The Other Man. Karen Van Der Zee
never cried.
“And what about me?” she was saying over and over again. “What about me?”
“I’m not leaving, Mom. I’m here.” Gwen searched for her mother’s hand. It wasn’t there. She broke out in a cold sweat, searching every-where under the covers. She couldn’t find it any-where. “I’m not leaving, Mom. Give me your hand. Please, Mom, give me your hand.”
“If you go to Africa, I’ll be all alone,” her mother whimpered.
“I’m not going to Africa, Mom! I’m going to stay with you. Just give me your hand. Please, just give me your hand.”
Churi was in her playpen on the terrace while Gwen watered her plants in the wide windowsill of the living room window. The room smelled deliciously of roses. She’d just picked a large bouquet of them in the garden where bushes flourished with abandon. Inside her plants did well, too. Plants were so easy. Just a little care and they grew and bloomed luxuriantly. She liked to take care of things, to see things grow. Plants. People. Babies.
A gleaming, blue-grey Mercedes-Benz came down the road and slowed down, then turned into the driveway. Every muscle in her body tensed and her breath caught in her throat as she noticed Aidan’s big frame emerging from the vehicle. He wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt and his hair looked disheveled. His appearance was in odd contrast to the luxury car, which was probably on loan from his globe-trotting parents. It struck her how easy it was to visualize this tough, rugged man in a Jeep or Land Rover. He strode purposefully up to the door.
Why was he here? What did he want?
The doorbell chimed its cheerful tune.
I don’t want to see him anymore, she thought desperately. I want him to stay away from me. He was shaking up her world, her hard-earned control of her life, her confidence and her peace of mind. She could not allow him to do that. She drew in a ragged breath. Her chest ached.
She went to the entryway and opened the door.
“Good morning,” he said, raking a hand through his hair, as if he realized it needed some attention. It did. He looked in serious need of a shower and a shave.
“Good morning,” she returned, forcing her voice to be calm and polite.
It did not appear to be a very good morning for him; he looked exhausted, his eyes weary, as if he’d been up all night. Maybe he’d had a fight with his wife and she’d kicked him out of the house. Maybe he’d slept in his car. It did not seem a likely expla-nation. Aidan Carmichael was not a man who’d let himself be kicked out of the house.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her body tense, forcing herself to look him squarely in the face.
“I want to talk to you.” A command more than a statement, and it didn’t escape her notice.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Why? Do you want to insult me some more?”
“Insult?” He frowned as if trying to remember what she was referring to, then shrugged lightly. “I was merely stating a fact. In that sexy red dress you looked quite the happy birthday girl.”
Well, she had been. She gritted her teeth. “I was the happy birthday girl, with absolutely no apologies to make! And I have no intention of standing here arguing with you. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh, yes, I should.” Without further ado, he put his hands on her shoulders, moved her aside and stepped into the large hallway. She watched in stunned disbelief as he strode into the living room as if he had every right in the world to be there.
HIS RUDENESS rendered her speechless for a moment. This was not the Aidan she remem-bered—the one with the impeccable upbringing and superb manners and sophisticated ways.
Hands clenched, she followed him, furious for his intrusion. “What do you want?” she asked coldly.
He stepped through the open French doors onto the stone terrace, where Churi sat in her playpen playing with her toys.
He put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you introduce us?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“Her name is Churi. I want you to leave.”
He smiled at the baby. “Hello, Churi,” he said gently.
The baby looked up at him with large brown eyes—eyes that looked too big for her small face.
Aidan glanced back at Gwen. “I’d appreciate a cup of coffee. Strong, please.” Another order. Who did he think he was?
Gritting her teeth, Gwen glared at him, her body rigid. “This is not a restaurant.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said with infuriating calmness. He was looking at the baby again. “Has she been ill?”
“No, she hasn’t,” Gwen said tightly, feeling her nerves begin to jump. She wanted him gone—fast, now. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a small town. People talk.”
He cocked a faintly contemptuous brow. “It does not interest me in the least what people might say.” He allowed a significant pause. “I do not arrange my life according to the wishes and opinions of others.”
As opposed to what she had done years ago-according to his opinion. A wave of hot anger washed over her. She wanted to slap his arrogant face, but with an effort she managed to control herself. For a fleeting instant she heard again his voice, saw his face as he had looked at her that fateful evening years ago. You can’t allow your mother to decide for you what to do, and how to live. You’re not thirteen. You’ve got to live your own life. She pushed the memory away, curling her toes as if it were a physical effort.
“What do you want?” she asked coldly, wanting not to feel disturbing feelings, trying to block them out.
“There’s something we need to discuss.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Oh,” he said lazily, “we can think of some-thing. There’s plenty of unfinished business.”
“It was finished twelve years ago.”
His mouth turned down at the corners. “Oh, was it now?” His voice was low. “Then why did you come to my house?” He moved a little closer, his eyes locking hers.
Her heart began to beat wildly. He was too damned intimidating with those pale, piercing eyes in that dark face. Too male, too overpowering.
“Stay away from me,” she said shakily. She felt like a little girl again and she hated it. She hated to feel the insecurity he seemed to evoke in her.
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