The Wrong Wife. Carolyn McSparren
His voice stopped her.
“The thing is, I’d like to make it up to you if you’d let me.”
“Not necessary. Ben, I’m kind of in a hurry right now.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’ll make this fast. Let me take you to dinner Thursday night.”
“No thank you.”
“It’s not a real date, only Mother’s Thursday-night thing.”
“No way.”
“It’s right across the yard, Annabelle. You’ve got to eat.”
“I work with your mother—no, make that for your mother—five days a week. The last thing she wants is to see my shining face at dinner with all those bigwigs she always has.”
“It’s a really small group. Probably people who remember you.”
“Wow! Talk about your really great enticement.”
“Look. You’re the one who came back to town. You can’t hide yourself upstairs in the garage forever. You’ve got to come out sometime. You play hermit in New York as well?”
“In New York I am plain old Annabelle Langley. Here I’m—well, you know what I am.”
“It’s ancient history, and you didn’t have anything to do with it. Come with me, please. If only to make me feel less of a jerk.”
“Ben…”
“Next step is I blackmail you.”
“What?”
“I mean, I’ll make Mom put pressure on you.”
“That is dirty pool.”
“Don’t I know it. Save me. Come with me Thursday.”
She dropped her forehead against her hand. “Okay, Ben. I’ll come. But I don’t have any dress-up clothes.”
“Whatever you wear will be great.” He suddenly sounded immensely cheerful. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”
“Pick me up?” She laughed. “Ben, I live in your mother’s backyard. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then shall we say I will call for you, Mademoiselle Langley?”
“Whatever. Now I really do have to go see about Grandmere.”
“Sure. Sorry. Bye.” As he hung up, she was certain she heard a shouted “Yes!” down the line.
“YES!” Ben said as he clicked his cell phone shut. He considered doing a victory dance, but suspected that the anteroom of the men’s room at the club wasn’t the place to do it. As it was, one of the late golfers raised his eyebrows. Ben grinned at him, and went back outside to find Brittany.
What on earth was he going to do about Brittany? She wasn’t responsible for his attack of insanity, but he could not, absolutely, positively and totally could not take her home and to bed. Not tonight, not ever again.
But he couldn’t actually say to her, “So, Brittany, sorry about this, but I’ve fallen madly in love with my mother’s new chef d’atelier.” That ought to go over big. He’d read somewhere that when a woman asked a man into her bed, it was only gentlemanly to accept. Not as if it would be the first time. Or even the twentieth, come to that.
Was that part of the reason he’d gone crazy? Was the first careless rapture with Brittany dying down?
Actually, there had never been much careless rapture with Brittany. Just workmanlike, satisfying, athletic and inventive sex. She had a great body and one hell of a lot of expertise. Going to bed with her wasn’t something any red-blooded male would turn down lightly.
So how come he couldn’t just accept the implicit offer? Who would he hurt? Not Annabelle, who didn’t know the way he felt, didn’t know he existed, probably. Not Brittany, who wouldn’t be doing anything she hadn’t done with him before. Not himself…
Himself. Taking a woman to bed just to be accommodating was the sort of thing his father did. Over and over again. Casually wounding his family, and ultimately the women he seduced. Ben had sworn he’d never be that sort of man. He wasn’t about to start now.
“Ready, darling?” Brittany looked up from her cappuccino and reached for his hand. He took it and helped her up. “Ben, sweetie, are you okay?” she asked. “You look kind of green.”
“Sorry, I think I had too many crab cakes,” he said as he followed her to the front door. “Would you mind if I went home to bed?”
For a moment her eyes grew hostile, then she smiled and touched his cheek. “You want me to come over and tuck you in?”
He managed what he hoped was a suitably wan smile. “No, I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep and some antacid. I’ll follow you home and make sure you get inside okay.”
“Don’t be silly, sweetie. I’m five blocks away and you know what a bear my doorman is. Just go on home, snuggle down, and think of what you’re missing.” She arched an eyebrow.
He opened her car door and handed her in. As she swung her incredible legs behind the steering wheel he thought for a fleeting instant that he probably ought to be institutionalized for sheer idiocy. “Nevertheless, I will follow you. No argument. I know what can happen to a beautiful woman in five blocks.”
“You are a dear,” she said, and blew him an air kiss. “Call me tomorrow?”
He nodded and turned toward his own car. So much for honor. He’d have to work out some way to let her down gently without wounding her pride. He suspected she wouldn’t go quietly.
“SHH!” The deep voice hissed from the top of the stairs. “The old—Mrs. Langley is asleep already.”
Annabelle climbed the broad walnut staircase, turned the corner at the half landing and ran lightly up the rest of the stairs to the gallery that overhung the staircase. With each step the Oriental runner threw up a fine cloud of dust. Have to get somebody in here soon, she thought, before the place becomes haunted by brown recluse spiders and mice. She stifled a cough and whispered back, “Any trouble?”
The woman weighed twice as much as Annabelle. Her pale arms were the size of bolsters and looked about as solid. She rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. “Better’n last night. Didn’t throw anything at me.”
Annabelle fought to remember the woman’s name. There had been so many in the past two months since Grandmere’s last attack, and although she knew most of them only through communication with the employment agency, she’d met three just since she came to town. That made one a week. “Thanks, Mrs.…” she hesitated. “Mrs. Mayhew.” That was it. Beulah Mayhew. She’d come three days ago.
“She don’t bother me none,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I’ve had a whole lot worse. At least she don’t outweigh me.” She laughed silently and the rolls under her arms jiggled. “Want a glass of sweet tea? I got some made in the icebox.”
Annabelle smiled. None of the others had ever asked her to join them for so much as a roasted peanut. “No, thanks. But give me a rain check, please. Do you think I can look in on her without waking her?”
“Annabelle!” A querulous and surprisingly strong voice called from the doorway at the end of the hall. “Is that you?”
Annabelle’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, Grandmere.”
Mrs. Mayhew rolled her eyes and whispered, “Go say hello. I’ll come lay down the law in a little while.”
Annabelle’s feet dragged over the exquisite Kirman runner that Grandmere had cut down for the hall. The dealer who had sold it to her had been horrified, but she’d told him it was her rug and she’d do as she liked with it.
Annabelle pasted a suitable smile on her face, squared her shoulders and