bed by eleven o’clock most nights and had Junior League
meetings to attend each month.

“Well,
yeah, but you’re…different. I can talk to you.”

She
could tell he meant it. Looking at him under the mercury orange of the street
light, she saw not the successful singer who had capitalized on his wild streak
and rebellious attitude, but a little boy trapped in a man’s body. A man’s
handsome, deep-voiced, sexy body that she wanted desperately to reach out and
touch.
No. He’s right. No, no, no.

“I
don’t think it’s such a good idea.” She kissed his cheek, pleased with herself
for this gesture of maturity. “I’ll see you at the wedding, okay?”

Dylan
grazed her cheek with one hand, sighing. “Okay. Goodnight, Scarlett.”

#

She
spent the night on Jake and Marci’s couch, rolling around miserably and getting
up to leave before they ventured downstairs in the morning. She was in no frame
of mind for conversation, even the funny, Dylan-bashing kind that she knew
Marci would help provide. Maybe in a couple of days.

On
the drive back to her apartment, she tried to calm herself with reasonable
thoughts. She had no reason to be mad, or even annoyed, at Dylan. He had simply
said what they both knew to be true. If he hadn’t said it, she would have. He
had saved her the trouble. She should be grateful. Having an adult conversation
about why a relationship wouldn’t work was so grown-up, instead of sneaking out
under cover of darkness like she normally did. He was helping her grow as a
person.
Fan-fucking-tastic
.

By
the time she got to her apartment a half hour later, Suzanne had run out of
both mature reasonable thoughts and irrational angry impulses. The building was
silent this early on a Saturday; a light drizzle was keeping all but the most
hardcore runners tucked in their beds. Sleep was foremost on her mind as she
put the key in her door, exhausted and a little light-headed from the last
couple of days. Otherwise, she might have noticed the tiny scratches around the
lock, or that the smooth retraction of the deadbolt was a not quite as solid as
usual.

Two
messages were waiting on her machine when she got inside, dropping her purse
and keys next to the door. Her heart leapt at the flashing red “2” as a
seedling of hope sprouted, despite her best efforts to keep it down.
He had
called
. Dylan had called to say that he was wrong and wanted to see her
today. Not that seeing him was what
she
wanted, of course. Suzanne knew
absolutely that being with Dylan was a horrible idea. And that’s what she would
tell him if he had called.

But
Dylan hadn’t called. The first message was from an equally surprising person,
however: William Fitzgerald. His deep, rich Southern accent had become more
pronounced with time. “Hello, Suzanne. My mother said that you tried to get in
touch with me this week. It’s really nice to hear from you. I’d love to catch
up. It’s funny you called, because I’ve actually been thinking about you quite
a bit recently. Why don’t we meet for dinner this week sometime?” He left his
number.
Dinner—not coffee or drinks. So he’s probably not married, then.

The
next message was not Dylan either, but Chad. “Hey, Suzanne, call me when you
get this. I’ve been checking my old voicemail and there’s something I think you
should—”

The
message was cut off by the startling sound of the phone ringing in the present.
A quick glance at the caller ID told her it was Chad again.
I’m so tired,
she thought.
I should just let it roll to the machine. Chad will understand.
What could possibly be so important?

Suddenly
it struck her, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. It was not yet seven in
the morning. On a Sunday. Her former assistant was not a morning person, and
neither was she. They had generally started their work in the office at ten,
and even then they barely said two words to each other before noon. If he was
calling this early, it must be important.

She
had just grabbed the receiver from its cradle to answer, when it was smacked violently
out of her hand, sent tumbling to the floor by some sort of object—a stick or
handle of some kind. Shock and pain clouded her awareness; on instinct, she
tried to bend down to get the phone rather than to look at the person behind her
who had cast the blow. In seconds, however, there was a strong arm around her
throat, and she could no longer move to accomplish either. A white cloth moved
in front of her nose and mouth. In an instant the world went black.

Dylan
Burke paced in frustration around the studio apartment his family kept in
downtown Atlanta. Just a tiny space with nondescript, corporate-looking
furniture, it was designed for his and his parents’ sporadic use during layovers,
meetings with non-Nashville executives, or frequent social visits to Atlanta. Of
course, the eight hundred or so square feet paled compared with his place in
the mountains or his parents’ home in Nashville, but lately he’d found himself
here more and more often. He loved Tennessee and it would always be home, but
Atlanta seemed to offer him more diversity of culture, more opportunities to
reinvent himself and expand his musical sphere of influence.