She was tempted to let him think that. It would hurt him, but it would be a razor’s nick compared to the ax wound the truth would inflict.
He stood and held out his hand. “Come here.”
She let him grasp hers, and he helped her up and led her across to the large bay windows that took up most of the wall in the living room. The divan where they’d made love for the first time lay in its corner, a silent reminder of discovery and surrender. As they walked, he held her hand; not like a lover but like a friend. Personal and supportive, but not intimate.
They stood side by side at the window, looking out. The threatening snowstorm still hadn’t broken, and the sky was heavy and dark. The moon was playing hide-and-seek. Jenessa stood next to him, the tears on her face cooling.
He released her hand and folded his arms across his chest. He seemed intensely interested in the blackness outside. “Tell me, then.”
“Tell you . . . ?” she hedged.
“You say you love me, but you’re crying. You walk in here looking like the point of a dagger’s pressed against your heart and you’re inclined to let yourself fall onto it. Then you tell me it’s not about my money—or lack thereof.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “You want me to think that your . . . hesitation . . . has nothing to do with the fact that I wear denim to work rather than a suit.” He jerked his head in her direction, his eyes like beams of light slicing away at her layers. Giving her nowhere to hide.
She noticed she was shivering.
“So if that’s not the problem, what is?”
She had the dizzying sensation she was perched on a cliff edge. If she tried to go higher, she’d put herself in greater danger. If she tried to go back down, she was sure to lose her footing, tumble through the darkness and smash onto the rocks below. She could lie and tell him there was nothing wrong, but that would make everything worse. Or she could tell the truth.
She could explain that she’d come upon this life-changing discovery—that she’d fallen for him—while asking herself how much he was worth to her and whether she’d be able to live with herself if she betrayed him.
And he hadn’t said he loved her back. Something deep in her belly twisted at the thought. Love didn’t always cut both ways. He liked her, sure. Desired, definitely. So what was she risking . . . other than his feelings?
“I can take it, you know.” He grunted in frustration, as if he hated the fact that he couldn’t look into her eyes, pierce her mind, and know what she was thinking. “Whatever it is, just say it. You’ll feel better.”
“You won’t.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “I don’t feel too hot already.” He focused on her lips for a second, and for a brief moment, warmth flared between them. “Although I should. I ought to feel like you gave me the keys to the kingdom, but if there’s a dragon stomping around, we’re going to have to get it out in the open and kill it. So please, Jen . . . ”
It seemed she was destined to suffer from dry mouth whenever he was near. She longed for something to wet her throat, and she didn’t mean coffee. She flicked her tongue against her parched lips and began. “I went to the park because I needed to think.”
“About us?”
“Yes.”
“What about us, exactly?”
She sighed. The rock that had settled on her chest made it hard to fill her lungs. “I was . . . weighing you.”
“Against what?”
“Everything I have, and everything I want. My career, my reputation, my future.”
His face was the picture of puzzlement. “You felt you had to make a choice? Why can’t you have both? Is being with me such a lousy career move?”
She groaned. They were back there again. “No, no, Mitchell, I keep telling you: it’s not that!”
He threw up his hands. “Well, please, for the love of God, enlighten me. Because you and I are having two entirely different conversations right now—”
“Sharona asked me to spy on you,” she blurted.
He froze, his face the picture of incredulity. “‘Scuse me?”
She rushed blindly on, like a frightened animal running into traffic. “She stopped me in the parking lot. She said you were having loyalty issues, and you were choosing sides—”
“I’m not—”
“Let me finish. Please. She said that as a Head, you should be aligned with management, but you were siding with the troublemakers. She threatened you.”
“How? They’re going to hire someone to break my knees?”
“This isn’t a joke, Mitchell.”
“I’m not laughing.”
She pressed her face against the windowpane. “She hinted I should stop seeing you.”
He exploded. “Is she out of her head? I know she’s got an ego on her, but, Jeez—”
“I told her to mind her own business.”
“You shouldn’t have honored it with a response.” He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “It’s a free country.”
“I know.”
“Bianchi’s has no say in what you do, who you sleep with, who you . . . love.” He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe how she felt.
Her voice was barely audible. “I know, Mitchell.”
“Then what . . . why . . . ?”
“She put another deal on the table.”
The curves around his mouth, the ones that warmed his smiles and drew her eyes to his lips again and again, became deep and hard. “What kind of deal?”
“She asked me. . . . ” Again, that image of herself rushing forward, blindly darting out into speeding traffic. Dodging cars, but knowing it was a matter of seconds before she was flattened by a semi. “She asked me to betray you. She wants me to milk you for information about what the union is up to, find out what strategies they’re going to use, and report to her.”
His voice was a deadly monotone. “In exchange for . . . ?”
She tried to swallow but her throat was clamped shut. “The vice presidency.”
To her horror, he released her like she was contagious, and backed away. “That why you were asking me all those questions back there? About Lewison and the negotiations?”
“You were telling me about him,” she reminded him. “I didn’t ask.”
“You’re a smart woman,” he countered. “You don’t need to pursue your quarry. All you have to do is bait your trap and wait.”
She wanted to rush up to him, close the space between them, but he was radiating fury. She didn’t dare. “What trap? What bait?”
The answer lay unspoken.
She cried out in disbelief. “Oh, you’re kidding! You think I was going to hike up my skirts, let you cop a feel, maybe throw you a little booty, and then record our pillow talk on a hidden wire I got stuffed up my. . . . Augh! Who do you think I am? Mata Hari?”
He strode around her living room, face taut, back straight. He snatched up a small porcelain figurine from her coffee table, something she’d bought in Spain a few years ago, and held it out to her. “Pretty things; fancy stuff.” He waved his arms in her direction. “Expensive clothes. Paintings, rugs, an impressive address. That’s who you are!”
“I’m more than that!”
“I used to think so.”
“I still am. And let me tell you something: I’m entitled to like what I like. I can surround myself with ‘fancy stuff’ if I want. That’s my choice. You don’t know where I came from, or what I’ve had to endure.”
“You’ve tried to tell me,” he conceded.
“Well, if I choose to do anything in my power to make sure I never wind up there again, and if I decide I’d rather wear designer clothes than any old crap from the bargain bin, that’s my business. And I have to say, a nice address in Augustine’s a damn sight better than the projects in Detroit!”
They stared each other down across the coffee table. He was still grasping her figurine, squeezing it like a stress ball. “Put that damn thing back before you crush it.”
> “Why?” he asked acidly. “Think I can’t come up with the money to replace it?”
“No, because it happens to be one of my favorite pieces. And if you ask me, there’s your problem right there!”
“What? My lack of appreciation for porcelain?” But he set it back down on the table.
“Oh, now you’re being juvenile.” She reached out and straightened the figurine, aligned it with the others, the way she liked it. “I’m talking about that chip—no, that plank on your shoulder.”
“What chip?”
“I make more money than you. Get over it.”
“I don’t have a problem with it.”
“Oh, yes, my friend, you do. You like to act as if it’s no big deal, but every time we come up against the smallest bit of trouble, you drag it out. It bugs you. I bet it keeps you up nights.”
“I sleep fine,” he retorted. “What gets me is how much it bugs you.”
“It does not.”
“It did.”
“I’m well past that. I know who you are, and what you’re worth.”
In lieu of a smile, a taut, straight line split his face. “Ah, now we’re back to the crux of the matter. What am I worth to you?” He leaned forward, and even with the table between them, Jenessa felt like he was intruding on her space. “Am I worth more or less than the vice presidency?”
His insinuation cut her to ribbons. “I wouldn’t betray you, Mitchell. I may be a greedy social climber, I may be a snob and a flat-out bitch, but I am not disloyal. I would never, ever—”
“You thought about it.”
She held out her hands, pleading her case. “I was confused! Sharona was all up in my face—you know how she is. She pretty much told me I could deliver the goods on you or kiss the VP position goodbye.”
“And that would be a tragedy,” he replied sarcastically.
“Yes, it would. My job is part of who I am. You knew how I felt about my career from the start. Sorry I can’t be a saintly little homebody like your wife—”
The mention of Wendy was like a glove thrown at his feet. An invitation to war. His expression darkened. “My wife didn’t work; that’s true. She stayed home, and took care of my needs . . . and Ruby’s, the times she stayed with us. But not because she was a saint. Wendy couldn’t work because she was too sick.”
Jenessa knew she was stepping on sacred ground, but she finished what she started. “Deep inside, that’s what you want, isn’t it? A woman who’d put you and Ruby first? Family over career?”
He was incredulous. “Now I’m sexist?”
“What do you call a guy who believes a woman shouldn’t make her job her top priority? You’ve never made it a secret you think I should lighten up on the job—”
“I think everybody should lighten up on the job. It’s a means to an end. A way to put a roof over your head and food on the table. It gives you a chance to contribute to society, rather than be dead weight. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” He had to be kidding. She tried to imagine what she’d be without her job. She could certainly imagine who she’d be with the letters ‘VP’ before her name.
“That’s it. There are more important things in life than work.”
“Like?”
“Like family. Having fun together. Spending time with friends.” He added meaningfully, “Going to bed with a clear conscience.”
His poisoned arrow hit her dead center, but didn’t stop her. “And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because I used to be just like you. Teaching hour after hour, taking on class after class, pouncing on opportunities to claw my way up the academic ladder, even if it meant edging out someone else. I was thinking maybe I’d do a higher degree, find a nice cushy job at a university. . . . ”
She tried to imagine Mitchell as the academic version of a corporate raider, but couldn’t.
“Then my wife got worse. And let me tell you; when you sit next to a hospital bed, watching the person you love get weaker, knowing there’s nothing anybody can do, it puts life into perspective. That’s when you learn what’s important: people, not things.” He glanced again at the porcelain figurine he had chosen as her avatar. “Love, not work.”
Love. She could have snorted. A word he applied with ease to his dead wife, but never even hinted at with her. Remembering that made her cruel. “So you want me to give up on my career, like you did?”
“I don’t want you to do any such thing. I want you to find some balance. And I didn’t give up on my career, I merely switched to one that made me feel better about myself. Pity you think that was a step down.”
She wasn’t prepared to go back to that again. He was picking at that scab like a kid with a scraped knee. “My career makes me feel just fine.” She didn’t feel so fine right now. A gnawing ache in her stomach reminded her she’d only nibbled at her dinner. But the nausea that rolled in after, a second wave, made her glad she hadn’t. The floor was rocking, but she willed herself to stay steady. Damned if she let him see how much this was affecting her.
He was too astute for it to go unnoticed. “Are you . . . ?”
She put her hand out and let the wall support her. “I’m not my mother,” she muttered.
Even his anger didn’t stop him from looking concerned—and perplexed. “You’re not . . . ?”
She snorted, not willing to share that pain. “Nothing. Forget it.” In her dizziness, her father’s face hovered before her, a mocking ghost. She’d loved him—of course she had—but his simplicity and old-world values had ruined her mother’s life. It was okay for women to work, he believed, until they got married. Then they needed to drop this ‘career nonsense’ and head on home, where they belonged. Especially once the children came along.
She’d never seen her mother work outside the home, but knew she’d been an accounting technician before she’d met and married her father. Not a fancy career by any means, but it had been the one she’d chosen. And although Jenessa’s mother had never let on how much she missed the freedom and independence, and the self-esteem working had brought her, there was always a thin layer of resentment simmering below the surface. Resentment which, in unguarded moments, seeped out in her family’s direction.
Jenessa had watched her mother deteriorate, stop taking care of herself, give up on her hair, clothes, and makeup, as she slid into the humdrum routine of her existence. Jenessa had decided long ago she’d never put herself through that.
But now, uneasy doubts were beginning to penetrate her mind, and she didn’t like them one bit. What good was having all this, the career she wanted, a job she loved, if she was uneasy in her soul?
Mitchell was closer, his body tense, as if he thought she’d faint and he’d have to catch her before she hit the floor. But she didn’t want his help. The trip down memory lane wasn’t doing her any good. She sighed. “Why don’t we drop the job talk, okay? You have your view, and I have mine. Bottom line: Sharona dangled the bait—”
“And you almost took it.”
“I did not take it, or we wouldn’t be talking right now. I’d be busy pumping you for information.” She threw his insinuation back at him. “I got confused. My head was spinning. I could barely breathe. So I went for a walk.”
“Where you weighed me. You tried to figure out how much I was worth to you, and whether the scales dipped in favor of your job or me.”
“I worked things out. I’m only human; gimme a break. I walked until I could see things clearly. I walked until I discovered. . . . ” She stopped. Their argument had left her raw and bleeding; she wasn’t sure if she could take any more pain tonight.
“Discovered what?”
“That I love you.” She couldn’t meet his eyes as she said it.
He folded his arms, brows almost meeting in the middle. His expression was unreadable.
A wave of fatigue washed over her. “Mitchell, I’m tired. Could you please leave?”
He didn’t look like he’d heard her; he was so deep in tho
ught.
With an irritated click of her tongue, she turned her back on him and began walking away. “I mean it; I want you out of here.” There was a tremor in her voice.
He moved with almost unnatural speed. Before she left the room, he was in front of her, holding his hand out like a traffic cop. “We’re not done talking.”
“I am.’
“I’m not.” He looked as if what he had to say would sear him on the way out. He soldiered on. “I was being a jerk. I’m. . . . ” He tried to put his arms around her.
She flinched. “Don’t . . . ” she protested. “Don’t touch me.”
He let her go instantly. “But you said you. . . . ”
“Love you. That doesn’t mean I want you touching me.” She sounded crazy, but she was too wrung out to care.
He floundered. “That’s . . . illogical.”
Her smile was more of a pained grimace. “Sorry, Mr. Spock, but that’s the way it is.”
He tilted his head so he could see her face more fully, trying to read it. Coming up with nothing. “Why?”
“If you have to ask me that. . . . ”
He exhaled gustily through his nose. “I said some hurtful things. If I could take them back. . . . ” His hands rose as if he was about to hold her again, but fell to his sides when he remembered her edict. “Forgive me, please.”
Her eyes and throat burned. She wanted nothing more right now than to change her mind, throw herself against his chest and sob out her hurt and confusion, but that was too dangerous. “It’s not about forgiveness. It’s about facing facts. Just because I . . . feel the way I do about you, doesn’t mean we should be together. We’d just keep stumbling on the same obstacles over and over.”
“All couples have obstacles,” he reasoned.
“Sometimes they’re too big to manage. You’re always going to react the way you do to anything I say that you perceive as a slur. Deep down, you’ll always feel I want you to be more. And you’ll always want me to be more like . . . your wife. But I can’t.”
“I never compared you to Wendy.”
“Oh, please! That’s crap, and you know it. I don’t match your idea of what your woman should be. Oh,” she laughed shortly, “I’m the kind of woman you’d want to have a few drinks with, maybe roll around in bed a couple of times, but when it comes to serious stuff, what you really want is some sweet little thing who sits by the fire until her man comes home, making collages while she waits.”
The Irresistible Mr Cooper Page 17
