Mr. Perfect Read online

  Galan wasn’t in the kitchen. T.J. dropped her purse and keys in their usual place on the island, kicked off her shoes, and put on a pot of water to heat for tea.

  She didn’t call his name, didn’t go looking for him. She supposed he was in his den, watching television and nursing his grudge. If he wanted to talk to her, he could come out of his cave.

  She changed into shorts and a clingy tank top. Her body was still good, though more muscular than she liked, the result of years on a girls’ soccer team. She would have preferred Luna’s willowy build, or Jaine’s more delicate curviness, but all in all was satisfied with herself. Like most married women, though, she had gotten out of the habit of wearing formfitting clothes, usually wearing sweats during the winter and baggy T-shirts during the summer. Maybe it was time she started making the most of her looks, the way she had when she and Galan were still dating.

  She wasn’t accustomed to having Galan home for supper. Her evening meal was usually either delivered or something she microwaved. Guessing that he wouldn’t eat even if she cooked something—boy, that would show her if he went hungry, wouldn’t it?—she went back to the kitchen and got out one of her frozen dinners. It was low in fat and calories, so she could indulge with an ice cream bar afterward.

  Galan emerged from his den while she was licking the last of the ice cream from the stick. He stood watching her, as if waiting for her to jump in with an apology so he could proceed with his rehearsed rant.

  T.J. didn’t oblige. Instead she said, “You must be sick, since you aren’t at work.”

  His lips thinned. He was still a good-looking man, she thought dispassionately. He was trim, tanned, his hair only a little thinner than when he was eighteen. He always dressed well, in stylish colors and silk blends, expensive leather loafers.

  “We need to talk,” he said grimly.

  She lifted her brows in polite query, the way Jaine would have done. Jaine could accomplish more with the lift of a brow than most people could with a sledgehammer. “You didn’t have to miss work just for that.”

  From his expression she could see that wasn’t her scripted reply. She was supposed to attach more importance to their relationship—and his temper. Well, tough.

  “I don’t think you realize how seriously you’ve damaged me at work,” he began. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for making me a laughingstock. I’ll tell you one thing, though: we don’t have any chance of working this out as long as you’re still hanging around with those three bitches you call friends. I don’t want you seeing them again, do you hear me?”

  “Ah, so that’s it,” T.J. said in dawning realization. “You think you can use this to tell me who I can have as friends and who I can’t. Okay. Let’s see … if I give up Marci, you can give up Jason. For Luna … oh, how about Curt? As for Jaine—well, if I give up Jaine, you’re going to have to give up Steve, at least; though, personally, I’ve never cared for Steve, so I think you should throw in an extra just to keep things even.”

  He stared at her as if she had grown two heads. He and Steve Rankin had been best buds since junior high. They went to see the Tigers during the summer and the Lions during winter. They did major male-bonding stuff. “You’re crazy!” he burst out.

  “That I’d ask you to give up your friends? Fancy that. If I have to, you have to.”

  “I’m not the one tearing our marriage apart with stupid lists about who you think is the perfect man!” he yelled.

  “Not ‘who,’” she corrected. “‘What.’ You know, things like consideration. And faithfulness.” She watched him closely when she said the last, wondering suddenly if Galan’s two-year suspension of affection had a more basic reason than simply growing apart.

  His gaze flickered away from her.

  T.J. braced herself against the crippling pain. She pushed it into a little box and tucked it away deep inside so she could function through the next few minutes, and days, and weeks.

  “Who is she?” she asked in a tone so casual she might have been asking if he had picked up the laundry.

  “Who is who? What she?”

  “The famous other woman. The one you’re always comparing me to in your head.”

  He flushed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I haven’t been unfaithful to you,” he muttered. “You’re just trying to change the subject—”

  “Even if you haven’t been physically unfaithful, which I’m not certain I believe, there’s still someone you’re attracted to, isn’t there?”

  He turned even redder.

  T.J. went to the cabinet and took out a cup and a tea bag. Placing the bag in the cup, she poured boiling water on it. After a minute she said, “I think you need to go to a motel.”

  She lifted a hand, not looking at him. “I’m not making any hasty decisions about divorce or even separation. I meant you need to go to a motel for tonight so I can think without you around trying to turn things around and blame everything on me.”

  “What about that goddamn list—”

  She waved a hand. “The list isn’t important.”

  “The hell it isn’t! All of the guys at work are riding me about how you like monster cocks—”

  “And all you had to do was say, yeah, you had me spoiled,” she said impatiently. “So the list got a little risqué. So what? I think it was pretty funny, and evidently so do most people. We’re going to be on Good Morning America tomorrow morning. People magazine wants to do an interview. We decided we’re going to talk to whoever asks, so the thing will die a quicker death. Some other story will come along in a few days, but until then we’re going to have fun.”

  He stared at her, shaking his head. “You’re not the woman I married,” he said in heavy accusation.

  “That’s okay, because you’re not the man I married.”

  He turned and left the kitchen. T.J. looked down at the cup of tea in her hand, blinking back tears. Well, it was out in the open now. She should have seen what was going on a long time ago. After all, who knew better than she how Galan acted when he was in love?

  * * *

  Brick wasn’t asleep on the sofa the way he usually was when Marci got home, though his old pickup was in the driveway. She went through into the bedroom and found him stuffing clothes in a duffel. “Going somewhere?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said sullenly.

  She watched him pack. He was good-looking in a beer-drinking kind of way, with too-long dark hair, an unshaven jaw, slightly heavy features, and his usual costume of tight jeans, tight T-shirt, and scuffed boots. Ten years younger than her, never good at holding down a job, oblivious of anything that didn’t involve sports—let’s face it, he wasn’t the catch of the century. She wasn’t in love with him, thank God. She hadn’t been in love with anyone in years. All she wanted was company and sex. Brick provided the sex, but he wasn’t much company.

  He zipped up the duffel, hefted it by the handles, and brushed past her.

  “Are you coming back?” she asked. “Or should I forward the rest of your stuff to wherever you’re going?”

  He glared at her. “Why’re you asking? Maybe you got somebody else all lined up to take my place, huh? Somebody with a ten-inch dick, just the way you like.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, jeez,” she muttered. “Lord save me from injured male egos.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, and to her surprise, she detected a note of hurt in his rough voice.

  Marci stood blinking as Brick stormed out of the house and slammed into his truck. He slung gravel as he peeled out of the driveway.

  She was astounded. Brick, hurt? Whoever would have thought?

  Well, either he would be back or he wouldn’t. She gave a mental shrug and opened the box containing her new answering machine, deftly hooking it up. As she recorded an outgoing message, she wondered how many calls she had missed because Brick had thrown the other answering machine against the wall. Even if he had bothered to answer the phone, he wouldn’t