Marriage On The Edge. Sandra Marton
taken the long way. Evidently, she hadn’t been any more interested in pasting on a smile and saying good-night to a bunch of people than he was.
She was already heading for the street by the time he got to the driveway.
“My car,” he said to the kid with the pimples, pulling out the first bill from his pocket. “And make it quick.”
It must have been a hefty tip because the kid took off like a rocket and delivered the car thirty seconds later.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, but Gage was already in the Vette, pulling away, tires screaming as he raced after Natalie.
He slowed when he caught up to her and put down his window.
“Get in the car.”
She ignored him.
“Get in the damn car,” he said, and something in his voice must have warned her that he was in no mood for games because she’d stopped, wrenched open the door and climbed in.
“What does ‘I want a divorce’ mean?” he’d growled.
“It’s not Swahili, Gage. It means exactly what you think it means,” Natalie had replied without looking at him, and she’d sat silent as a statue all the way back to their house, where he’d roared up the driveway and come to a screeching, bone-jarring stop. She was out of the car, into the house, up the stairs in one fluid motion, with him hot on her heels.
“Natalie,” he’d said, “what’s going on here?”
But it was a pointless question. For starters, she didn’t answer it. And even a man as dumb as he could see what was going on here.
Natalie had marched towards the guest suite, not towards the bedroom.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he’d yelled.
She hadn’t answered that, either, and he’d felt his blood pressure zoom up the scale as the guest room door slammed behind her and the sound of the lock sliding home echoed like a rifle shot through the silent house.
So he’d stood there, hands balled into fists, brows tied in a knot, while the adrenaline pumped through his body at a thousand gallons a minute. Should he go after her? Demand answers? Should he break down the guest room door, break it down and…
And what?
He’d never felt more useless, more frustrated, more furious in his whole life.
And, short of doing something he knew he’d regret later, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
Except not sleep in the master bedroom.
It wasn’t much, but it was something—something, it turned out, that had come close to breaking his back.
Well, at least it had given him time to think.
Gage shut off the shower, stepped out and strode into the bedroom with a towel tied around his waist.
Natalie wanted out? Fine. So did he. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d been thinking while he’d dressed for the party last night?
What they’d had, what he’d thought they had, just wasn’t there anymore. The truth was, they quarreled all the time. Over everything. Natalie didn’t hurry to the door when he came home. Hell, most of the time she wasn’t even there when he came home, not even after he’d busted his tail flying through five time zones to get to her, the way he’d done a couple of weeks ago after he’d opened the newest Baron’s in Samoa, where he’d had to grin like an idiot while some broad with too many teeth and not enough clothes had propped her boobs against his arm.
“Miss South Pacific,” the hotel manager had hissed into his ear. “It’s good for local business.”
And it would have been good as a little joke to share with Natalie. But the days of shared jokes and smiles were long gone.
Oh, she could still turn him on. There was no question about that. Gage reached into his closet, then stopped.
Except, now that he thought about it, even sex hadn’t been the same lately. There were the nights he thought about reaching for Natalie in bed, but didn’t do it. He was tired. She was tired. But hadn’t there been a time he hadn’t thought about reaching for her, a time he’d just done it? And, after they’d made love, hadn’t there been a time he’d never had to wonder if Natalie had—if she’d—
Gage grabbed for a shirt, a tie, a suit.
What did any of it matter? Last night, tossing on that couch, he’d admitted to himself that she had simply spoken the truth before he had. Their marriage had run its course. Marriages did that in his family. Just look at his old man, tucked in with wife number five. Just look at Travis, one down and swearing he’d never get trapped again.
Gage snorted.
And then there was Slade, who worked at staying single. And Caitlin…well, forget Caitlin. Not because she wasn’t really a Baron by blood but because his stepsister was too smart to even consider becoming a participant in the marriage wars.
Gage stepped into his briefs, pulled on his trousers and zipped them up.
Yessirree, today was the first day of the rest of his life. A life without a wife who’d made it clearer and clearer she didn’t love him.
She had, once. He knew she had. Maybe—maybe, if they hadn’t lost the baby…
His face hardened. The baby had nothing to do with it. Natalie hadn’t really wanted a baby, anyway. He knew that, now. That was something else it was time he admitted.
“Okay,” he said aloud. “It’s over. And I’m damn glad it is.”
“So am I,” Natalie said, and Gage whirled around to face her. His face reddened.
“I didn’t know you were there.”
“So I gather.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t you?”
The coldness in her face was like a blow to the heart. Gage’s mouth thinned.
“Did you want something?” he asked politely.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean…”
What did she mean? If only she hadn’t stumbled in without knocking. If only she hadn’t heard him say those words. He was right, of course. It was over and, dammit, she was as relieved as he was. Only—only he didn’t have to sound so happy…
“Natalie?”
She blinked. Gage had come closer. All she had to do was reach out her hand to touch him…
“Natalie? Are you all right?”
She swallowed hard and nodded.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry I barged in on you, Gage. I should have knocked, but the door was open.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to—”
“You’re busy. I’ll wait until you’re finished and then I’ll—”
“No.” The word shot from his throat. “No,” he said carefully, and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not busy at all. I’m just getting dressed.”
Yes. She could see that for herself. He was wearing nothing but a pair of gray trousers, zipped but open at the waist so that they drooped low on his hips. And he’d just come from the shower. His dark hair was still damp and uncombed. It lay over his forehead in a way that made her want to go to him and push it back.
Habit, she thought, and stood straighter. It was habit, too, that made her gaze drop lower, to survey that familiar body. The broad shoulders. The muscled arms and chest. The narrow waist that tapered to long legs…
Her gaze shot back to his face.