"What exactly is going on with her?"
Maybe that was what Stacy wanted all along, to find out the truth. Stacy was a fixer. Give her a problem and she'd find ten solutions. She flopped around helplessly like a fish out of water if she didn't know how to fix something for someone. With Debbie, she hadn't even understood the issue.
The riddle wasn't about another woman in her husband's life. It was about her total loss of faith in her own desirability. Three nights, three months of nights wouldn't give it back to her. He could not be her drug of choice that helped her stay in a dead marriage.
"Keep at her until she tells you, if you want. Because I'm not."
He hung up before Stacy could answer, then checked his email. Debbie still hadn't replied. His heart lay bleeding on the office floor.
* * * *
Meet Stephen? Debbie shuddered. In her current state, she'd probably start begging. My nameless lover dumped me and I need you to take his place. How pathetic she'd become. She'd been sitting on his email for two days. In fact, she hadn't emailed him since ... Tuesday. When she'd expected the invitation that never came.
Now it was Friday evening. A week, a whole week in which to wait, to want, to need. And to understand that her needs wouldn't be met. Not tonight. Not another night. Not ever.
Debbie stared at the unanswered email for a full minute. A minute could be such a long time. Long enough for a woman to realize that she was almost forty years old. She'd lived without passion for most of that time. She would live without it again. She wouldn't cry or beg. She would work with Stephen on the stained glass. She would breathe life into her business. She would go on. She really didn't have another choice.
"Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you, Stephen. When do you want to get together?"
She didn't expect an immediate reply. But she got it.
"Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Do you need directions?"
"No, I remember. See you there." She hesitated, then added, "It will be nice to finally meet you."
He hadn't said a word about the days between emails. He probably didn't think a thing of it. After all, she was the one who'd been having histrionics. A man fucked her, a man walked away. That's what men did when they didn't want a woman anymore. Except her husband ... though God only knew why.
Her fantasy Stephen hadn't owed her a thing. Neither did the real one. In truth, it was the other way around.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The family had chosen to move out during the remodel. Most couldn't afford to do so. Most couldn't afford the extensive changes this couple had wanted. Stephen had damn near rebuilt the entire house, everything except the outer structure, though that, too, had been altered, pushing out a wall in the kitchen, adding a bay window in the living and a sunroom in the back. The Thomases would move back in next week. Home sweet home.
The playroom was in the front of the house. Debbie would see the horse as she drove up. He'd left the front door open for her. Pacing the new hardwood floor, he ran his fingers through his hair. He'd been jumpy all morning, snapping at his secretary when she'd beeped him with a question. He'd looked at his watch every three minutes, and he'd given himself a damn headache with all the coffee.
Shit. He'd certainly woven the proverbial tangled web.
Outside, a car pulled up, an engine died, then a door slammed. He imagined her on the front walk, the sunlight filtering through her skirt, her eyes shaded to look up at the window. Her glasswork would be more impressive inside. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. He wanted her to see the piece in all its glory before she saw the truth.
"Hello?"
Her voice wrapped around him. He closed his eyes, drank the sound in, then called, "Come upstairs."
He entered the playroom, standing to the left of the door so that she would see the window first, before seeing him. He couldn't take that moment from her, that first long glance at a piece of her heart filling the room with light. The sun sparkled through the jewels in the saddle.
Soft footfalls on the hall carpet. Then she entered the room, staring up at the gleaming carousel horse dancing in the sunlight almost as if it were real.
She was more beautiful than he remembered. Her blonde hair shimmered with highlights, her white blouse hugged her breasts, and the flowing black polka-dot skirt played with her calves. She'd brushed her cheeks with a hint of blush and tinted her full lips with rose. The sight of her stole his breath as she'd stolen his heart.
"Do you like seeing it up there, Debbie?"
She didn't answer him. Tipping her head, her breasts rose with a deep breath, then she turned to him where he clung to the wall like a shadow.
Eyes softened with sadness or pain, she stared for a moment. "What are you doing here?"
His lips went numb. His throat felt paralyzed. He waited for her to figure the truth out on her own; to realize that the man she emailed and the man she'd made love with were one and the same. He recognized the instant she came to the right conclusion. Her spine stiffened, adding an inch to her height, and her blue eyes turned the shade of a stormy sky.
"Did you know it was me at the club?" she asked softly.
"Yes."
"Why did you let me call you Stephen?"
Because he needed her to so badly it had blinded him to anything else. "It's my real name."
She looked away and chewed on the inside of her cheek. "You shouldn't have let me call you that."
He felt her thoughts as if they pounded on the inside of his head. She'd called him Stephen, and in so doing, told him things she'd never meant for him to know. With a name, she'd revealed her fantasies. About him. He'd been there long before the mythical Stephen. Though she never let a word slip, she'd dreamed about him.
Until this minute, he'd never realized how sacred a fantasy was. He'd broken her trust. "I'm sorry."
"I have to go."
She turned quickly, but not fast enough to hit the doorway before he did. He blocked her, both arms on opposite doorjambs. "I'm sorry. Let me explain." Except that all the explanations he'd planned couldn't cover what he'd actually done to her. "I was an idiot, Debbie." Far more than her husband had ever been.
"Let me out."
"Say my name." Please. If she called him by his name, he'd know he still had a chance.
She turned once more, hugged her purse to her belly and walked to the window. The morning sun beat through the panes of glass. By the time it moved round, the room would be baking.
She must have felt the same thing. "Shutters would be nice in here. White ones."
He didn't want to talk about the goddamn shutters. He knew she wasn't ready for anything else, but he'd started down this path, and he owed her an explanation.
"Let me tell you why I did it." Why he'd lied to her, gotten her to tell him all her secrets under false pretenses, given her the faith to touch herself for him. Then walked away. He'd been such an idiot. He should have known what the next invitation meant, should have known what not receiving it would tell her.
"I don't need to know," she said, still facing the window.
His shoes sinking into the plush fibers, he crossed the carpet to her. Her body was so close, her back against his chest, her heat jumping across the small distance he left between them. Her scent wrapped around him like a blanket he wanted to curl into. As badly as he needed to, he didn't touch her.
"I wanted you to feel better. You were so sad. I couldn't stand it." He put a hand up, letting her hair brush his palm.
"You didn't even know me."
Look at me. Let me show you how wrong you are with my eyes and my lips. "I knew you. I don't think you even know how many little details were in everything you wrote to me."
She stiffened, tension in every line of her body. "And you fucked me so I wouldn't be sad?"
He closed his eyes, taking the knife thrust straight through his heart. "That isn't what I meant."
She turned then, backed away, anger finally setting her muscles in motion. "Then why d
on't you tell me exactly you thought you were doing?"
"Ask me anything you want to know." The only thing he had left to give her was the truth.
"Why were you there that first night?"
Because he was already half in love with a woman he'd never met. A woman he had to meet. "I wanted to make sure you didn't get hurt." Though he'd certainly failed there.
She still hugged her purse to her like a shield. The sun shone through her hair; outlined her body beneath her thin blouse. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. "Did Stacy know all about this?"
"She knew I'd be there."
"What on earth was she thinking? What was her plan?" She started to pace, agitated jerky steps.
"I have no idea what was in her mind." He hadn't wanted to know anything beyond the fact that bringing Debbie to the club gave him exactly what he wanted.
"Then what was in your mind?"
"I wanted to see you." He paused, struggled for the truth. Without honesty now, they didn't have a chance. "I wanted to see you that first time without your husband between us."
She became a flurry of action then, throwing her purse to the floor, her arms out, then up, finally turning on him with a haunted look in her eyes. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You wanted to fuck me, and you figured I'd be more open to it at a sex club?" She paced in front of him. "That if I showed up there, it would prove I was some sort of amoral whore who would do anything you told her to?" She stopped long enough to stick her finger in his face. "I did prove that, didn't I? I let you fuck me from behind with everyone watching. I sucked your cock and swallowed. I masturbated for you. Maybe there was something else you wanted." Pacing back and forth, back and forth, she seemed oblivious to her movements. "Maybe you wanted to watch me get fucked by three guys at once, you know, one in every orifice. Would that turn you on? What did Stacy tell you about me?" She screamed the last at him.
He couldn't breathe. He could barely manage to watch her anger, her pain. Couldn't forgive himself for having done that to her. Yet he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she listened to him. "Stacy didn't tell me a goddamn thing. Everything I knew, you told me yourself in so many different ways. This was never about me or what I wanted. It was about you, about what I could give you."
"You're such a fucking liar." Then she threw herself at him, pounding her fists against his chest, his shoulders, his arms. "I told you everything about myself ... everything ... and you were just using me ... for some sick reason I don't even understand ... you told her my husband didn't want me anymore." Panting, her words choppy and broken, she rained blows down him. He took every one, dying inside. "And you laughed with her ... I know you did ... you told her everything I said." Then she beat at him wildly. "Are you fucking her, too ... did you fuck me so the two of you could laugh about me later?"
He wrapped his arms around her, dragging her to the floor. Leaning back against the wall, one leg twisted beneath him, he pulled her onto his lap. He let her hit him over and over until it seemed she couldn't lift her arms to hit him again, until all she could do was cry against him.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "Jesus, I'm so sorry." He rocked her as she sobbed, cradled her to his chest.
Running his hand up and down her back, stroking her hair, he whispered to her. "There was never anything between Stacy and me. Never."
She took two gulps of air against his chest, then fisted her hand in his shirt.
"We never laughed at you. We only wanted to help you. I wanted to help you."
She shuddered and screwed more of his shirt in her fist.
He forced himself to go on, to answer her every accusation. "I never used you to get my sexual kicks. I only wanted to give you pleasure, to make you see how special you are. To me. You know that. You feel that. I know you do."
Still she didn't answer.
The heat in the room continued to rise, and he realized she was right about the shutters. He'd recommended low-e double pane windows, but the Thomases had been afraid the coating would cut out some of the light, a misconception he couldn't disabuse them of. He should have thought about shutters. He should have thought about so many things where Debbie was concerned. Instead, he'd thought with his cock and his heart. He deserved to have the one chopped off and the other ripped to shreds.
Her crying gentled to a few muffled sniffles and a couple of hiccups. His leg cramped beneath him, but he couldn't have let go of her for anything.
"I never wanted to hurt you like this."
She didn't lift her head, her breath fanning his damp shirtfront. "What did you want, Stephen?"
His name on her lips should have warmed him. Instead, it chilled his blood. I wanted you to love me. He'd told her he loved her. The sentiment had seemed so right and been so easy to say when he was buried deep inside her. Just as it had been easy for her to say, then pretend they were only emotions of the moment. Now, those words burned his throat and eyes.
He held her, kissed the top of her head, buried his face in her hair, and drank in her scent. Fruity, tangy, feminine. "I wanted to be with you. I wanted to make love to you."
"Are you saying you wanted to have an affair with me?"
He tightened his arms around her. "No. That's not what I wanted."
"Then what is it you do want?" Whispering the words, she looked up at him, her cheeks tear-streaked, smudges of mascara beneath her eyes.
His heart swelled, and his vision blurred. He tipped his head back to hide his eyes from her. "You. With me all night long. In the morning. The afternoon. Every day. For the rest of my life."
She held her breath, then softly exhaled against his chest. "You want me to leave my husband?"
He could tell nothing from the question or the tone of her voice, but he couldn't hide behind a half-truth. "Yes." He gulped air as if his body thirsted for it. "I'm in love with you."
She was silent for so long, he wanted to scream like a wounded animal. He felt the sun on his face, searing his flesh, burning through his lids to his eyeballs. Keeping his hands lax lest he shake her until she answered, his head ached with the concentration that feat required. A strong man would have looked at her, studying each emotion as it played across her face. A strong man would have searched for answers in the depths of her eyes before she ever said the words.
With her, he'd lost his strength. He could only hold on to his last shred of hope if he didn't look at her.
Finally, when the synapses in his brain were about to misfire, she pushed upright, away from him. "I can't do that, Stephen. I can't leave my husband for you."
Her words sucked the air from his lungs, from the room itself. Each word carved a slice off his heart until there was nothing left. A week ago, he'd thought he'd died and gone to heaven.
Today, he knew he'd landed in hell.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She didn't know what to say. I'm sorry. You're rushing me. You don't even know me. A month from now, maybe a year, you'll be tired of me.
She had a life. It wasn't perfect by any means, but if she wasn't married, she might very well end up alone. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as the old saying went. She wasn't sure she could stand that either. She'd rather die than be totally alone as age crept up.
Needing distance, she crawled off his lap and stood. "We never even met until today. You don't really know anything about me." I don't know anything about you except that you've lied to me for the past three weeks. She was past the sobbing of minutes before, past the rage, but she wasn't past his lies.
"I know you, Debbie," he answered, rising to his feet. Crossing to the window, he stared out. "Regardless of what you think."
His voice sounded so ... dead. She ached for him, she really did. She'd been angry, and for a moment, she'd hated. Hated him for tricking her, for making her believe that fantasy could be reality; then ripping the rug out from under her. He'd sent her an email asking to meet her instead of sending her an invitation. He hadn't rejected her the way she'd tho
ught. And now, after that storm of emotion, she felt curiously light. Almost relaxed. Numb? Maybe. Most importantly, she was grounded. She hadn't been for almost a month, not since the night she'd met him.
She saw now what she hadn't wanted to see then. He was searching. He was probably a perpetual searcher; never finding what he was looking for, and moving on to the next search.
"How old are you, Stephen?"
Though his hair was almost completely silver in the sunlight, he still didn't have the number of lines that many men his age had. "Fifty."
Just as she'd thought. Maybe he was looking for a younger woman. She wouldn't be young for much longer. She couldn't bear another man turning from her. She'd rather lose him now. "I know you think that we've revealed so much in our emails. And we have. But people can ... edit what they say. They edit their feelings so that you won't have a bad opinion of them."
He turned his head, viewing her through only one eye. "Is that what you did? Edit yourself right out of every email you sent me? Did you edit yourself when you held me in your arms and told me you loved me?"
Her heart rose to her throat. "I wanted to keep the fantasy alive."
He turned back to the window and whatever was so fascinating out there. "So you lied."
"No. It's what I felt right at that moment." She believed he'd felt it, too. Still, she was old enough to know that lust and love were two very different things. No matter what he thought he felt.
"You think my saying I love you was just some orgasmic release?"
Yes. If she said that, though, he'd only deny it. He'd even believe it was true love.
"I'm not your husband," he said, facing her, forcing her to see the stark pain in his eyes and riding the lines of his face.
"I know that."
His eyes were dark, intense, unfathomable. "Do you even know what I mean?"
"No," she admitted.
"I'm not going to lose my desire for you. I'm not going to stop loving you. I'm not going to get tired of you."
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