“Yes.” Michael’s head inclined in the barest nod. His ice-blue gaze never left her face. A tight, white line bracketed his mouth. “That’s right! The whole time.”
After all that had happened, it seemed the worst possible betrayal. His talk of it being better not to be in a relationship, the relief she had felt when she took that to mean he was not married. She had been the bit on the side. She had gotten knocked up by a married man. She was the “other woman.” She was nothing but a tawdry cliché.
This was the man she had fallen in love with.
“You bastard,” she breathed.
He left the bed and slowly approached her. He was totally unselfconscious of his nudity. He spread his hands in a placating gesture. “Listen to me. Please.”
She recoiled. “Do not touch me!” She whirled and darted into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it. The click sounded loudly.
In the bathroom, Cathy stared at herself in the mirror. The wild mass of flaming corkscrews framed her huge, darkened eyes and waxen face. Her lips were still puffed and reddened from Michael’s kisses.
“I have a wife.”
The world tilted. She clutched the vanity. Something crashed through her mind, breaking and shattering, leaving in its wake cold, crystal clarity. The hope-fantasy was over. There would be no happy ending. Not for her. Not with Michael.
Nausea suddenly caught her. She staggered over to the toilet and bent over, retching. When she was done, she went back to the sink to splash water on her face and rinse out her mouth. She straightened and stared again at her reflection.
Cathy watched huge tears well up in her eyes and spill over. Furious with herself, she rubbed her eyes clear. She whirled and ran out of the bathroom. She scooped up her clothing from off the bedroom floor. In the morning light shining through the French doors, she dressed swiftly, pulling on the skirt, the sweater over it, and the belt. She shoved her feet into her ankle boots. Grabbing her coat and her purse, she ran to the bedroom door.
Cathy paused in the doorway. She surveyed the masculine navy-blue-and-tan bedroom, sparing a long glance for the tumbled bed. Her nostrils flared. The heavy musk of sex was redolent on the air. Nausea welled again, and she swallowed reflexively. She spun away and fled.
From the kitchen, Michael heard the swift running steps on the granite tile in the entry then the crash of the front door. He froze in the process of flipping the omelet he was preparing. In the distance he heard an engine roar and the squeal of tires.
His thoughts darted back to the incredible night they had just shared and then how ugly things had turned out. Whatever had brought her to him, whatever issues had lain between them, had been unimportant. He hadn’t cared about anything except for the fact that she was in his bed. After making love to her, he had shut his eyes and fallen into a dreamless sleep.
He had been an idiot. When she had shown up, instead of taking her to bed, he should have demanded to know what was going on. He could have avoided the whole ugly business. He grimaced again over his gross stupidity. He had handled it so brilliantly. He had just blurted it out.
He had reasoned that he needed to give her some space. Some time to pull herself out of the understandable shock. They would talk. He would explain. She would understand.
So he had pulled on a pair of jeans and gone downstairs. But Michael had left the bedroom seriously worried. She had been so pissed. He had had a feeling it wasn’t going to be easy. He’d decided to make her breakfast. There was nothing like sharing a meal together to encourage polite, reasonable communication.
He became aware of a burning odor. He glanced down and jerked the skillet off of the burner. The smoking omelet was crisped and blackened. He flipped off the heat.
So. They weren’t going to talk about it. Well, then, he thought he’d get drunk.
Chapter Twenty-Four