Remarried In Haste. Sandra Field
if you’re trying to change the subject,” Gabrielle went on with considerable determination, “it won’t work. I know you still love Rowan. After all, you and I virtually lived together for the eight months we were held for ransom, I had lots of opportunity to observe you. One of the things that kept you sane through that terrible time was the knowledge you’d be going home to Rowan. Your wife.”
Through gritted teeth Brant said, “Your imagination’s operating overtime.”
Imperturbably Gabrielle went on, “And then we were released unexpectedly. When you got home she was leading a tour in Greenland, and when she got back from there her lawyer made it all too clear that Rowan wanted nothing to do with you because she thought you and I were a number. You wouldn’t let me go and see her to try and explain—oh, no, you were much too proud for that. In fact, you made me swear I wouldn’t get in touch with her at all, stiffnecked idiot that you are. So you lost her. And you’ve never stopped grieving that loss. I know you haven’t. I’d swear it in court on a stack of Bibles as high as this building.”
“Dammit, I’m divorced! And that’s the way I like it.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He surged to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this—I’m getting out of here.”
“Can’t take the heat? Afraid you might have to admit to emotions? You, Brant Curtis, feeling pain because a woman left you?” She swung her legs to the floor and stood up, too, with a touch of awkwardness that reminded him, sharply and painfully, of Rowan’s sudden, coltlike movements. “I know you have feelings,” Gabrielle announced, “even if I don’t know why you’ve repressed them so drastically they don’t have the slightest chance of escaping... sort of like us in that awful cell. You have them, though—and they’re killing you.”
“You’ve got a great touch with purple prose.”
“So you’re a coward,” she said flatly.
Her words bit deep into a place Brant rarely acknowledged to himself and certainly never would to anyone else. Of course he wasn’t a coward. If anything, he was the exact opposite, a man who continually took risks for the highs they gave him. He headed for the door, throwing the words over his shoulder. “Remind me the next time you invite me for dinner to say no.”
“You need to see Rowan!”
“I don’t know where she is and I’m not going looking for her!”
“I know where she is.” Gabrielle turned and from a wrought-iron shelf picked up a folded brochure, waving it in the air. “In three days she’ll be leading a small group of people through various islands in the West Indies looking for endemic birds. Which, in case you didn’t know, means birds native to the area. I had to look it up.”
In spite of himself, Brant’s eyes had flown to the folded piece of paper and his feet had glued themselves to the parquet floor. Conquering the urge to snatch the brochure from her, he rapped, “So what?”
“There’s a vacancy on that trip. My friend Sonia’s husband—Rick Williams—was to have gone, but he’s come down with a bad respiratory infection. You could take his place.”
His mouth dry, Brant sneered, “Me? Looking for endemic birds on those cute little Caribbean islands? That’s like telling a mercenary soldier he’s going back to kindergarten.”
“You’d be looking for your wife, Brant.” Gabrielle’s smile was ironic. “Looking for your life, Brant. You didn’t know I was a poet, did you?”
“You’ve been watching too many soap operas.”
“Kindly don’t insult me!”
His lashes flickered. Gabrielle almost never lost her temper, unlike Rowan, who lost it frequently.
Rowan. He’d always loved her name. His first gift to her had been a pair of earrings he’d had designed especially for her, little enameled bunches of the deep orange berries of the rowan tree, berries as fiery-colored as her tumbled, shoulder-length hair. Spread on the pillow, her hair had had the glow of fire....
With an exclamation of disgust, because many months ago he’d rigorously trained himself to forget everything that had happened between him and Rowan in their big bed, he held out his hand. Gabrielle passed him the brochure. Brant flattened it; from long years of hiding anything remotely like fear, his hands were as steady as if he were unfolding the daily newspaper. “‘Endemic Birds of the Eastern Caribbean,’” he read. “‘Guided by Rowan Carter.”’
She’d kept her own name even when they’d been married. For business reasons, she’d said. Although afterward, when she’d left him, he’d wondered if it had been for other, more hidden and more complicated reasons.
He cleared his throat. “You’re suggesting I phone the company Rowan works for and propose myself as a substitute for your friend’s husband? Rowan, as I recall, has a fair bit of say about the trips she runs—the last person in the world she’d allow to go on one of them would be me.”
“Don’t tell her. Just turn up.”
His jaw dropped. For the space of a full five seconds he looked at Gabrielle in silence. “Intrigue,” he said, “that’s what you should be writing.”
“Rick can cancel easily enough—he bought insurance and he’ll get his money back. Or you can pay him for the trip and go in his place. All you’d have to do is change the airline tickets to your name.”
“So I’d turn up at the airport in—” he ran his eyes down the page “—Grenada, and say, ‘Oh, by the way, Rowan, Rick couldn’t make it so I thought I’d come instead.’” He gave an unamused bark of laughter. “She’d throw me on the first plane back to Toronto.”
“Then it’ll be up to you to convince her otherwise.”
“You’ve never met her—you have no idea how stubborn she can be.”
“Like calls to like?” Gabrielle asked gently.
“Oh, do shut up,” he snapped. “Of course I’m not going, it’s a crazy idea.” Nevertheless, with a detached part of his brain, Brant noticed he hadn’t put the brochure back on the shelf. Or—more appropriately—thrown it to the floor and trampled on it.
“I made tiramisu for dessert. And I’ll put the coffee on.”
Gabrielle vanished into the kitchen. Like a man who couldn’t help himself, Brant started reading the description of the trip that would be leaving on Wednesday. Seven different islands, two nights on each except for the final island of Antigua, where a one-night stopover was scheduled. Hiking in rain forests and mangrove swamps, opportunities for swimming and snorkeling.
Opportunities for being with Rowan.
For two whole weeks.
He was mad to even consider it. Rowan didn’t want anything to do with him, she’d made that abundantly clear. So why set himself up for another rejection when he was doing just fine as he was?
Because he was doing fine. Gabrielle’s imagination was way out of line with all her talk of love and needs and repressions. He didn’t need Rowan any more than Rowan needed him.
He’d hated it when his checks had been returned by that smooth-tongued bastard of a lawyer. Hated not knowing where she was living. Hated it most of all that she’d never wanted to see him again.
But he’d gotten over that. Gotten over it and gone on with his life, the only kind of life he thrived on.
The last thing he needed was to see Rowan again.
What he needed was a cup of strong black coffee and a bowl of tiramisu laden with marscapone. Brant tossed the brochure onto the dining room table and followed Gabrielle into the kitchen.
CHAPTER ONE