Spiral of Bliss 02 Allure (9 page)

“But not this time.”

“Liv, that’s not what I meant! The night you got pregnant… I wasn’t thinking straight, and I forgot to put on a damn condom. It was an accident, not a mistake.”

Mistake. Mistake.

The word ricochets around my head. I hear my mother’s voice, disembodied, weary from living.
“You were a mistake, Liv. I never should have had you.”

Old emotions churn inside me, snarled and messy. I stare at my hands. I can hear Dean’s breathing from across the room. His frustration is a black haze.

“I’m… there shouldn’t be any blame.” I struggle to put my thoughts into order. “A pregnancy… I mean, we have this child, and you… you’re going into this with this idea that it wasn’t supposed to happen…”

“Liv, I’m trying to buy a house because we’re having a baby. I’m thinking about our finances, investment and legal strategies. I’ve even looked into college savings programs. I’m
going into this
with the idea that we have to plan for the future.”

“But how do you feel about all that, Dean? If you think you somehow failed—”

“Liv.” Dean crosses the room and kneels in front of me. He puts his hands over mine. “Liv, look at me.”

I look up through the veil of hair that has fallen across either side of my face. His eyes blaze into mine, determination steeling his features. He grips my shoulders.

“I’ve never…” His voice is rough. “I’ve never felt that anything involving you was a failure. Believe me.”

I’m supposed to fall into his arms and let him hold me. I’m supposed to press my head against his chest and listen to his deep-voiced reassurances, feel them soothe all the doubts blistering in my head. I’m supposed to say
yes, yes, of course I believe you…

An ache fills my heart. He’ll reassure me, I’ll feel better, then he’ll go to California alone while I stay in our cozy apartment, sheltered from all the cold hostility and anger winding through the West family.

That’s the way it works for the strong, protective man and the good girl who doesn’t cause trouble for anyone.

I stare into my husband’s eyes. Such a beautiful brown. The color of chocolate, mahogany, cinnamon. I can see him waiting for my surrender.

“I can’t believe you,” I whisper.

“What?” A shutter crashes over his expression. He lets go of me.

“We’ve spent the past four months failing miserably.” I force the words out, broken but clear. “We let each other down. We made mistakes. We hurt each other.”

He shoves to his feet and stalks away. “That’s over. We’re done with that.”

“Are we? Then you need to stop thinking that every time something doesn’t go according to plan, it’s a mistake. You need to stop thinking you failed me.”

“You just fucking told me that I did fail you!” Dean retorts. “You told me years ago that you didn’t want children. Birth control was my responsibility. I was the one using condoms.”

“Dean, for the love of God, birth control was both of our responsibilities. And
I
was the one who wanted to at least talk about the idea of children. To maybe reconsider. Just because we never came to an agreement doesn’t mean we totally screwed up. An unplanned pregnancy doesn’t equal failure.”

Does it?

I shake off that thought and stand.
I will trust my instincts. I will trust myself.
A new resolve straightens my spine.

“We’re in this together, Dean.
Together.
It’s no one’s fault. There’s no blame to throw around.” I take a hard breath, knowing he has to hear the unvarnished truth. “There is no way to protect me.”

He backs up, as if my words have hit him.

“I have to be there with you the entire time,” I persist. “I have to. I want to help your family, if I can. I want your parents to accept the fact that I’m your wife. I want them all to understand that we’re together.”

We need to understand that too, this new definition of
together
.

Dean drags a hand through his hair, his body corded with strain. “I don’t
want
you to go.”

“I don’t want to stay here.” I spread my hands out. Time is running short. We need to get to the airport. He needs to get to California. My heart is pounding.

“If you leave without me, Dean, I’ll just get another flight tomorrow and follow you.” I snap my suitcase closed. “One way or another, I’m going.”

He curses sharply, then turns to go into the living room. A few seconds later, I hear him talking on the phone again.

I turn on my laptop and send emails to Allie, my supervisor Samantha at the Mirror Lake Historical Museum, and the head of circulation at the library where I volunteer. I tell them all I have a family emergency and will let them know as soon as possible when I expect to return.

I call Kelsey and leave a message asking her to collect our mail and water my plants. I take
Liv’s Manifesto
from my desk and put it into my satchel, then get my coat.

Dean is tense with anger and doesn’t speak to me as we head to the airport. It hasn’t snowed in a few days, so the roads are clear. Though there’s not much traffic, it takes almost an hour and a half to get to the airport. The motion of the car makes my stomach roll with queasiness. I inhale a few deep breaths and try to ignore the unpleasant sensation.

At the airport, Dean forks over way too much money for two available first-class seats, and we go through the process of boarding the plane. Before the plane leaves the gate, I take out my notebook and add to my manifesto:

Then I turn to a fresh page and draw a picture:

I tear the page off, fold it, and pass it to Dean. He opens it and gives me a sideways glance. He takes my pen, scribbles a response, and passes the note back:

“Why did you draw Michigan?” I ask.

He frowns. “It’s a
mitten
.”

“Oh.” I peer at the picture again. “Sure it is.”

“I’m about ready to spank you,” he mutters.

“Promises, promises.”

I smile at him, warmed by the heat flaring in his eyes. I put the note in my satchel and settle back, tucking my hand into his. His fingers close around mine.

Though takeoff is uneventful, the movement and altitude jolt my stomach again. Less than a quarter of the way into the flight, my nausea surges with a force that catches me off guard. I push past Dean and make it to the bathroom in time to retch into the toilet. My throat burns. I rinse out my mouth and wipe my face with a wet paper towel.

“You okay?” Dean is watching me with concern when I emerge.

“Must be motion sickness.” I sink into my seat again and close my eyes. I hear Dean speaking with the flight attendant, who then brings me some crackers and ginger ale.

I press a hand to my chest and breathe. The stale air worsens the sick feeling, and the smell of flowery perfume from one of the female passengers sticks in my nose. My stomach tumbles.

“What do you need?” Dean pushes my hair away from my damp forehead.

“Nothing. Just keep the barf bag handy.”

I spend the rest of the four-hour flight battling the nausea and reconsidering my insistence on coming along. When the plane begins to descend, the queasiness intensifies, but I’m so relieved at the idea of landing that I manage to withstand it.

When we get off the plane at San Jose airport, I go into the bathroom to splash water on my face and freshen up. After reassuring Dean that I feel better with my feet on the ground again, we collect our bags and get a rental car.

The brightness of the California sun is a shock after the winter cold of Mirror Lake. There’s a chill in the air, but everything is glassy and green. A haze hangs over the hills surrounding Silicon Valley. Traffic snakes over the multilane freeways.

The West family home is located between the wealthy suburbs of Saratoga and Los Gatos. A palatial Spanish-style house on a lot flourishing with palm and desert trees, it exudes status and money. The low-pitched, red-tile roof contrasts with stucco siding and arched windows, and lush, green plants grow along the front walkway.

Dean pulls the rental car next to a sedan parked on the circular drive.

“Don’t know whose car that is,” he says.

I try to quash a new wave of unease. I hope it’s not Archer West.

Not likely
, I tell myself. I haven’t seen Dean’s younger brother in five years, but I know that a blue sedan is not his style.

Dean pushes the door open and dumps our suitcases in the foyer. The sound of running water comes from the kitchen. I follow him inside.

He stops abruptly in the kitchen doorway. Tension lances through him. I put my hand on his back and pause beside him. Cold silence vibrates in the air. He moves to block my view of the kitchen. I peer around his shoulder.

A tall, blond woman is standing by the sink.

My heart plummets to my toes. I know exactly who this woman is. She turns her head to meet my gaze, and I find myself staring at my husband’s ex-wife.

CHAPTER FOUR

Olivia

our months ago, I didn’t know Helen Morgan existed, much less that she’d once been married to my husband. She’s standing there now, this woman who shares something with Dean, a painful history I will never comprehend and didn’t even know was a part of him until our marriage began to crack from the inside out.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I’d asked him.

The answer clicks into place for me now, like a key turning in a lock. It’s the same reason he didn’t want me to come with him to California. Dean has never given me any of his dark places easily or willingly. He knows far too well the danger and consequences of telling secrets. He’d learned that lesson as a boy of thirteen and his family has never let him forget it.

I move closer to him, tightening my hand on his sleeve, my gaze on Helen Morgan.

Patrician
is the word that comes to mind. Helen has fine, sharp features and is dressed in a knee-length skirt and tailored blouse. Her body is slender with narrow hips and small breasts. She wears her shiny, blond hair short in a casually sophisticated style that emphasizes her high cheekbones and blue eyes.

Just looking at her, I can see how Helen would fit into the West family. I can even see her with Dean—but not
my
Dean. Not the warm, sexy man who likes ear massages and boring foreign movies about the Huguenots.

Not Dean of the unshaven jaw and messy hair who always finishes crossword puzzles and gets crumbs on the table whenever he eats toast and peanut butter. Not Dean who can’t draw a recognizable picture to save his life, but knows all the geometrical proportions of cathedral architecture. Not Dean with his easy, hint-of-wicked smile that takes my breath away.

No.

I can see Helen with the renowned Professor West who wears tailored suits and lectures at European universities. The financier who can discuss the movement of the stock market, mutual funds, and expense ratios. The scholar who consults with museum curators around the world and oversees archeological digs of medieval treasures. Perfect Dean.

Not the real Dean.

I want to dislike Helen. She looks like she’s from the same circle as the girls who once had a hand in my undoing—elegant, fashionable, secure in her elevated status. She’s successful in her field. She knows what hairstyle and clothes look best on her. She probably spent her childhood with a sense of entitlement.

Helen also had a plan for her life that broke apart in ways she couldn’t have anticipated. She suffered three miscarriages and a bitter divorce from the man with whom she expected to have a family. She once thought she would be married to Dean for the rest of her life, until her image of them as a perfect couple shattered.

I know all about plans that go horribly awry.

I know all about shattered images and dysfunctional families.

So does Dean. And even early on, he tried to shield me from it.

During the busy fall semester after Dean and I first met, we grabbed every spare moment we could find together. We had lunch and coffee between classes, he picked me up after my shifts at Jitter Beans, we went to the movies and spent weekends holed up in either his apartment or mine. Whenever we were together, I hoarded bits of information about him and added them to my store of knowledge.

His favorite food is pizza.

He wears a plain, analog watch with a leather strap.

In addition to the King Arthur tales, his favorite childhood book was about a boy detective named Encyclopedia Brown.

He doesn’t wear cologne, but uses shaving cream that smells deliciously woodsy.

He knows how to make intricate patterns with a loop of string.

He actually has an opinion about apocalyptic imagery in medieval Castilian poetry.

He likes it when I kiss the hollow of his throat.

I liked that too. I liked everything about kissing and touching him. With every moment Dean and I spent together in those early weeks, the more I wanted to do with him.

“No touching,” he said.

I turned from where I was tending the three plants I’d brought him over the past couple of months. With a braided ficus, a peperomia, and an English ivy (Groucho, Harpo, and Zeppo), plus a vase filled with dried eucalyptus, his utilitarian apartment both looked homey and smelled good.

“No touching at all?” I asked.

“None,” Dean said as he unfolded the Scrabble board and put it on the coffee table.

“Not even a kiss?”

“Nope.”

I tossed a few leaves into the trash and approached him. He looked adorably serious as he turned the Scrabble tiles upside down and placed the racks on either side of the board.

The sleeves of his white T-shirt had ridden up far enough to expose his biceps, and a swath of hair flopped over his forehead.

“I’m not sure I like these rules,” I remarked.

“You don’t want to play, then?” Dean asked.

“Oh, I want to play.”

His gaze jerked to mine at the suggestive note in my voice. I smiled and sank onto the floor opposite him, tucking my legs beneath my skirt.

We were two months into our relationship, and while we’d done some sexy things with our clothes on, including a lot of kissing, we had yet to see each other completely naked. It was a revelation for me—the slow, easy pace of our intimacy, the fact that we spent much of our time just being together, the sheer pleasure of our heightened anticipation.

“You go first.” Dean nodded at the Scrabble box. “Whoever scores below five points loses that round. You also lose if you have to skip a turn.”

“Remember—only modern English words,” I told him as we picked our tiles. “No Latin, no Greek. No
ye olde
this or that.”

I spelled out the word LOAF, then Dean used the F to make FORK. He wrote down the scores on a pad of paper.

“Seven for you, thirteen for me with the triple-letter score,” he said. “So close.”

I spelled LID and picked out more tiles. Dean spelled KNAWE.

“Oh, dude.” I sat back. “Major challenge.”

“Go ahead.” He nodded toward the thick dictionary on the sofa.

I thumbed to the K section and ran my finger down the page. “‘A low-growing, weedy Eurasian annual with narrow leaves and inconspicuous flowers’? Are you freaking kidding me?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to know about plants.”

“
No one
knows about weedy Eurasian annuals.”

“I do.”

“Of course you do, smartass.” Disgruntled, I put the dictionary aside.

He flashed me his you-know-you-like-me grin. My belly fluttered with warmth.

Dean wrote our scores on the notepad. “Twenty-four with the double-word score. You have a double-letter score, so four for you.” Wicked anticipation flared in his expression as he looked at me. “You know what that means.”

My heartbeat sped up. I briefly considered plunging right into the deep end, but my inherent caution warned me against it. I reached behind my neck and unclipped my necklace, then tossed it on a chair.

Dean frowned. “That doesn’t count.”

“Sure it does.”

“An article of
clothing
.”

“Accessories
are
clothing.” I wasn’t entirely certain of that, but I wasn’t about to back down. “Check any fashion magazine.”

Dean scowled, but gestured to the board. “Your turn, then.”

I managed to spell NERD, which squeaked me by with five points thanks to a double-letter square, and then he spelled EAR and was saved with a double-word square. We took more tiles. ROW and TETRAGON (seriously). Then RAT and AXE.

“Three.” Dean looked at me, a wicked glint in his expression. “Go.”

I pulled off the navy cardigan I was wearing over my V-neck shirt and tossed it on the chair. I became rather acutely aware that removing my remaining articles of clothing—my skirt and blouse—would leave me quite exposed.

The game continued. After finally managing only a four-point word, Dean took off a sock. I gave him a mild glare. I’d been hoping he’d pull off his shirt.

I spelled RUN to his TOYS. My breath hitched a little as I eased my hands beneath my skirt to roll my tights down my legs. The burn of Dean’s gaze fired my own arousal, even though I revealed hardly any skin as I pulled the tights off and put them on the chair.

Dean took off his other sock after having to skip a turn to exchange a tile. Then I spelled a four-point word and removed my underwear from beneath my skirt. Dean’s eyes followed the plain white, cotton panties as I tossed them onto the chair. I flushed.

“I don’t… um, I don’t have sexy panties.” I wished I did.

“If you’re wearing them, they’re sexy.” His gaze met mine. “Trust me on that.”

“I trust you with a lot more than that,” I said before I could think.

A brief shadow crossed his features—he knew there were things I hadn’t yet told him—but then it disappeared. “Your turn again, beauty.”

I spelled RING. He spelled SIT for a measly three points. I looked at him, anticipation quickening my blood. Both his socks were off, which meant…

He grasped the hem of his T-shirt and tugged it over his head.

Oh, my heavens…

I would never get tired of looking at his chest. My mouth went dry as I stared at the sloping planes of his pecs, the smooth musculature of his shoulders and rock-hard arms. The top button of his jeans was unfastened, displaying the tantalizing ridges of his abdomen disappearing beneath the waistband. I wondered if he was wearing boxers or briefs. Or nothing at all.

I swallowed hard.

“Your turn.” A mixture of restraint and lust gleamed in his eyes.

“Um…” I looked at the board, trying to find a vowel. “I… I’ll have to skip a turn.”

“Too bad.”

I took my time selecting a letter to replace, then glanced warily at Dean. He was looking at my breasts. Oh, he wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

His gorgeous chest moved with his quicker breathing. I curled my fingers into my palms against the urge to touch him. I wanted to feel his taut skin, to rub my hands over him and…

“Liv,” he prompted, his voice lowering an octave.

Dammit. I took hold of my shirt. If only the rules included some form of touching…

Wait a second.

I lifted my gaze to him, a wicked idea sparking. My stomach clenched with nerves.

I couldn’t.

Could I?

I pushed slowly to my feet, my breath hitching. His eyes followed me, but stayed focused on my breasts. My hands shook as I moved them behind my waist. With one quick rasp, I unfastened the zipper of my skirt.

Dean’s breath escaped him as his eyes collided with mine. My heart crashed against my ribs. I started to slide the skirt over my hips.

“This was your idea,” I reminded him, grabbing a burst of courage as I pushed the skirt down and let it pool at my feet. My shirt was just long enough to cover the top of my mons, but otherwise I was naked from the waist down. And trembling.

“Christ, Liv…” Dean’s hoarse whisper made my blood quiver. He stared at the juncture of my thighs, the curves of my hips. Just his gaze alone made desire pool in my sex, and I fought the urge to squirm.