Drop Dead Gorgeous Read online

  I didn’t take my usual route home, either. Instead of turning right when I left the parking lot, to hit the main drag in front of the gym, I turned left and wound my way into a residential area, where I’d instantly spot any car behind me, then took a circuitous route home. Nada, no one behind me, at least not in a white Chevrolet.

  When I reached my neighborhood, Beacon Hills Condominiums, I did notice a few white cars parked in front of the various buildings, but as Wyatt had pointed out white cars weren’t unusual, and, yeah, those white cars were probably always parked there this time of night because no one else was paying any attention to them. There’s one lady in the condo next to mine who takes a progressive approach whenever someone unknown parks in her allotted space: she lets the air out of their tires. A guy in one of the other buildings will park his pickup behind the trespasser, so there’s no way the offender can leave without hunting him up. As you can see, urban parking is akin to guerrilla warfare. I didn’t see any warfare going on, so evidently there weren’t any trespassers tonight.

  Wyatt’s big Avalanche was parked in front of my unit. I live in the third building, first unit on the end. The end units had more windows and extra parking, with covered porticos, so the end units cost more. I thought the cost was worth it. Having an end unit also meant I had neighbors on only one side, which can be a blessing, especially if we were going to have another argument that involved yelling.

  I went up the steps and let myself in the side door. I could hear the television in the living room. Wyatt hadn’t re-set the alarm, knowing I’d be coming home, and though I locked the door I didn’t re-set the alarm, either—because he’d be leaving. I knew in my bones he hadn’t come here tonight intending to spend the night. He would say what he wanted to say, then leave. Nor would I try to stop him, not tonight.

  I dropped the bag containing my sweaty gym clothes on the floor in front of the washing machine, then went through the kitchen into the dining room. From there I could see into the living room, where he was sprawled on the couch watching a baseball game. His posture was relaxed and open—his long legs stretched out, his arms draped on each side of him, along the back of the couch. He did that, took command of a piece of furniture, a room, a scene, with his physical presence and confidence. At another time I would have gone into the living room and snuggled against his side, reveling in the feel of his arm coming around me and holding me tight, but I stayed where I was, rooted to the floor.

  Somehow I couldn’t go into my own living room and sit on any of my own furniture, not now, not with him there. I put my purse on the dining room table and stood there, at a safe distance, watching him.

  He’d heard me come in, of course, had probably noticed my car lights reflected on the windows as I turned in. He lowered the volume on the television, then tossed the remote onto the coffee table before looking at me. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  His eyes narrowed; he didn’t like that. The sexual attraction between us was already thick in the room, despite our current…was “estrangement” too strong a word? He’d been ruthless in using our sexual attraction when he’d been pursuing me, bringing every weapon he had into play to break down my defenses. Touch is a powerful thing, and he was accustomed to touching me—and being touched, because it went both ways—whenever he wanted, however he wanted.

  He stood up, his powerful shoulders seeming to block most of the room. He’d been home and changed; he was wearing jeans and a button-up green shirt, with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  The bottom dropped out of my stomach as I waited for him to finish the sentence, to say “I can’t do this, I can’t marry you.” Mentally I reeled, and I reached out and braced my hand on the table, in case my body imitated my mind.

  But he didn’t say anything else, just those two words; a few seconds clicked by before I realized he was apologizing.

  The wrongness of it slapped me in the face, and I drew back. “Don’t you dare apologize!” I flared. “Not when you think you’re right and you’re just saying it to…to placate me!”

  His brows lifted in disbelief. “Blair, when have I ever placated you?”

  Stopped dead by that question, I had to admit, “Well…never.” The realization made me feel better, except for that teeny little diva part of me that would like to be placated every now and then. “Why are you apologizing then?”

  “For hurting you the way I did.”

  Damn him, damn him, damn him! I turned away before he could see the sudden tears that burned my eyes. Right from the first he’d had an uncanny knack for slipping under my defenses with the simple truth. I didn’t want him to know he’d hurt me, I’d much rather he think I was furious.

  He wasn’t saying he’d realized he was wrong about all the things he’d said to me last night, just that he was sorry he’d hurt me. Nor had he said those things just to hurt me, to be deliberately spiteful. Wyatt wasn’t a spiteful man. He’d said what he said because he believed it to be true—and, yes, that was what hurt so much.

  I mastered the tears by deliberately thinking of something disgusting, like people who went shopping barefoot. That really works. Try it sometime. I totally lost the urge to cry, and was able to turn back to Wyatt with my feelings under control.

  “Thank you for the apology, then, but it wasn’t necessary,” I said carefully.

  He was watching me intently, focusing on me the way he used to focus on the ball-carrier. “Stop pushing me away. We need to talk about this.”

  I shook my head. “No, we don’t. Not yet. All I’m asking of you is to just let things ride for a little while, let me think.”

  “About this?” he asked, leaning down to pick up an opened notebook from the couch where he’d been sitting. I recognized the one I’d used last night, with my list of the things he’d said—and I knew I’d left it on my bedside table.

  I was horrified. “You snooped upstairs!” I accused. “That’s my list, not yours! Yours is on the counter!” I pointed toward his list of transgressions, which hadn’t been moved; he was still ignoring it. I didn’t like him knowing I’d sat up last night obsessing about the accusations he’d made, although he probably didn’t need to see that list to guess I hadn’t got much sleep.

  “You’re avoiding me,” he calmly pointed out, not the least bit uncomfortable. “I have to get information somehow. And since I don’t deal with situations by running away from them…”

  The accusation was obvious. I said, “I’m not running away from the situation. I’ve been trying to get everything sorted out in my head. If I were running away from it, I wouldn’t be thinking about it at all.” That was true, and he knew it. I have great avoidance skills. What I didn’t say was that he was right, that there was a great deal I hadn’t yet been able to face, because facing it might mean the end of Us, big U, us as a couple.

  “But you are avoiding me.”

  “I have to.” I met his gaze. I can’t think when you’re around. I know you; I know us. It would be too easy to end up in bed together, to gloss over this and not get anything settled.”

  “You can’t think when you’re at work?”

  “I’m busy when I’m at work. Do you spend all your time thinking about me when you’re at work?”

  “More than I should,” he said grimly.

  That admission made me feel a little better, but only a little. “There are too many interruptions at work. I need some quiet time, some alone time, to get things worked out in my head so I know where I stand. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you that this is something we should work out together?”

  “When I know exactly what it is…yeah.”

  Frustrated, he rubbed his hand over his face. “What do you mean—? This is what it is,” he said, holding up the notebook like Exhibit A.

  I shrugged, unable to get into an item-by-item breakdown, which was probably exactly what he wanted.

&n