by Sara Orwig
*
After talking for over an hour to Marek, Camille lay in bed and contemplated her future. She loved Marek and she didn’t think she would ever love again. Life without him looked unbelievably empty. What did she want in her future? Would it matter to him what she wanted? One time he had asked her about scaling back her career, and she couldn’t. The last time they had been together, he had seemed restrained, preoccupied, yet their lovemaking had grown better and more passionate each time they were together.
What did she want in the future for herself? As his wife, money was no longer in the equation. Did she want to sing for the thrill and enjoyment of it? For the success? It was grinding work—voice and language lessons, daily voice practice, studying operas and arias, working out. She had Noah to consider. What did she want for her future?
She wanted Marek in her life and Noah’s. She wanted another baby. She also wanted to sing at La Scala and to reach a pinnacle in opera where she became a name.
Tears flowed freely and she turned, burying her face in her pillow to cry silently. She wanted it all—the best of both worlds, her love, her baby and her career. What did she want to sacrifice?
*
All the time Camille was in Saint Louis, she thought about her future. At night she sat up long hours, staring out the window at the familiar yard where she had grown up. What did she want most of all? Marek couldn’t make that decision for her. That one she had to make herself.
Making her decision, she cut her visit home short by two days and returned to Dallas, calling Marek and telling him she knew what she wanted to do.
Eleven
When Marek met her at the airport, as arranged earlier, they took Noah to Ginny’s before going to Marek’s Dallas house.
Struggling to wait to hold and kiss her, Marek finally placed his hands on her waist and took another long look at her, relishing every moment of having her with him. In a clinging, low-cut black dress that ended above her knees, she looked breathtaking. Her hair was pinned up on the sides, hanging free in the back. While it was gorgeous, he longed to take it down. Take down her hair, kiss her, seduce her and spend the rest of the day and night in bed making love.
“You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed you,” he said, kissing her passionately.
Minutes later, she leaned away to frame his face with her hands. “You haven’t seemed as happy lately. I didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. I wanted to wait until we were together.”
“I couldn’t be happier now that you’re in my arms,” he whispered, kissing her throat.
“Marek, listen a minute.” He raised his head to focus on her.
“You asked me some time ago to scale back my career, and I told you I couldn’t. Things haven’t been quite the same between us since.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about that. You were meant to share your talent. I love you and I’ll settle for the time I can have with you.”
“You mean that?” she asked, her eyes growing huge.
“I mean it. Even if it’s just a little of your time. I love you. I need you in my life. I need to know that I have your love.”
Smiling, with a sparkle coming to her blue eyes, she kissed him passionately again. His hands wound in her hair as he kissed her in return, and then his arm circled her waist to hold her tightly.
She finally leaned away. “That thrills me, that you are willing to make such a sacrifice for me.”
“You don’t know how much I love you,” he said, desire a smoldering fire in him.
“Marek, while we were apart, I gave thought to what I want to do. You think my life should be opera. I’m not the only singer—not even remotely. As your wife, my earnings no longer are part of this.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Not when my family needed my help and I had to count on my voice. I still want success in opera. Specifically, I want the lead in an opera at the Metropolitan. I want the lead at La Scala.”
“You should be the lead both places,” he said, his voice thickening. He could inhale the scent of her perfume, feel her narrow waist beneath his hands. They stood with only inches separating them. “I also want the love of the man I love,” she said in a throaty voice as tears filled her eyes. “I want Noah to have a family. I want him to have two siblings. I want a family.”
“I want you to have both,” Marek whispered. “I want you to have it all. Everything possible to make you happy.”
“I love you,” she said, gazing solemnly at him. “Listen a moment. Here’s my plan.” Her voice strengthened, and she poked his chest with her forefinger as if she needed to get his attention. “Give me three years. I’m only twenty-five. For the next three years put up with the separations and the inconveniences and let me pursue my career totally. In three years, I will retire. Noah will still be in preschool, a little boy, not too old for siblings.”
“In three—”
“Do not interrupt until I’m through,” she said, startling him. “I will want to give it up in three years. I’ve thought this through carefully. I know you thought you had our marriage all mapped out and it would work and then it didn’t. I’m sure that I don’t want to pursue my career for years. I want my family. I want your love. I love you and I’m not giving you up just because you’re shocked by my talent and think I should give up everything for my career. Occasionally in your life, you’re wrong. Can you give me three years if I give you the rest?”
Stunned, he stared at her while he thought about what she proposed.
“Marek, for heaven’s sake. I love you,” she cried, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.
Marek’s resistance to her kiss disappeared. His arms locked tightly around her and he kissed her, letting go all the longing he had bottled up since hearing her perform. As if a dam had burst, desire poured over him, making him shake with urgency. He wanted her desperately and everything else vanished.
Oblivious of her hands moving over him, he unzipped her dress. She fumbled with his shirt and he yanked it off, popping buttons and sending them flying while she shook out of her dress and let it fall.
In minutes he picked her up to love her while they kissed and her long legs were locked around him. She was soft, a flame burning away all hurt. He loved her wildly, wanting to hold her forever in his arms.
When she finally clung to him, relaxing against him, he let her slide to put her feet on the floor. She glanced up.
“I think you’ve already given me your answer. Right?”
*
That night in his bed, he held her close as he toyed with long locks of her raven hair. “We’ll follow your plan, Camille,” he said. “In three years, you may change—”
She placed her fingers lightly on his mouth while she shook her head. “No. I adore Noah. I want a family. I love you and want your love. With the money you have, I can continue to have voice lessons and sing in local events in Dallas or Houston or even New Mexico, maybe once a year or less. We’ll see, but I’m sure I will not continue with this all-consuming career that takes everything.”
“You don’t have to talk me into it. For better or worse, I’m accepting your idea,” he said happily.
Smiling, she rolled over to trail feather kisses on his cheek and jaw, down over his shoulder. “If I get my wish about the Met and La Scala in less than three years, we can move up that timetable.”
He laughed, a deep rumbling sound that vibrated in his chest. “Wait a minute.”
Turning, he opened a drawer in a bedside table. He settled back to take her right hand in his.
“Camille, you’ve given me my full life back. You’ve given me Noah. You’ve given me love. Your wedding ring was a token of our contract and agreement to marry for Noah. This ring is a token of my gratitude and all my love,” he said in a husky voice. He dropped a small package in her lap.
She blinked and looked up at him, seeing warmth and love in his eyes. Her heart thudded over his declaration. Tearing away wrappings, she opened
her gift. With a racing pulse, she raised the lid to see a dazzling diamond ring.
“Marek, it’s beautiful,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “I am overjoyed.”
He smiled at her. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep you happy.”
“Including coming to Budapest part of the time with me, even though I’ll be busy.”
“Including going to Hungary part of the time,” he answered, smiling with her. “Whatever I can do to keep your love, keep you happy, keep you and Noah in my life however much or little that turns out to be.”
Joy shook her and tears of happiness spilled. Before he could say anything more, she kissed him, knowing his love and being a family for Noah was what she wanted more than all else.
*
Keep reading for an excerpt from A Conflict of Interest by Barbara Dunlop
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One
It was inauguration night in Washington, D.C., and Cara Cranshaw had to choose between her president and her lover. One strode triumphantly though the arches of the Worthington Hotel ballroom to the uplifting strains of “Hail to the Chief” and the cheers of eight hundred well-wishers. The other stared boldly at her from across the ballroom, a shock of unruly, dark hair curling across his forehead, his bow tie slightly askew and his eyes telegraphing the message that he wanted her naked.
For the moment, it was investigative reporter Max Gray who held her attention. Despite her resolve to turn the page on their relationship, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his, nor could she stop her hand from reflexively moving to her abdomen. But Max was off-limits now that Ted Morrow had been sworn in as president.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the master of ceremonies above the music and enthusiastic clapping that was spreading like a wave across the hall. “The President of the United States.” His voice rang out from the microphone onstage at the opposite end of the massive, high-ceilinged room.
The cheers grew to a roar. The band’s volume increased. And the crowd shifted, separating to form a pathway in front of President Morrow. Cara automatically moved with them, but she still couldn’t tear her gaze from Max as he took a few steps backward on the other side of the divide.
She schooled her features, struggling to transmit her resolve. She couldn’t let him see the confusion and alarm she’d been feeling since her doctor’s visit that afternoon. Resolve, she ruthlessly reminded herself, not hesitation and definitely not fear.
“He’s running late.” Sandy Haniford’s shout sounded shrill in Cara’s ear.
Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House press office, where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the president’s entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison to the American News Service event.
“Only by a few minutes,” Cara shouted back, her eyes still on Max.
Resolve, she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn’t change her job tonight. And it didn’t alter her responsibility to the president.
“I was hoping the president would get here a little early,” Sandy continued, her voice still raised. “We have a last-minute addition to the speaker lineup.”
Cara twisted her head; Sandy’s words had instantly broken Max’s psychological hold on her. “Come again?”
“Another speaker.”
“You can’t do that.”
“It’s done,” said Sandy.
“Well, undo it.”
The speakers, especially those at the events hosted by organizations less than friendly to the president, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but the cable network’s ball was a tradition, so he’d had no choice but to show up.
It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington ballroom. He would arrive at ten forty-five—well, ten fifty-two as it turned out—then he was to leave at eleven-fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the president had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy. “Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?” Sarcasm came through her raised voice.
“You should have solved the problem before it came to that.” Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.
“Don’t you think I tried?”
“Obviously not hard enough. How could you give them permission to add a new speaker?”
“They didn’t ask,” Sandy pointed out with a frown. “Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops.”
Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn’t get to dictate to the president.
Cara couldn’t help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at ANS’s rival, National Cable News, he was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn’t ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.
Cara pressed a speed-dial button for her boss.
It rang but then went to voice mail.
She hung up and tried again.
She could see that the president had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smartly dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designer fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen crystal chandeliers.
The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten, returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the president before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the president would have one dance with the female chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS board members before taking his leave.
Cara gave up on her cell phone and started making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty-fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn’t a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.
Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war-torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn’t want a person up onstage, that person was not getting up onstage. Too bad she couldn’t enlist his help and would have to rely on her own wits.
She chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the packed crowd.
Graham Boyle was waxing poetic about ANS’s role in the presidential election. He’d taken a couple of jabs at President Morrow’s alma mater and its unfortunate choice of mascot given current relations with Brazil. But that was all fair game.
Cara wished she was taller. At five foot five, she couldn’t see the stairs to know if Mitch was waiting to g
o up on the right-hand side. She regretted having gone for the comfortable two-inch heels instead of the flashy four-inch spikes that her sister, Gillian, had given her for Christmas. She could have used the height.
“Where are you going?” It was Max’s voice in her ear.
“None of your business,” she retorted, attempting to speed up and put some distance between them.
“You have that determined look in your eyes.”
“Go away.”
He tucked in close beside her. “Maybe I can help.”
“Not now, Max.” She was working. Why did he have to do this to her?
“Your destination can’t possibly be a state secret.”
She relented. “I’m trying to get to the stage. Okay? Are you happy?”
“Follow me.” He stepped in front of her.
His six-foot-two-inch height and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure. She supposed it didn’t hurt any that he was famous, either. Last month, he’d been voted one of the ten hottest men in D.C. The upshot was he could move through a crowd far faster than she could. Resigned, she stuck to his coattails.
Even with Max clearing the way, they eventually got stuck behind a crowd of people.
“Why do you want to get to the stage?” He turned to ask her.
“For the record,” she responded, “I don’t know any state secrets. I don’t have that kind of job.”
“And since I’m not a foreign spy, we should be able to carry on a conversation without compromising national security.”
An unmistakable voice came over the sound system. “Good evening, Mr. President,” drawled Mitch Davis.
A murmur of surprise moved across the room, since Mitch was a known detractor of President Morrow. Cara rocked back on her heels. She’d failed to stop him.
“First, let me say, on behalf of American News Service, congratulations, sir, on your election as President of the United States.”
The applause came up on cue, though perhaps not as strong as usual.
