Road to Seduction (Kimani Romance) (16 page)

“Better than what?” Eric snarled. “Marrying a wonderful free spirit who makes me happy? There’s something better than that?”

“Who’s getting married?” asked a new voice.

No,
Eric prayed as he glanced over his shoulder.
Please no. Not them
.

He froze, wholly unprepared for this kind of horror so early in the day. He’d known his parents were in town, of course, but that knowledge didn’t prepare him for hearing his mother’s voice, which had exactly as much warmth and emotion as the voice of Hal the vengeful computer in
2001: A Space Odyssey,
or for seeing her walk into the room on the arm of Eric’s father, the man who’d hated her for the bulk of their forty-year marriage.

Recovering in what he thought was a reasonable period of time, all things considered, Eric raised his glass, toasted the massive oil painting of his late unlamented grandfather, Reynolds Warner, which frowned down at the proceedings from over the mantel, and, with a flick of his wrist, downed the entire Bloody Mary in two hard gulps.

Spicy and coppery, the drink burned his throat and cleared his sinuses, but did nothing for the red anger clouding his vision
at having to deal with his parents. Still, a quick drink was better than nothing and he was glad to have it.

Thus armed, Eric made the slow turn to face his parents, Gifford and Della Warner, the poster children for Passive-Aggressives Anonymous.

They were the same, of course. Spending part of the year in Phoenix would never change their core nastiness. Mother was still tall, thin and sleek, with perfect makeup highlighting her Botoxed face, and her hair perfectly done in that same French twist she’d been wearing since the Nixon administration.

Someone seeing her for the first time might have an initial impression of a black Grace Kelly in her tailored gray suit with wide belt, but that quickly passed because Della gave new meaning to the term cool elegance.

Her eternal lack of human warmth, her complete inability to smile, and her unwillingness to engage with people on any kind of personal level made her, as far as Eric was concerned, a human mannequin. It was a constant surprise to him, whenever he kissed her cold cheek, like now, to realize she was made out of flesh rather than marble.

As for his father, well, Gifford Warner was no more a man than a neutered bovine was a bull. From the day of their marriage all those years ago, Della had grabbed the poor guy by the balls and held them, twisted, in the fisted grip of her manicured hand.

From his stooped shoulders swimming inside the seersucker suit that Della had no doubt picked out and told him to wear, to his hesitant voice and distant, usually vacant expression, Gifford, the second, usually forgotten son of Arnetta and Reynolds, screamed that he was a man who’d checked out of life years ago and saw no need to check back in.

“Mother. Dad.” Eric mustered what he thought was a passable smile as he shook his father’s hand, but apparently it wasn’t up to snuff because Della managed to unfreeze her Botoxed forehead long enough to frown at him.

“It’s been six months since we came back home to Cincinnati, Eric.” She sat in a tall-backed chair, crossed her legs and
smoothed her skirt while her husband escaped to a chair in the farthest corner of the room and disappeared behind a newspaper. “You could look a little happier to see us.”

Eric almost snorted. Why would anyone ever be glad to see
them?
They brought a cold front with them wherever they went, like a traveling iceberg.

Already everyone in the room was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Andrew shot Eric a sympathetic glance and tightened his arms around Viveca as though he needed to protect her and their unborn child from nuclear fallout. Arnetta and Bishop exchanged worried looks and Baby Andy made a fretful noise.

Even Nathan, who’d been engrossed in his own little world this whole time, looked up from his game and squinted at Della and Gifford through his wire-framed glasses. No doubt the negative energy emanating from Eric’s dysfunctional parents was now interfering with the game’s batteries. If things kept up like this, the electricity in the mansion would flicker and die.

“Mother,” Eric said with utmost sarcasm, “who wouldn’t be glad to see
you?
”

To no one’s surprise, she ignored this barb. “What did you say about getting married? Or was I hearing things?”

“Nope.” Eric figured he might as well jump in with both feet and get the whole ordeal over with. “I was just saying I want to marry Isabella.”

Gifford peered out from around his newspaper.

“Isabella?” Della’s dramatically lined cat eyes narrowed with obvious dismay. “Your little friend from college? The one with the tie-dyed dresses? Isn’t her father an
electrician?
”

This dismissal of the woman he loved on the basis of her clothes and father’s occupation left Eric speechless with rage, but a new voice joined the conversation.

Nathan put his game down and spoke with a child’s earnest conviction. “I like Isabella. I think Eric should marry her.”

Viveca and Andrew smiled at Nathan. “You know what, son?” Andrew said. “I agree. I like her, too.”

“Of course
you
agree,” Della murmured in her silkiest voice
as Gifford disappeared back behind his paper. “You seem to have picked a wife on the basis of her, ah, obvious breeding skills.”

This comment, which was nasty even by Della’s standards, elicited an outraged bark of laughter from Viveca, but Andrew was already on his feet, his face purple with rage.

“You know what, Della?” Andrew forced the words through his throbbing jaw and tight lips. “If Isabella can make Eric a fourth as happy as Viveca has made me, then he’ll be the
second
luckiest man in the world.” Here he paused and turned to address the far corner of the room. “Gifford, you didn’t make the luckiest-man-in-the-world list, but then you probably already know that.”

There was a faint cough from behind the newspaper.

Della sprang to her feet and wheeled around to face her husband. “Are you going to let Andrew talk to me like that, Gifford?” she said to the newspaper.

“Of course he is,” Andrew said with relish. “The poor man’s just grateful someone stood up to you for a change—”

One of Gifford’s bespectacled eyes peered out from around the paper. Eric thought he saw a hint of a smile on his father’s face, but he wasn’t sure.

“—and since he won’t keep you in line,” Andrew continued, “
I
will.”

Della spluttered.

“If you ever talk to or about my wife that way again,” Andrew finished, “I will make you sorry for the day you were born.”

Della clamped her jaws shut, not daring to speak for once in her life.

Eric, who suddenly and unaccountably had the first strains of “Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead” from
The Wizard of Oz
running through his brain, wanted to clap Andrew on the shoulder but satisfied himself with winking instead.

Andrew winked back.

Everyone else seemed stunned. A shocked silence descended over the room and Andy, who’d obviously heard the anger in his
father’s voice, let out an experimental cry, looking as though he couldn’t decide how upset he needed to be. Arnetta patted his back and tried to sooth him, but Nathan took over.

“You scared Andy,” he accused the room at large. Standing, he picked up his baby brother, who gratefully opened his arms for him, snuggled against his shoulder, and peered out at everyone in a clear attempt to determine whether the room was safe or not. “He’s only a baby,” Nathan continued. “You can’t yell around babies.”

Holding Andy with surprising tenderness, Nathan turned on his little polished heel and marched out of the room looking furious. Abashed, they all stared after him until Bishop, muttering, got to his feet and hurried after them.

“I better make sure those two don’t get into trouble,” he said.

Della, of course, recovered first and resumed her rant. “Eric,” she said, her voice rising until it could probably be heard in every far corner of the mansion. “Why can’t you have an affair with this girl? You don’t have to
marry
her. I
mean
—” she paused, at an apparent loss as to how to explain something so obvious “—don’t you want the mother of your children to come from a nice family—”

“A nice family?” Eric interjected. “What—like this one?”

“I just don’t understand why you’d want to rush into marriage with—”

“Good morning, everyone,” chirped a new voice. “I hope I’m not late. The limo’s waiting out front.”

Isabella breezed into the room bringing sunshine and light with her as far as Eric was concerned. Though he could see the faint dark smudges under her eyes that were a sign of her sleepless night, she had her game face on and was more than ready for a morning swim in this shark tank called a library, which was good because she’d no doubt heard every word his poor excuse for a mother had just said.

Isabella wore exactly the kind of colorful flowered dress—mostly orange this time—that Arnetta had probably feared, but Eric thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, or ever would see.

Her gaze briefly met his and mischief sparkled in her eyes. Eric had a clear glimpse of her wicked smile—he could see it even if no one else could—before she walked up to Della and, throwing her arms around her, locked her in the kind of bear hug that made ice cubes like Della recoil in horror.

“It’s
so
nice to see you again, Della.” Isabella held on and swayed with the woman, ignoring Della’s rigidity and staunch refusal to participate in the hug. “My parents said to tell you hello.” After a long ten seconds or so, Isabella pulled free, stepped back and held up the hem of her skirt. “I hope my dress is okay for church. I wasn’t sure if it was bright enough or not.”

Here she blinked up at Della, all innocence and earnest hope. While everyone else in the room struggled not to laugh, Della stammered and flushed.

“Well, I—” Della began.

But Isabella had already turned and walked to Gifford, who put down his newspaper, stood and grinned at her.

“Gifford,”
she cried, sincere, Eric knew, but with a thick layer of Southern charm added to her greeting. “Aren’t you a handsome devil in seersucker? Give me a kiss.”

Oblivious to his wife’s wintry glare, Gifford laughed and hugged Isabella, breaking away only after he’d given her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “How are you, girl?”

“I’m great. My mama sent me with some peanut butter fudge ’specially for you. You still eat it, don’t you?”

Gifford’s face went slack with rapture. “Do I still eat it? Is the pope Catholic?”

“Good.” Beaming, Isabella linked her arm through Gifford’s and steered him toward the door. Eric fell in line after them.

Gifford, grinning and happy, as though thirty seconds with Isabella had trimmed thirty years off his age, turned to look at Eric as they passed through the door. “I don’t care what your mother says, son,” he said in a stage whisper. “You don’t want to let this one get away.”

“I don’t plan to,” Eric said, as he saw a shadow crossing Izzy’s face.

A
luncheon on the terrace followed the baptism, but as soon as they could reasonably break away, Isabella and Eric went back to the cottage where she’d spent the night. She’d stayed there several times before over the years, and nothing much ever changed.

The curtains still fluttered in the open windows, the weathered country antiques were still covered with more pillows than a sultan could use for his harem and glass bowls of roses from Arnetta’s garden still dotted most flat surfaces. The cottage was, as always, a warm little slice of heaven tailor-made for lovers. It was not the place where Isabella wanted to tell Eric everything he’d never known about her life.

Things between them had been strained all morning and they now sat on an overstuffed sofa in the kind of awkward silence they’d rarely shared before. They watched Zeus—today wearing his orange and black Cincinnati Bengals jersey—bring Fluffles in from the bedroom and settle with him on the floor under the coffee table, but then that tiny bit of entertainment was over and there was nothing to do but start talking.

“I missed you last night.” Eric’s expression was dark and subdued, his voice husky. He’d gotten rid of his suit jacket a while back and rolled up the sleeves to his starched white shirt. Isabella could see the flexing tension of his heavy forearms as he gripped his knees. “I couldn’t sleep at all without you.”

Denying her feelings at this point never crossed Isabella’s mind. “I missed you, too.”

A flare of hope lightened his features, and he took one of her cold hands between his warm ones and held it tight enough for her to feel some of his strength flow into her. “I love you, Isabella.”

Isabella paused because this was a big moment, one that had been fourteen years in the making. Today was a day for telling the truth and she was past the stammering denials and half lies she’d told her mother about her feelings for Eric. Today she owed him the entire story—all of her feelings and all her secrets.

“I love you, too.”

He let out a bark of startled laughter but then quickly swallowed it, as though he’d been caught joking at a funeral. “You do?”

“I’ve been falling in love with you since I saw you at freshman orientation. I fell a little more every time you smiled at me, a little bit more every time we laughed together or you talked me through a hard time in my life. I fell a lot this weekend. Didn’t you know that?”

Another laugh, relieved this time.
“No,”
he said. “I didn’t know
anything
.”

Raising her hand, he pressed fevered kisses to it and then, as though he couldn’t help himself and needed to indulge before the worst came, put a hand to her nape and claimed her mouth.

For those few precious seconds, Isabella kissed him back and pretended that there were no limits on this blinding happiness. That her heart could soar as high and free as it wanted because she wasn’t about to smash it. That Eric would always love her this desperately—no matter what she ever told him.

The warring emotions were too much and erupted out of her
tight throat, half sob and half laugh. But then Eric held her face between his palms and rested his forehead against hers and he was laughing, joyous.

“I would never cheat on you, Isabella. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

She
did
know and his potential future infidelity, despite his unfortunate history with countless other women, was the least of her worries now. He’d loved her so thoroughly for the last few days that she no longer had room for doubt, on this one point at least. Eric would be a good and faithful husband but the problem was that in a few minutes he’d no longer want to marry her.

“I can make you happy if you give me the chance.”

“I know you can,” she said.

“Good girl.”

He flashed a thrilled white smile and then took her mouth again in another kiss that was ravenous, deep and filled with endless possibilities. Finally he broke free and a new stillness fell over him until the only sounds in the universe were Zeus’s gentle snores and Eric’s labored breathing.

“Stay here,” he said. “Marry me.”

This time, for the first time, she held back the answer she wanted to give. Hot tears burned her eyes and some of them refused to be blinked back. After a long minute, she shook her head.

“Isabella.” A new desperation roughened his voice and made his eyes wild. “I know you want to. Don’t you?”

“Yes,”
she said helplessly. “But I can’t.”

With a growl of frustration, he turned her loose, flung himself against the back of the sofa, rested his head on the pillow and covered his eyes with his forearm. It took him forever to speak and when he did his voice sounded shaky. She couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or fear.

“
Why
can’t you?”

Here it was at last—the moment she’d dreaded for what seemed like half her life.

“Because when I tell you, you’re not going to want to marry me anymore. You’re not even going to love me anymore.”

“I’ll always love you,” he said tiredly, pulling his arm down so he could see her.

“I doubt it.”

“Tell me, Isabella.”

Yes. She would tell him and she wouldn’t be a crying mess when she did. She had made this bed and she would lie in it. There was time enough to cry later. Then she would move on. Clearing her tight throat, she scooted around until she sat on the coffee table facing him. After another deep breath or two, she was ready.

“That summer in college, when I went to South Africa? Remember that?”

“Yeah.” Eric looked startled and wary. “For an internship, right?”

“No,” she said quietly. “There was no internship. I never went.”

There was a pause while Eric digested this lie, the only one she’d ever told him. “What happened then? You were gone for a whole semester. Where were you?”

“Home in Greenville. I needed time—”

“Because that SOB Al dumped you, right? And you were upset?”

“No. Well, that was part of it. But not all of it.”

They stared at each other.

Something subtle in his expression shifted and hardened, and she realized then that he’d put two and two together and was beginning to understand. He didn’t want to understand, wanted to believe he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, but he
knew,
deep in his gut, where this was going.

“What’s all of it, Isabella?” he asked quietly.

Isabella got up and slowly walked to the chair where she’d tossed her purse when they first arrived. Inside her wallet she found the picture she was looking for and pressed it to her heart for a minute. And then she turned, walked back to the coffee table, sat on it and handed the picture to Eric.

He didn’t take it. Obviously didn’t want to take it. His lip twisted and his jaw tightened and his cheek throbbed, but he didn’t take the picture.

Though it was one of the hardest things she’d ever done in her life, Isabella held his hurt gaze and watched while moisture collected in his beloved brown eyes. When a single tear fell and trailed down his smooth skin, she saw that too and it tore her to pieces.

Finally he swallowed hard, blinked, took the picture and looked at it.

There was no point to her looking along with him because she’d memorized every detail long ago. A fourteen-year-old girl smiled out from that picture, with her shiny black hair in a riot of long twists. She had Isabella’s chubby cheeks, bright eyes and dimpled smile, and she wore adorable tortoiseshell glasses that were just right for her face. It was the face of a happy, well-cared-for child who couldn’t wait for life’s next great adventure.

“My God,” Eric whispered, his head bent low. “This could be you.”

“Her name is Andrea Jacobs. She lives in St. Louis and she’s in the ninth grade. She really likes math and science. She has a yellow Lab named Smiley and she’s a Girl Scout. Oh, and last year she got her black belt in Tae Kwon Do.”

Keeping her mother’s pride out of her voice was impossible, so Isabella didn’t even try. Eric, shell-shocked though he was, heard it, too. Raising his head, he worked at a smile but couldn’t quite manage it.

“She’s beautiful,” he said. “Have you met her?”

“No.” Isabella pressed a hand to her heart to hold back some of her misery and longing. “I held her for an hour when she was born, and her parents send me a picture and a letter every year on her birthday, but that’s all. If she wants to meet me at some point, they’ll support that, but so far she—” her voice broke and she had to pause to regroup “—she hasn’t asked.”

The weight of the picture in his hand seemed to be too much for Eric. He put it on the table, rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. Those forearms flexed again as he rubbed his eyes. When he next spoke it was with the weariness of a man who’d lived a thousand years and was tired of the world and all its problems.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “Why did you have to lie?”

A harsh laugh, bitter and ugly, rose up out of Isabella’s throat. Even now she couldn’t forgive herself for the foolish youthful mistakes she’d made. Even now she refused to grant herself absolution for ruining her young life so thoroughly.

“What?” she asked. “Tell you how foolish I was for falling for some idiot and getting pregnant after my parents took out a second mortgage and worked two jobs apiece to send me to an Ivy League school they couldn’t afford?” Renewed shame flattened her, the way it always did when she remembered this dark portion of her distant past. “Hell, Eric. It was hard enough to tell
them
.”

Eric looked up and his expression was fierce and unyielding enough to startle her. “Yeah, but they understood and I would have, too, if you’d given me the chance.”

“I couldn’t do it,” she said simply, coming as close to an apology as she could get. “I wanted you to think better of me.”

“Why are you being so hard on yourself?” His voice rose with obvious frustration at her intransigence. “What college kid alive hasn’t gotten in some kind of trouble? Why should you be different?”

“I couldn’t do it,” she said again. “I just couldn’t.”

Silence fell. She welcomed the quiet and gave him a minute or two to absorb all this information. He sat staring across the room for a long time, as still and silent as a forgotten grave, without even the flutter of his lashes or the rise and fall of his chest to tell her he hadn’t turned to stone.

Slowly he came out of his thoughts, blinking first and then turning to look at her with eyes that were wounded but still, miraculously, loving. One corner of his mouth hitched up in an unsuccessful attempt at a wry smile.

“I’m almost relieved,” he told her. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Eric,” she began quickly.

Cupping her face in his warm palm, he stroked one thumb over her cheek in a gesture of extreme tenderness that ripped her heart right out of her chest and tore it to bits.

“Eric—”

“But you had to know I would never judge you. One day when you have six or eight hours, I’ll tell you all the stupid things I did in college.” He laughed ruefully and she loved him for trying to ease her mind, as though getting pregnant and having a child out of wedlock was no worse than a drunken frat party or two. “It’s the kind of stuff we won’t tell our kids until they’re grown—”

“No, Eric—”

“And now that I know your terrible secret, we can get married, right? There’s no reason why we can’t—”

“There
is
a reason,” she said, and they were the hardest words she’d ever uttered in her life, four verbal knives sharp enough to maim.

The renewed brightness in Eric’s face died and his smile disappeared.

Isabella didn’t want to look at him but couldn’t look away. In his eyes she saw glimpses of the raw, debilitating wound she’d just given him, and she wondered if it would comfort him to know that she was hurting herself just as much. Beyond his pain was a hint of anger, of reproach, as though he just couldn’t understand what would drive her to devastate him like this.

“How many times today,” he asked, low, “are you going to rip my guts out?”

This was too much. Despite all her resolve to get through this conversation with dignity and grace, a tear or two fell and she couldn’t stop them.

For the first time ever, Eric didn’t comfort her when she cried. He sat still and waiting, and he handed her a tissue from the side table, but he did not hold her hand, pat her shoulder or take her in his arms. Maybe he knew no comfort was possible now, or maybe he was too angry to touch her. Either way, she felt completely alone and knew she would have to draw on her own strength to get her through this next, worst part.

She wiped her eyes, calm and strong again.

“There were complications,” she told him. “After Andrea was born.”

Eric said nothing. For ten long seconds—longer, probably—
he stared at her and she felt the wheels turn in his mind and knew the instant that they arrived at the right conclusion.

“No,” he said. “No, no,
no
.”

“Eric.”

She reached for his hand but he was too quick for her. Aghast, he shook his head, jumped to his feet and wheeled away, an animal trapped in a cage he was desperate to escape.

“Don’t say it,” he warned.
“Don’t say it.”

“I had a massive hemorrhage and almost died. My uterus just about ruptured. I had an emergency hysterectomy. I can’t have children.” She paused.

“I told you not to say it,”
he roared.

This pain—
his
pain—was worse than anything else she’d endured in her life. She’d give up a hundred children for adoption if she never had to see this kind of agony on his face again.

“Eric,” she said, trying to remain calm while she killed his dreams, “I’m sorry.”

Isabella hurried to him but he turned away, bent at the waist as though the weight of his grief wouldn’t let him stand up straight, and rested his palms on his thighs. She put a tentative hand on his back and then, when he didn’t jerk free, both hands. Shudders rippled through him, one after the other, over and over, and she wondered if he might hyperventilate.