The Bedroom Business

by Sandra Marton

  “Jake.” Emily’s fingers tightened over his. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, that’s okay. He was a good man. I just don’t usu­ally...” He shrugged. “I don’t talk about him much.”

  Emily nodded. Jake didn’t talk about himself much, either, even though she’d tried to get him to do it. She yearned to know more about him.

  “Was your dad a farmer, then?”

  Jake shook his head.

  “I just thought... You said you’re from Pennsylvania. And you said he wore overalls...”

  “He was a miner,” Jake said tonelessly. “At least, he was until he got buried under a few tons of coal.”

  “Oh, Jake. I’m so sorry.”

  “No need to be. It was a long time ago.”

  “It must have been awful for you to lose him.”

  “Yeah.”

  Emily heard the world of meaning behind the single word. Her fingers pressed Jake’s.

  “Losing your father... it must have turned your life upside down.”

  “Yeah,” he said again. Carefully, he withdrew his hand from Emily’s, curved it around his coffee cup and lifted the cup to his mouth. “Well, I was just a little kid, you know? But my mother had never thought of herself as anything but a wife. She married the first guy that showed any interest. My stepfather and I...let’s just say, he’d signed on for a wife, and the rest was baggage.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah, is right. As soon as I was old enough, I took off.”

  “For New York?”

  “For the army, for Wall Street, for a little of this and that.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “Life is life, Em. You deal with whatever comes out of the box, that’s all.”

  “Uh-huh.” Emily looked at him. “And now you’re light­ years from the coal mines.”

  “Light-years, is right.” Jake flashed a brittle smile.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, that’s my life story. Now, can we get back to talking about other things? The kitchen here turns out an apple pie that—”

  “I just wanted to know more about you, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Because I—because I...”

  Emily bit her lip. Whatever she said next would be a mis­take. Because I love you? Because I like you? Even that would be disastrous.

  She felt her heart break.

  She was having an intimate little dinner with her lover, except Jake wasn’t her lover. He was her—her instructor. And when had an instructor ever wanted to share his life story with a pupil?

  She sat back.

  “You’re right,” she said quietly. “There’s no reason for either of us to share the stories of our lives.”

  Jake’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say that.”

  “I’m saying it.” Emily put her napkin on the table. “It’s late. And I really do have to get home.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” she said, with a momentary flash of anger. She could feel her hands shaking and she pushed her plate aside and folded them neatly on the table. There was no reason to be angry. She was the one who’d made all the mistakes. “I know,” she said carefully. “You thought we’d spend the night at your house. That we’d make... That we’d sleep together again.”

  “And you’re about to tell me I thought wrong.”

  There was a cool edge to his words. Oh, Jake, Emily thought, Jake, get out of your chair. Come and pull me into your arms. Tell me you don’t just want to sleep with me, that you love me...

  “Yes,” she said, “as a matter of fact, I am.”

  There was a long silence. When Jake spoke again, the coolness in his voice had turned to ice.

  “In other words, the weekend’s over.”

  “Well, it is. Saturday, Sunday...” Emily forced a smile to her lips. “Tomorrow’s Monday, Jake. There’s no way to turn back the clock.”

  Jake’s lips tightened. How could she sit there and look at him that way? With eyes as cold as stones on a winter morn­ing, with a polite little smile on her mouth.

  He could change that smile, that stony look. All he had to do was take her in his arms and kiss her until she melted with desire, until she begged him to take her, to bury himself within her. Because that was all he was, to her. A damned walking, talking version of the Kama Sutra.

  All right. It was what he’d signed on for. And that was fine. It was a relief that she understood that some good sex­—okay, some incredible sex—was all that it was.

  He wasn’t a forever kind of man.

  “I’m not interested in turning back the clock,” he said. “I just figured we could have a little more fun before the weekend’s over.”

  Fun, Emily thought, and felt the swift, stupid press of tears behind her eyes. Don’t you cry, she told herself, don’t you dare cry!

  “Ah. Well, that would be nice, Jake, but really, I have a lot of work waiting at the office. And you have that trip to San Diego scheduled for tomorrow.”

  Jake frowned. What was wrong with her? How could she talk about work, how could she look so calm, when he wanted to—when he was going to...

  Wait a second. Maybe she figured it was up to her to end things. Maybe she was doing what she figured was the proper thing, after a weekend spent in a man’s bed.

  “Emily.” He reached across the table and caught both of her hands in his. “Listen to me.” He gave her the kind of smile he knew always worked on women. “I know this was supposed to be a temporary arrangement but we didn’t put a deadline on it. So let’s not worry about tomorrow. We’ll stay the night, drive back early. As for that trip... I have a great idea. You’re my exec, aren’t you? Come to California with me.”

  Emily felt her heart shatter. And wasn’t that stupid? She’d known how this would go. Hadn’t she begun the day by telling herself as much? And really, what Jake was suggest­ing was better than she’d expected. He didn’t want to end things immediately. He just wanted to keep a good thing going until he wearied of it.

  The bastard.

  Emily’s chin rose.

  Just looking at him made her angry. The sexy smile, the was-it-as-good-for-you-as-it-was-for-me glint in his eyes? And to think she’d been on the verge of tears.

  “Sparrow?” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. “Let’s not spoil it, hmm?”

  “Spoil it?” Emily tugged her hand from his and shoved back her chair. “Spoil such an interesting weekend? I’d never do that.”

  Jake’s smile slipped. “Is that the best you can do? Call this ‘an interesting weekend’?”

  “I meant it as a compliment. You said you’d teach me to be a woman and you did. I’ll always be grateful.”

  His smile disappeared completely. “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s my way of saying thank you. For the hair. The clothes. For everything.”

  She could see him trying to figure out what was happening. No way would he believe she was kissing him off but it was better to be the kisser than the kissee. Something like that, anyway. Her anger was giving way to despair; her heart felt heavy and she knew, oh, she knew, that she’d been too quick to tell herself she wasn’t going to cry, too quick to tell herself she hated Jake McBride...

  “For everything,” she said again, in a bright, cheerful tone. “It was—it was great.”

  “Great,” Jake repeated, his voice low, his features taut, his fingers almost crushing hers.

  Why did he have to look at her that way? As if she were hurting him when, dammit, she was the one who was in pain.

  “We’re finished?” he said. “That’s it?”

  “Yes. I mean, I really appreciate all you did, Jake—”

  “Stop making it sound like an act of charity, goddamn it! I didn’t make love to you because it was the right thing to do.”

  All at once
, Emily felt revolted by the part she’d been playing. She was weary, and sick to the depths of her soul. Sick of Jake, of herself, of what had happened.

  “Actually,” she said shakily, as she pulled her hand free of his, “you didn’t make love to me at all.”

  “Dammit, Emily!”

  “Dammit, Jake! Isn’t that what you wanted to hear? That what we did this weekend, what you want to keep doing until it gets boring, has nothing to do with making love?”

  He glared at her. She was right but hell, there was no reason to lay it out like that. To make things sound so cold­blooded.

  Emily shot to her feet. “Don’t look so wounded. I know you think every woman over the age of consent is out to put a wedding ring through your nose. Well, I resent you thinking I’m one of them.”

  Jake stood up, took out his wallet and dropped a handful of bills on the table. Emily had already grabbed her coat and tossed it on; now, she was striding through the place with the other diners in the restaurant doing their best to pretend they weren’t watching.

  Well, so what? He’d take his time. He’d never run after a woman in his life, especially a crazy one, and he sure wasn’t going to start now but, dammit, she was already going to the reservation desk near the door, motioning to the man behind it...

  “Emily,” Jake shouted, and ran after her. He caught her arm, swung her towards him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m getting a taxi,” she said calmly. “This gentleman is—”

  “The lady doesn’t need a taxi,” Jake snarled.

  “Don’t listen to him.” Emily looked at the manager, who was doing his best to become invisible. “I need a ride back to New York.”

  “Where do you think you are, Em? The Bronx? You can’t get a taxi to Manhattan from here.”

  “I’m afraid the gentleman is right,” the manager said ner­vously. “You can’t—”

  “You want to go home?” Jake closed his hand around her wrist. “I’ll take you home.”

  “There’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own.”

  “I brought you here. I’ll take you back.”

  He was right. He’d brought her here; he could take her back. Emily nodded stiffly.

  “Very well.”

  Jake marched her out the door, into the parking lot and to his car. She got inside, winced when he slammed the door, and stared straight ahead. The engine roared, the tires slewed sideways on a patch of ice, then squealed as they gained purchase and the car shot out of the parking lot onto the dark road.

  Emily looked at the road, then at Jake.

  “I don’t want to go back to your house. I thought you understood that.”

  “Neither do I,” he said coldly. “But your stuff is there.”

  “There’s nothing of mine at your house.”

  “Listen,” Jake said, his voice humming with tightly re­pressed fury, “you want to be stupid about us? Okay. Okay, be stupid. But what am I supposed to do with all that cloth­ing, huh? Give it away?”

  “There is no ‘us.’ As for the clothes ... save them, for the next woman who walks into your life.”

  Jake banged his fist on the steering wheel.

  “I don’t believe this! We spent a weekend together. One weekend, and now you’re jealous of somebody who doesn’t even exist!”

  “But she will!” Emily swung towards him. “She’ll exist, and there’ll be another one after her and one after that and another and another and another. And you know what? I don’t care.” Her voice broke, and she took a deep, deep breath. “If you’d only asked me, if you’d said, ‘Emily, how do you feel about forever after?’ I’d have told you I think it’s all hogwash. I’d have said, any woman who thinks love lasts longer than a roller-coaster ride ought to have her head examined. What happens in bed isn’t love. People tell them­selves it is, well, women do, because they need to make sex sound like—like Mozart.”

  Jake shot her a look. “What in hell does Mozart have to do with this?”

  “That’s just my point. He has nothing to do with this. This is all about hormones, and—and random combinations of­—of basic animal instincts and—and emotions and—” Emily began to weep.

  Thank God, Jake thought frantically. Now, it all made sense. Hormones, instincts, emotions...

  He reached across the console and squeezed her knee.

  “Baby,” he said gently, “you should have told me. Look, if you’re approaching that time of the month...if your hor­mones are going up and down...”

  She hit him. Not hard, because she wasn’t a complete fool. The night was black, the road slick, and yesterday’s near accident had made an impression. But she hit him, neverthe­less, a good, solid shot to the arm, delivered with enough power to make him say “oof.”

  After that there was nothing but merciful silence, all the way through Connecticut, into the city, and to the sidewalk outside her apartment building.

  Moments later, Emily was sitting on the floor before Horace’s cage, weeping while Horace sang. Ten blocks away, Jake got pulled over by a policeman who asked, warily, if Jake would like to explain how come he’d gone through the last three red lights in a row.

  Jake explained.

  “Unbelievable,” the cop said when he’d finished, and Jake drove away without a ticket but with the officer’s warning that there wasn’t a woman in the world worth getting himself killed for...and the assurance that even if there were, no mor­tal man could possibly hope to understand her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JAKE put his car into the garage, rode the elevator to his apartment and stormed inside.

  He yanked off his jacket, tossed it in the general vicinity of a chair, headed for the kitchen and switched on the lights.

  The room was big, bright, and handsomely done in stark black and white. It was the complete opposite of the kitchen in his Connecticut place, where the walls were old brick and the floor was made of wide-planked wood, although what in hell that had to do with anything was beyond him.

  It was just that Emily had made a fuss about the Connecticut kitchen.

  “I love this room,” she’d said, smiling as she’d fried their eggs this morning, and he’d said yes, it was a terrific room, and then he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her, and found himself wondering what it would be like to spend all the Sundays of his life that way, with coffee on the counter, eggs and bacon on the stove, and Emily in his arms...

  Which only went to prove how easily a woman could turn a perfectly intelligent man into a sad, confused ghost of his former self.

  Jake opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of ale and slammed the door shut.

  How did women manage these things? How did they put such crazy ideas into a man’s head without his even knowing they were doing it? And Emily, of all females...

  Unbelievable!

  She was the one woman he’d have thought incapable of such witchcraft, but he’d been wrong. The idea hadn’t lasted—how could it? But the fact that she’d managed it was terrifying, and never mind her little speech about not wanting forever any more than he did.

  “Ha,” Jake said as he twisted the cap off the bottle and tossed it into the sink.

  They all wanted forever. Nature had hard-wired them that way. Women were nest-builders, plain and simple, but men were meant to fly free—and, dammit, if he came up with one more stupid bird analogy, he was going to explode.

  Jake tilted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink.

  Women were all the same. Sooner or later, every last one of them brought things down to basics. Man, woman, sex, marriage, and never mind Emily’s fancy denials.

  Okay, so she’d ended things between them. So she’d made the speech that was usually his, smiled that little smile, said this was it, thank you and goodbye. No more sex. No more laughter. No more walks in the snow or soft little touches, no more sleeping in his arms as if she belonged there after making love.

  No. After sex. Becau
se she was right, it was sex, not any­thing else.

  Jake glowered and brought the bottle to his mouth again.

  On the other hand, maybe it was a trick. She might have been saying one thing and hoping for another. Why not? No man could ever figure out the twists and turns that the female brain could manage. For all he knew, Emily was sitting by the phone right this minute, waiting for him to call and say, Em, baby, I didn’t really want this to end after one weekend or a thousand weekends, I want—I want—

  Jake took a swig of ale.

  Maybe a monk’s cell. Or a padded one. Sanity. Peace and quiet. That was what he wanted. Maybe there was a place out beyond Jupiter where a man could enjoy being with a woman without all these ridiculous complications.

  His life was fine, just as it was. Better than fine. He was free. He was doing things he’d never even dreamed of, when he was growing up. In other words, he was happy. Why did women think a man couldn’t be happy, unless the poor sap put a ring on her finger and she put a matching one through his nose? Even those who pretended otherwise, thought it. The ones who said they didn’t were just lying to them­selves...

  But Emily hadn’t sounded as if she were lying.

  Any woman who thinks love lasts longer than a roller­coaster ride ought to have her head examined because what happens in bed isn’t love.

  Jake took another drink.

  That was what she’d said. And it was true. He had always known it. But if Emily believed it, really, honestly believed, as he did, that love was an illusion, why had she gotten so ticked off? When you came down to it, she’d simply told him what he’d already told her, that forever wasn’t a viable plan.

  Unless—unless it was him she didn’t want any part of, not just a relationship that might go on for a while. Hell, he hadn’t considered that, the possibility she hadn’t liked being with him.

  No. Forget that possibility. She had. He knew she had. Those sweet sighs, when they made love. The way she laughed at his jokes, hung onto his every word. The touch of her hand on his, when they were talking...