Marriage On The Edge. Sandra Marton
part of Luz’s housekeeping duties was to restock whatever had been used.
The only thing the decorator hadn’t thought of was how a woman was supposed to feel when she awoke in the guest room because she’d told her husband of ten years that she wanted a divorce.
Natalie turned off the water and patted her face briskly with a towel. She hadn’t planned to say the words, not consciously. Not last night, certainly. But, really, she was glad she had. It was better this way. Why prolong things? She’d known, for a long time, that the marriage was over. That she and Gage were living a charade, known since she’d lost the baby—a baby, she’d realized, he’d never really wanted—that he didn’t love her anymore, that she didn’t love him. That—that—
“Oh, Gage,” Natalie whispered, and sank down in the middle of the tiled floor. “Gage,” she said again, her voice breaking, and she buried her face in her hands and wept until she was sure she could never weep again.
And, after that, she wept some more.
Gage awakened, as always, promptly at 6:00 a.m.
It was the habit of a lifetime, one he’d developed in those long-ago years when he’d first headed east from Texas. He’d figured out really early that a twenty-one-year-old kid with half a college degree, no discernible skills in much of anything that didn’t involve a horse, and a brand-new wife to support had to work hard at being an early bird if he was going to catch even the smallest of worms.
It wasn’t necessary now, of course. His offices didn’t open until nine but still, every morning, rain or shine, he was out of bed at six on the button.
Usually, he crept around quietly in the shadowy darkness with the bedroom blinds shut, doing his damnedest not to disturb Natalie. She always said she didn’t mind, that what she called her internal clock was still set at dawn.
But he’d vowed, a long time ago, that his wife would never have to creep out of a warm bed at dawn again. No way would he ever have to watch Natalie stumble into her clothes, then go off to a day spent waiting tables.
He could remember the time he’d told her that.
“I’ll take you up on the no-waiting-tables deal,” Natalie had said, laughing. Then she’d thrown her arms around his neck and flashed a sexy smile. “Come to think of it, staying in bed is a pretty fine idea, too…As long as you stay there to keep me occupied.”
“Occupied?” he’d said, with a puzzled look that was hard to maintain because just the light brush of Natalie’s body against his had always been enough to make him go crazy.
“Occupied,” she’d said, and then she’d threaded her hands into his hair, drawn his head down to hers, kissed him with her mouth open so that he could taste her honeyed warmth…
Gage’s face hardened.
Kissed him, exactly as she had last night, just before she’d said, “Gage, I want a divorce.”
He muttered an oath, kicked the afghan blanket from his legs, and sat up.
“Ouch.”
So much for spending the night on the leather couch in the den. Gage groaned, pressed his hands to the small of his back, and rose to his feet.
Leather couches were not made for sleeping. Neither was this room. It was too big, too impersonal, too filled with stuff. What man would want to share his sleeping quarters with a pool table?
Not him, that was for sure. But Natalie had stalked off to the guest suite, leaving the bedroom to him.
“You can have it,” she’d said with dramatic flair.
Gage groaned again as he hobbled across the hall to the downstairs lavatory. He could have it, but he hadn’t wanted it. That huge room, with its enormous bed, all to himself? With Natalie’s perfume and a thousand memories lingering in the air?
“No way,” he muttered as he splashed cold water on his face.
A man didn’t want to spend the first night of the rest of his life surrounded by reminders of what he was leaving behind.
Gage took a towel from the rack and scrubbed it over his face. Towel? That was a laugh. These puny things were more like handkerchiefs. But Natalie liked them. Natalie and that fruity designer, the one who’d hand-picked the leather couch Gage had thought, until last night, was only uncomfortable to sit on.
He looked into the mirror. A guy in a dress shirt and rumpled black trousers with a satin stripe down the side looked back at him. Hell, he was a mess. Hair uncombed, face unshaven…he looked like Chewbacca after a bad night, but what could you expect after six hours on a cowhide-covered rack?
A smile. Damn, yes. A smile, at the very least. Because now, if nothing else, he’d had his life handed back to him.
Gage stomped down the hall and up the curving staircase to the master bedroom.
Okay, maybe he hadn’t seen it that way, at first. Natalie’s announcement had been…upsetting.
Upsetting?
He shot an unforgiving glance down the corridor, towards the guest room and its closed door, where Natalie was still sleeping the sleep of what he supposed she thought of as the innocent and martyred.
“Let’s be honest here,” he muttered as he marched through the master bedroom and into the bathroom.
I want a divorce weren’t exactly the words a man expected to hear from his wife, especially after they’d been going at each other like two teenagers in hormonal overdrive…
Like the two teenagers they’d once been.
Pictures flashed through his head. He and Natalie, parked in his car on Superstition Butte. Natalie, her beautiful face pink and glowing after their first kiss. Natalie, crying out in passion in his arms.
Gage swallowed hard, slammed the bathroom door shut, and pulled off what remained of his rumpled monkey suit.
Sex. That was all it had been, all it had ever been. His father had tried to tell him that. His brothers, too. Well, no. Not Travis. By then, Travis had already taken off for parts unknown. But Slade had tried to make him listen to reason, and Gage had waved off his kid brother’s warnings, laughed them off, really, telling Slade he was too young to understand love, telling his father he was too jaded to understand it.
And now, it was over.
Oh, the heat was still there. For all he knew, it always would be. Natalie was a beautiful, sexy woman. Why pretend otherwise? And he was a man who had an eye for beauty.
Gage glanced at the ornate gold and platinum faucets jutting from the marble sink. Well, for some kinds of beauty. Not stuff like this. He shuddered. This was ugly. But Natalie liked it, the same as she liked the Spanish Inquisition couch.
“All to madam’s tastes, Mr. Baron,” the obsequious little interior decorator had explained any time he’d questioned a purchase.
All of which proved, Gage thought glumly as he stepped into the shower, all of which most definitely proved how little he and Natalie suited each other.
That was why her announcement last night really hadn’t come as such a shock. Well, it had, at first. He’d felt as if the ground were dissolving under his feet when she’d looked at him, her eyes cold, and said, “Gage, I want a divorce.”
“A divorce?” he’d repeated dumbly, as if saying the word might give it some real meaning, turn it into one he could understand.
“Yes,” she’d said. “A divorce.”
And then a bunch of the Holcombs’s guests had come traipsing through the garden, talking and laughing.
What’s the matter with you people? he’d wanted to shout. Don’t you realize that the whole world just stopped?
But he hadn’t said anything, partly because his brain seemed to