She was home.
Michael swung his car into the empty parking space next to the Lexus. As he started to shift into park, he hesitated while he contemplated his next move. He glanced over at the Lexus, and at the closer distance, he saw the car seat on the back seat. It occurred to him that school would already have let out, and she probably had her daughter with her.
Letting the powerful engine continue to idle, Michael debated the wisdom of knocking on her door. Abruptly, he shook his head. Their agreement was that they would not share their personal lives or histories with each other. Michael was acutely aware that dropping in on Winter, without invitation and without permission to her address, would be a serious breach of their agreement to personal privacy. He had already stepped way over the line just by coming here. If he was being brutally honest with himself, he had first broken trust with her when he had deliberately examined her GPS.
Michael put the Porsche into reverse and swung out of the parking lot. As he drove off, he wondered why he had done it to begin with. He had never felt more than a passing curiosity about other women he had dated or with whom he had developed a casual relationship. He could come up with a whole lot of reasons and excuses, but he knew them for what they were.
Michael growled in self-disgust. He was not pleased. The unadulterated truth was that Winter had become more than simply his sexual partner and some-time companion. He cared about her. He was gripped by a growing fascination with her as an individual, particularly with that part of her life that she never shared with him. She might share her body, her warmth of personality and intelligence, but that was all he was given. He was shut out. He didn’t like it.
He had demanded the measure of anonymity they had maintained between them. He had believed, because neither knew too much about the other, neither of them would fall into the trap of an emotional entanglement. He had believed their relationship would remain free of drama. It was solely a business arrangement, one that was practical and beneficial to both and mutually satisfying.
Now here he was, obsessing over her. He was the one in danger of emotional entanglement, not Winter, and wasn’t that ironic? Fuck! Michael hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand in frustration. His furious thoughts spun out. Since when had he lost control in the relationship? He dictated the terms. It was designed around his convenience, his needs. Wasn’t it? He hit the steering wheel again, harder. He almost relished the sharp throbbing pain. Then why the hell was he wanting and anticipating the next assignation with Winter with almost painful intensity? Why did he yearn to get another out-of-the-blue late-night call from her? God, that night! The surge to his groin was instant, his hardening cock straining under his zipper. That night at the theater, with the action flick exploding onscreen, still messed with his head. He’d never look the same way at a carton of theater popcorn again!
Michael inhaled sharply, tightened his lips. Business was all it was, all it would ever be, he determinedly told himself. There would be no more of this skulking and adolescent obsession. He didn’t give a damn about Winter Somerset’s life. He gunned the Porsche and roared away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Cathy made herself get up off the sofa where she had collapsed. She didn’t know how much time had passed—an hour or maybe two—since she had returned from the hospital. Terror locked her brain. She didn’t know how she had gotten home. She didn’t remember anything except what the oncologist had told her. The sound of her harsh wheezing, the ribbons of pain squeezing her chest, were nothing beside the anguish of her heart.