Regrets Only (39 page)

If
I stay with him.
The tightness in her chest sharpened a bit, and she tried to push Dylan’s arm
discreetly up to relieve some of the pressure on her body. She had promised to
stay, and meant it, in the heat of their passion this morning. They had passed
the afternoon in hedonistic abandon, talking, eating, and exploring the
physical connection that seemed to culminate all their months of banter and
confusion. The day had been near-perfect, which made it easy to imagine that
things would work out, and easy to leave her promise untouched on the table
like a peppermint from their last meal.

But
now, in the quiet darkness, doubt was beginning to encroach on her. Dylan’s
arm, so comforting and strong earlier in the day, was beginning to feel like it
was made of solid steel, trapping her. She remembered his words:
If you’re
here tomorrow morning, my heart will be on the line. Don’t break it
.

Suzanne
understood what he meant. If she stayed with him, if she snuggled closer and
allowed herself to drift off to sleep again, she was throwing her lot in with
his. As consciousness slipped away, so would her freedom, the one thing she had
always held dear, always kept to herself. There would be no looking back. She
and Dylan would stay in this room for a few delicious days, like a honeymoon,
and then whether they formalized their arrangement with marriage or not, she knew
she would be giving herself to him, tying her life to his. For better or worse.
And what real life would be like, after the dream in this room ended, she had
no idea.

Or,
she could leave now, while he slept, and what they’d shared would be peacefully
over. She would go back to the certainty of her own world, where she was in
control. She’d continue her work with the foundation, maybe even branch out to
other charities or areas of service. Dylan would be sad, but he’d forgive her,
and she knew for certain that he would move on. There would be no shortage of
young starlets and groupies waiting in line to nurse his poor, public broken
heart. She would be sad, too; in fact, she knew that her own heart would be
broken. But wasn’t it better to break both their hearts now than the painful,
public disaster this was sure to be?

Of
all the men on her list, with
very
few exceptions, Dylan Burke was just
about the worst choice imaginable for a husband. He made his living being young
and wild and loud; his reputation would continue to lure girls to his door for
years to come, committed or not. In fact, she thought sourly, she knew that any
public commitment he made to her might make him
more
of a conquest to
some of those women he’d be meeting every night backstage. She had seen how
some women flocked to men as soon as that little gold band appeared on their
hands, eager to find out whether they could take someone else’s treasure.

Worse,
Dylan would be on the road half the time, living the life she’d seen firsthand
at his mountain house. How could she compete with that? Would she have to be
with him constantly? Follow him around like her mother did her dad, putting her
needs last, trying to hold on to him? Plus, they would bicker constantly, she
knew. They always did. What would happen when that stopped being stimulating
and flirty, and deteriorated into just plain bickering?

Suzanne
glanced at Dylan’s sleeping form, and her heart surged. She wanted to wake him
and kiss him. She wanted to run away from the power he had over her and never
look back. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to see anything but the horrible
list on her dining room wall. All the years, all the men, all the times she’d
made this very same choice. It had never been so hard. She had never felt so
lost.

Dylan
sighed in his sleep and rolled away from her, settling once again into soft
snores after just a moment. It was time to decide. Suzanne took a deep breath
and willed herself not to cry. She eased herself out from under the sheet and
out of the bed. Her hand trembled as she opened the front closet door, where
her little suitcase stood waiting like a tiny, comforting sentinel.

The
early morning sun streamed through the giant windows. Dylan woke with the usual
confusion he felt when he was not in his own bed, which was most of the time.
In fact, he wasn’t sure which bed he would consider his own at this point in
his life, so often did he wake up in a new place. But as his eyes adjusted to
the light, the view of the city below helped clear the fog and reminded him
where he was, who he was with. He smiled and rolled over, reaching for her, but
the sheets next to him were cold and empty.

His
heart sank. Suzanne was gone. Part of him had known this was still possible,
and he had sworn to them both that he was protecting himself from it. Hell, he
had seen the list of guys on the dining room wall firsthand, and told Suzanne yesterday
he might be added to it. But now that the moment had arrived, he knew he’d done
a piss-poor job shielding himself. In fact, the whole concept was ridiculous.
He had been in love with her for months. The minute he had allowed himself to
touch her soft ivory skin, to kiss her throat and feel himself slide inside her…it
was over. And he knew it.

A
sudden sob rose in his throat, surprising him with its forcefulness. He willed
it down, the way he sometimes had to will himself to hold a long note at the
end of a show. But it escaped anyway, and all he could do was stifle it to a groan
into the pillow. He punched the bed with a force that surprised him, causing
his arm to ache and vibrate. How could he have misread her so completely? He
had never really been in love before, but everything yesterday—the way she
looked at him, the way they kissed, the way her body responded to his touch—had
told Dylan that she felt it, too.
What a fucking chump I am.

He
got up, growling, and wrapped a sheet around his waist. He washed his face and
brushed his teeth, scowling at himself in the mirror.
You look ridiculous
,
he chided himself, looking at his bed-tousled hair and one side of his face red
with the deepest sleep he could remember. He turned away from the asshole in
the mirror, threw on a clean pair of boxers and started aimlessly picking
things up to throw in his bag. There was no point in staying here another
minute after making such an ass of himself.
I told her every damn thing,
he thought.
Never again.

The
towels they’d used were in a pile outside the bathroom door, and his jeans and
boxers from yesterday piled next to them. The pink and brown suit was gone, of
course, and her purse was missing from the table where she’d left it. Dylan
knew if he checked the coat closet he would find her suitcase gone as well. The
stupid, too-big penthouse was silent except for the muted sounds of car horns
far below. He could still smell sex, sweat, and traces of her perfume. And
coffee.

Coffee?
                                                                                      

He
followed the aroma to the penthouse’s kitchen area around the corner, where a
cheerful pot of coffee sat on the warming plate.
Did the staff of the hotel
come in and make coffee? Or did she make it before leaving?
Both seemed
ridiculous possibilities. He looked around for a note or something, but didn’t
see one. The views on this side of the suite were equally stunning, though
instead of the park they showed the bustling city and Hudson River in the
distance. There was a seating area with a small couch and two overstuffed
chairs, all empty, and a dining room table with space for six. The placemats
and plates were untouched, exactly where the hotel staff had staged them amid
candles and a floral/fruit centerpiece.

A
glass door to the balcony was beyond the table. He had not noticed it at first,
but now his heart leapt when he saw a long ivory leg propped on the balcony
railing outside. She was wearing pink sneakers and khaki shorts more suitable for
Atlanta than New York this time of year; even where he stood he could see that
she had goosebumps on her legs from the cool wind outside. She was facing away
from him, sitting in a reclining patio chair and talking on the phone. He
recognized the tail of his own white Oxford shirt sticking out from beneath
her. Her long blonde hair flapped in the wind, not at all contained by the
sunglasses perched on top of her head.

Without
stopping to consider that he was in only his boxers, he crossed the room and
went straight outside, letting the door close behind him. She turned in
surprise, but smiling, and he heard a woman’s voice trailing off on the phone
she now held out to the side.

“Hey,
you,” she said, ignoring the phone. Her voice was as sweet as he had ever heard
it. Relief washed over him. “Thought you’d never wake up. I made coffee and
cleaned up a little. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Hey,”
he said and then repeated dumbly, “You made coffee.”
Me Tarzan. Jane make
coffee. Idiot.

“And
I ran out for bagels.” She gestured at a brown paper bag on the patio table,
next to her own coffee cup. She stood and grinned at him, both of them knowing
the significance of her still being here. With the wind whipping in her hair
and the morning sun glinting off her skin, she looked so incredible that words
seemed inadequate. “I borrowed your shirt. If we’re going to be here for a few
days, I might have to get more clothes. Marci can send some—”

He
moved toward her, taking the phone from her hand. “She’ll call you back,” he
said and snapped it shut. He laid it carefully on the table, waiting for a
protest that didn’t come, and then took both sides of her pretty blonde head in
his hands and kissed her.

She
kissed him back, and he felt none of the tension he usually sensed when he was
with her. She melted into him easily, and he could feel her body relax toward
his. “You’re not going to run away? You’re not scared?” he asked.

Suzanne
looked up at him with clear blue eyes that matched the sky around them. “I’m
terrified,” she said. “But, no, I’m not going to run away.”

“Does
Marci approve?” he said, nodding toward the phone he’d just put down, expecting
that he knew the answer.

“A
qualified ‘yes,’” Suzanne said, and Dylan raised an eyebrow. “She adores you;
she’s just worried about me losing myself.”

“Are
you worried about that, too?” he asked, letting his hands fall to her shoulders.
He had to admit he had thought about that himself. Suzanne was so independent
and ambitious, Dylan had wondered whether she would adjust to life while he was
on the road so much. Would she come with him? If so, would she be bored and
miserable? If not, would phone calls and emails be enough for them?

“Sure,”
she said without artifice. “But I figure we’re a couple of smart people who
love each other, and if you got me to stay last night, you must have a few more
tricks up your sleeve. Or lack thereof.” She glanced at his bare chest and
arms.

“Anyway,”
she said. “We’ll figure it out, right?”

“Yeah,
I guess we will,” he said, kissing her again. The wind was picking up. Even
though the sun shone brightly, early fall was certainly in force. In only his
boxers, the chill was starting to seep through him. He felt like a little boy
asking her, but did it anyway. “So you really love me? You’ll really stay?”

She
smiled at him, radiant. “Yes and yes.”

“I
love hearing you say that,” he said, adjusting his shirt’s collar on her
shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind getting a few more yeses out of you before today’s
over. And you should
always
wear this shirt. If you’re wearing anything,
I mean.”

She
shimmied closer to him, and he could feel her firm breasts pressing against his
bare chest through the shirt in question. “I think that can be arranged.”

Dylan
turned with her hand in his to take her back inside, and hopefully, straight
back to bed, to restart the day the way he had originally wanted. He remembered
the hurt and anger he’d felt only moments before and felt ashamed of himself.
Will
she always have this kind of power over me?

He
reached the doorknob, stopped abruptly, and faced her again. “Give me your
phone.”

“My
phone? Why?” But she handed it over without waiting for an answer.

He
found the number he was looking for and dialed. Suzanne stared at him,
incredulous. “Mrs. Hamilton?” he said, when the lady answered. “Hello, it’s
Dylan Burke. Yes, ma’am. Well, thank you, ma’am.”

“What
are you doing?” Suzanne mouthed. He ignored her.

“That’s
very nice of you to say, Mrs. Hamilton. I’m very glad you enjoyed the album.”
He shot Suzanne a pointed look and she rolled her eyes. “Well, yes, ma’am. I
actually had two reasons for calling. The first is that Suzanne and I will be
coming to Atlanta next week—next week okay, Scarlett?—yes ma’am, we’ll be there
together, and I wondered whether we could take you and Mr. Hamilton out to
dinner?”

In
the ensuing pause, he could hear Suzanne’s mother calling to her father
somewhere in the background. In front of him, Suzanne rubbed her upper arms in
a not-subtle hint that she was getting cold, too. He heard a brief, hissed
skirmish during which he was pretty sure Mr. Hamilton asked his wife who the
hell Dylan Burke was and why they should want to have dinner with him. Then
Mrs. Hamilton covered the phone and he heard emphatic but inaudible whispering
before she returned to the phone, suggesting Tuesday night would be best and
wondering whether there were any special occasion.