The Other Man. Karen Van Der Zee
Oh, God, why was he always showing up when she wasn’t expecting him? What was he doing here now? She didn’t want him here, in her house. She drew in a long breath of air, fighting for control. He’s not going to ruin the evening for me, she thought grimly. I won’t allow it.
He was coming toward her, moving with lazy grace, wearing casual trousers and an open-necked shirt. His chin was smoothly shaven, different than it had been when he had kissed her. She could feel again the roughness against her face, feel again his mouth on hers. Her heart turned over and a sense of humiliation flooded her again. Get out of my house! she wanted to call out, but the words stayed frozen in her head as she watched him approach, feeling again the old, familiar pull on her senses, and the frightening sense of having no control over them at all.
Don’t let him see how you feel! said a little voice inside her. Be cool. She straightened her spine, pulled back her shoulders, gathering strength.
“Happy birthday,” he said when he reached her. As if nothing had happened. As if he were a friendly neighbor just dropping by.
She cocked a cool brow. “How did you know?” Her voice was steady. She took a careful sip from her sangria and tried to look relaxed. It took a ter-rible effort.
He shrugged lightly. “It’s the last day of June. I happened to remember, so I thought I’d stop by to congratulate you. After all, thirty years is a milestone. Are you depressed?”
“Heavens, no,” she said breezily. “As a matter of fact, I’m delighted.”
He surveyed her face for a moment, as if to verify the truth of what she said. “My sister had a nervous breakdown,” he said then. “Thought her life was over.” A hint of humor, barely perceptible, colored his voice. His eyes did not leave her face.
“Mine’s just beginning.” She smiled brightly.
His brows rose in question. “How’s that?”
“Well, let’s say I’ve finally come into my own. I feel good about myself.” She felt a surge of new courage and looked at him squarely. She knew a yearning for him to understand, to know. “I’m standing on my own two feet and I like the feeling.” She twirled on her toes as if to demonstrate, her long silky skirt swirling around her ankles. She would not let him spoil her mood. She felt happy surrounded by friends and good cheer.
“Admirable,” he said evenly.
“Have a drink,” she offered. “We have sangria. The genuine article, straight from Spain. The recipe, that is.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “No thanks, too sweet for me.”
She gestured at the terrace outside. “The bar is over there, get what you want.”
“An impressive spread,” he commented, looking at the tableful of food—marinated shrimp, French country pate, a selection of exotic cheeses.
“I have lots of friends.” She smiled brightly. “They did most of it.”
Surprise flitted across his features. Gwen knew what he was thinking. Lots of friends. She hadn’t had lots of friends when she was younger. She’d been a loner then, shy and insecure, living with her mother in a ramshackle little house at the edge of town. All of that had changed.
He glanced around. “Quite a place,” he com-mented. “You did well for yourself.” Just a comment, a simple statement of fact, yet she sensed more than heard the contempt behind the words. Was she imagining it?
There was no reason to feel on the defensive, yet she felt herself tense, she couldn’t help it. “Yes, I did,” she said flatly, forcing herself to look straight into his eyes. There was nothing there. Nothing but cool, impersonal gray.
The silence throbbed, and suddenly, deep inside that still gray of his eyes she glimpsed something deeper—a dark shadow trying to hide—not anger, not contempt, something else.
He took one of his hands out of his pocket and absently stroked the back of the leather sofa. “I’ve wondered at times,” he said casually, “if you had what you wanted.”
Pain. Deep and sharp. She fought not to show him, taking a slow drink from her glass. Her eyes met with his as if drawn together like magnets. Her tongue wouldn’t move.
“Did you?” he insisted. “Did you have what you wanted?”
“I was very lucky,” she managed, her voice husky. “And I understand you did very well for yourself, too, according to what I’ve read,” she added in a desperate attempt to get away from his line of questioning. “You’re doing wonderful work, important work. It’s what you always wanted to do, isn’t it?”
“Right.” His tone was cool, clipped, businesslike.
Something else had changed about him, she realized. There was a stillness about him—in the way he spoke, in the way he moved. Once there had been a restless energy in him, an enthusiasm that caused bright silver sparks in his eyes when he spoke.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Joe sauntering up to them, his sleek black hair tied back in its usual ponytail. Smiling his warm smile, he draped a protective arm around her. Joe to the rescue, she thought, feeling warm with gratitude and relief. She glanced back at Aidan, seeing his eyes narrowing a fraction.
“Aidan, this is Joe Martinez. Joe, Aidan Carmichael.” They shook hands, Aidan’s face pol-itely bland, Joe’s brown eyes darkly suspicious. He wore his standard garb of jeans and a loose, torrid silk shirt. His cowboy boots were well-worn and well-polished. Next to Aidan in his conservatively casual clothes, he looked rather eccentric.
She slipped out from under Joe’s arm. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and escaped to her other guests. It was getting late and they were beginning to leave, giving her hugs and smiles and thank-yous which she returned with warmth.
Half an hour later, Joe came up to her. “He’s still here. Do you want me to stay?”
She’d been watching Aidan as he’d moved around, exploring the room, not mingling much. He’d studied the Mexican paintings in the living room, stared at the sky outside and he’d perused the books on the shelves.
“He’s been looking bored. He’ll leave soon.” She smiled. “You worry too much about me, Joe.” Joe had been Marc’s best friend and he was looking after her.
“I don’t like the looks of the guy.” He frowned. “Who is he?”
She waved her hand casually. “Somebody I knew, a long time ago.”
He looked at her searchingly. “I think there’s more to it than that.”
She bit her lip. “He wanted to marry me, before I met Marc.”
“And you didn’t want to marry him?”
She hesitated. Her light, frothy mood was de-serting her. “I was scared.” Just the memory of that primitive, ancient fear made her hands clammy even now, twelve years later. She remembered the nightmares, felt again the dark sense of foreboding she had not been able to shake. I can’t go. Some-thing terrible is going to happen.
Something terrible had.
Joe frowned at her. “Scared? Were you scared of him?”
“No, no. Please, Joe, I can’t go into this now.”
He took her hand. “You know, Gwen, I’m here for you. If you need me, let me know, will you?”
She felt a lump in her throat. “I will, Joe. You know I will.”
A while later she found herself alone in the silent house. Everyone had gone home and there was no sign of Aidan. He’d left without saying goodnight. She shrugged, feeling relieved that he was gone.
Kicking off her shoes, she sank down on the large Italian sofa and gave a deep, contented sigh. She didn’t even have to clean up—it had all been done. All she needed to do was