The Beautiful Ones (Arabesque) (9 page)

Chapter 12

“N
o one can say that you don’t have balls,” Selma snickered as she eased into the passenger seat of Solomon’s black Hummer. “Why in the hell did you tell the man his fiancée kept murmuring she loved you in her sleep?”

“I just said what happened.” Solomon slammed her door shut. He glided to the driver’s side, failing to see what was the big deal. When he finally opened his door, he caught the last few notes of Selma’s amused laughter.

“I thought the man was going to come out of his seat and choke the living daylights out of you,” she admitted.

“It wasn’t that serious.” He started the vehicle.

“Uh-uh. And the Pope isn’t Catholic.”

Solomon shook his head and pulled out of the parking garage. In retrospect, the dinner table had gone awfully quiet after his short stroll down memory lane.

“If Jonas is insecure about me and Ophelia’s relationship, that’s his problem, not mine.”

“It’ll be your problem if he prohibits Ophelia from seeing you.”

“What?” Solomon glanced over at her. “He can’t do that. Besides, Ophelia wouldn’t agree to it. We’ve been best friends since—”

“If nothing, marriage is a list of compromises. Sure, you’re her best friend, but if the love of her life is uncomfortable with you being in the picture, then what do you think she’s going to do?”

“The love of her life?”

“She agreed to marry him, didn’t she?”

Solomon held his tongue.

“Look, as your friend, I’m just telling you like it is,” Selma continued. “If Marty had a problem with our relationship, I would do what’s in my power to get you two to get along. If that didn’t work, then I’m sorry, but I’d have to cut you loose. Ace trumps king. It’s as simple as that.”

He hated to admit it, but Selma made sense. However, he had a hard time accepting Jonas as the love of Ophelia’s life. His mind replayed the evening’s events. Ophelia had spent most of the time nestled in Jonas’s arms and grinning cheekily at the man’s boastful stories of big business deals.

Money was a big deal to Mr. Hinton. How he made it, how much he saved, and how much he flaunted it. True, Solomon was no pauper, but he was no braggart either.

“Love of her life, humph.”

“What did you say?”

His gaze slid to Selma. He had forgotten she was in the car. “Nothing.”

Selma shook her head. “Well, I guess it could’ve been worse. The story didn’t end with you two having sex. That would have been a nightmare.”

Solomon fell silent as he concentrated on the road.

“You two never had sex together,” Selma asked with suspicion dripping from her tone. “Right?”

He didn’t respond.

“Solomon?”

* * *

Jonas was furious. He wanted to throw or hit something—or rather someone—Solomon. Now more than ever, he was convinced that there was more to Solomon and Ophelia’s relationship than either was letting on.

Te quiero.
He glanced over at his fiancée as she headed toward her separate bedroom. He glared at the fuchsia dress she’d chosen to wear.
Solomon always said I looked good in this color.

“I’m going out for a drive,” he announced.

“What?” Ophelia faced him and then glanced down at her watch. “But it’s nearly midnight.”

“I need some air.” He stormed toward the door.

“Wait. I’ll go with you,” she offered.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” He jerked open the door, but felt her hand land on his shoulder before he cleared the threshold. Closing his eyes, he refused to turn around.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “And you’re wrong.”

“Am I?” A pathetic rumble of laughter shook his tall frame. “The thing I’m trying to figure out is if you’re lying to me or to yourself.”

“Solomon is just a friend. He has always been
just
a friend.”

“Te quiero.”

Ophelia sighed. “I was eighteen, drunk—”

“You love him.”

“Of course I love him. I love Marcel, too. We’ve known each other for years.”

Jonas almost wavered, and then forced himself to ask the question most prominent in his mind. “And if you had to choose between me or him?”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of ultimatum?”

“And if it was?”

The instant silence was like a knife through the heart, and after a few long, drawn-out seconds, he jerked his shoulder from her grasp.

“Jonas,” she called weakly.

He didn’t turn around.

* * *

Ophelia watched him go and slumped wearily against the door’s archway. It was the perfect ending to a horrible night, and it was all Solomon’s fault.

She huffed out an annoyed breath and went back inside the condominium.

Benton appeared out of the blue. “Is there anything else I can get you this evening, ma’am?”

“No.” She smiled. “That will be all for the night. Thank you.”

Benton bowed and exited as quickly as he’d appeared.

And just like that she was alone—alone with her thoughts and her roller-coaster emotions. Just what the hell was she doing? Did she even have a clue?

Two weeks ago she was excited—no, she was ecstatic at Jonas’s spontaneous proposal. And now?

Ophelia closed her eyes. Maybe she was just upset. Rightfully so, with Jonas bolting without even attempting to resolve the issue like two rational adults. “I’m going for a drive. Humph. He’s not going to keep pulling that stunt.” She stormed toward her bedroom and then slammed the door behind her.

The loud bang at least gave her some small measure of satisfaction—so she did it again.

She sucked in a deep breath and then did something she hadn’t done in years: she started crying. Why, exactly, she wasn’t sure. However, once the dam broke, there was no stopping it.

Blurry eyed, she headed toward the bathroom and snatched sheets of Kleenex out of a small, pink box in a sad attempt to dry her tears, but they kept coming—pouring, actually.

“Damn him,” she finally mumbled and then added, “Damn them both.”

Peeling out of her clothes, she submerged herself beneath a stream of steaming hot water until her tears abated. However, her emotions continued to go all over the map.

Shutting off the shower, Ophelia grabbed the nearest towel. Instead of drying off, she wrapped the plush towel around her wet body and slinked off to her bedroom. Vaguely, she wondered if Jonas had returned, but she didn’t go check.

She refused to be forced to choose between him and Solomon.

But what if you have to?

Ophelia closed her eyes and lay across the bed. This was her and Jonas’s first disagreement, she realized. They shouldn’t go to bed angry. Hadn’t her mother taught her that advice on marriage?

You’re not married yet.

She sighed and reached for one of the bed pillows. It was a lousy substitute for comfort, but the other option, calling her best friend, was out of the question as well.

She heard a slam and sat up in bed.

Jonas had returned home.

Seconds stretched into minutes while Ophelia strained to listen for his footsteps. When she finally heard them in the hallway, she drew and held her breath.

Should she go to him, wait for him, or ignore him?

Problem was, she wanted to do all those things as well as scream at him, hit him, and break off their engagement. Her heart squeezed. Where had that last thought come from?

The footsteps grew louder.

She needed to make a decision, but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the edge of the bed, while her heart hammered against her rib cage.

The footsteps stopped at her door. Any second he would knock, and she would have to reach a decision.

While waiting for his soft rap, her lungs threatened to explode. Yet, she refused to release the air locked in them.

The silence was deafening, the wait excruciating. But the knock never came. Instead, she listened as he walked away.

The instant stab of disappointment surprised her, as well as the wave of fresh tears. Ophelia fell back against the bed, submerged in misery and confusion. Another door slammed at the other end of the hall, and silent tears slowly leaked from her eyes.

She had made her decision.

* * *

Solomon groaned at the sound of a ringing phone. He couldn’t imagine who was calling—he peeked at the glowing red numbers on his clock—at three in the morning. Briefly, he wavered between answering and ignoring the damn thing, but finally decided to pick up.

“This better be important,” he growled with his eyelids at half-mast.

“Sol?” came Ophelia’s unmistakable voice.

He was instantly alert. His ears became attuned to her sniffles and upset tone. “What’s wrong, Ophelia?”

When she didn’t readily answer, Solomon’s mind rushed through a long list of things her jerk of a fiancé could’ve done. His temper escalated as he jumped out of bed and headed toward his closet.

“I’m coming over,” he declared.

“No,” she croaked. “I don’t need you to come over.” More sniffles.

His footsteps slowed while his hand tightened on the receiver. “Then tell me what’s wrong?”

He listened to her draw a long, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

His shoulders relaxed as he sighed in relief. She wasn’t going to marry this dude after all. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.”

“I wish that were true,” she answered shakily. “But Sol…I can’t see you anymore.”

Solomon froze, unable to comprehend what he’d just heard.

“I’m sorry, but I have to do this if I’m going to make this work with Jonas. And I
do
want to make this work.”

“Ophelia—”

“Please, Sol. Try to understand. He’s important to me.”

“More important than I am?” he thundered into the receiver. “You can just throw everything we’ve been through together out the window—just like that?”

“This isn’t easy for me.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“Sol—”

“You’ve known this jerk for four months, and me for more than half your life.”

“Sol—”

“Who has always been there for you—been through boyfriends, and bailed you out of jail after one silly college protest after another?”

“This isn’t about any of that. I love Jonas.”

Solomon’s rage only multiplied at hearing those words. “Yeah, well, I love you, too, and look where the hell that’s gotten me.”