by Renee Roszel
In the flickering firelight, she was witness to a twisted mockery in his smile. “You’re wrong, darling,” he corrected, his tone threatening, his eyes glittering like coals. “It’s just as much my business as it is yours.”
She frowned, feeling a shiver of unease creep up her spine. “What do you mean?”
In three strides he was upon her, looming over her, close—so close she could detect his musky, erotic scent. Refusing to be cowed by this obvious attempt at intimidation or by his disturbing masculinity, she stood her ground, repeating tightly, “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he ground out, “that according to California community-property laws, anything you inherited during our marriage automatically becomes half mine.”
He paused, allowing the truth of his statement to soak in, watching until her eyes were wide with understanding. His tone chilly and definite, he finished, “I, my love, am moving into our lighthouse with you.”
She heard her breath catch, felt her heartbeat quicken. “No … never…”
“I knew you’d be pleased,” he observed dryly.
“You’re lying,” she shot back, alarmed. David wasn’t one to make idle threats or to play games. He was a man who got the facts and used them to his advantage. With a sinking feeling that he knew something she didn’t, she found herself close to pleading. “You—you are lying, David. I won’t allow this. I won’t allow you to manipulate me—not anymore.” She flung an arm up toward the rocky cliff where the windows of her lighthouse haven glowed golden in the darkness. “Just haul your carcass back up there and get out of here the same way you came, because I’m not going to put up with any last-ditch—”
“Save your breath,” he cut across her words, as an envelope materialized in his hand. “I had that ass of a lawyer you hired write this, because I knew you’d only believe it from him. He may be a low, crawling snake, but at least he can spell out the law quite clearly.” David handed the letter to her, or rather, placed it in her hand. She wasn’t able to move, she was so stunned. When she said nothing, he went on, “Feel free to read it by the firelight. And when you’ve finished your adolescent display of temper, why don’t you join me inside?”
Crushing the damnable letter in shaky fingers helped her find her voice, and she sputtered, “I—won’t!”
He arched an eyebrow as though it were immaterial to him. “Fine. You can spend the night on the beach.”
Her mouth worked in bewilderment before she finally shouted, “I—I won’t be put out of my own home!”
“I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.” His lips lifted in a cold, sardonic grin. Gina had never seen such an unprincipled look before—especially on the handsome features of her starched, scholarly husband. He went on, almost benevolently, “You’re perfectly welcome—any time.”
He turned away, leaving her to stare dumbly after him. As he took on the hundred-foot incline of stone steps, two at a time, she tugged her stricken gaze from his receding form and looked down at the crumpled letter in her hand. Recognizing her lawyer’s letterhead, she dejectedly unfolded it and read the awful truth: David hadn’t been lying. As usual, he had things well under control. With a feeling of hopelessness enveloping her, she moaned, “This can’t be happening to me!”
Sweetheart Point’s beach had seemed a made-to-order sanctuary, and Gina had fallen in love with its peace and solitude. But right now, she felt invaded. The isolated world where she’d planned to heal and begin again had suddenly become a battleground, with the enemy, at this very minute, occupying her territory like a tyrannical dictator! As she trudged up the meandering, rough-hewn steps, she grew more and more outraged by David’s domineering tactics!
How dare he come here and demand to take up residence with her! By the time she’d reached the white picket fence that separated the rocky cliff from her carefully tended front yard and her pink-blossomed azaleas, she was ready to commit mayhem. Slamming into the bungalow, she almost ran into him.
“Well, well,” he chided easily, looking all too smug. “I see you’ve decided to join me.”
“Listen,” she said, jabbing at his chest with her forefinger. “I may not have the strength or even the legal right to toss you out on your erudite backside, but if you insist on staying here, then there are going to be rules.”
He quirked an eye, looking insufferably amused. Apparently, once he’d set foot inside her domain, his attitude had lightened measurably. He’d probably decided he could coax her back with reason and logic—wear her down, demonstrate to her the rightness of it, as he usually did. Well, not this time!
“What rules, darling?”
“And that’s another thing,” she returned hotly. “Quit calling me that. I’m not your ‘darling.’”
“It’s not a habit I intend to abandon,” he advised smoothly.
She moaned, eyeing the beamed ceiling. “You’re going to drive me crazy!”
“No, Gina,” he corrected her, his tone resolute. “Just back into my arms.”
She shot him a sharp glance. “I’m going to ignore that.” Stalking to the kitchen, she burrowed around in a drawer, tossing odd, unrecognizable things out and cursing freely under her breath. After a time, she came up with what she’d been looking for—a roll of electrician’s tape.
David eyed her curiously. “What are you doing?”
She turned a cunning glance at him, but said nothing. Marching past him, she yanked at the ragged end of the tape, dropped to her knees before the door that led to the lighthouse tower, and began to divide the room down the middle, crawling backward slowly, pressing the tape down as she went.
“That’s very inventive, Gina,” David drawled. “But the rug doesn’t look like it needs fixing.”
She bumped into something and turned around. David was standing there, every inch the enlightened Yuppie, in his hand-knit cardigan, button-down shirt, classic gabardine slacks—even down to his shiny tassel moccasins. It had been one of those shoes she’d backed into as he stood there, long legs planted on either side of her.
“Will you please move!” It had more the sound of a curse than a request.
“What are you doing?” he asked, skepticism ripe in his tone, though it was clear to Gina that he already had a fairly good idea.
Sitting back on her haunches, she scowled up at him. “I’m dividing the house—half for you, half for me. And I don’t want you to touch anything on my side! Is that clear, Professor?”
He eyed her with doubt. “If you’ll notice, the front door is on one side and the bedroom and bath are on the other. There may have to be a few compromises.”
She laughed out loud at that. “You? Compromise? That’ll be cute.”
When she’d turned back to her work, she muttered a spate of words, three of which David could understand. He gritted his teeth. The woman that he would give up his life for had just called him a “bullying, pigheaded jerk.” Things weren’t working out exactly as he’d hoped. He’d fantasized that Gina would run into his arms the moment she saw him. So much for that fantasy! If it didn’t promise to hurt so much, he could almost laugh.
David found himself caught in a trap. Dammit! He loved her so much! Didn’t she know that everything he’d done, he’d done for her? Why the hell was she so mad? He’d only been trying to help when he’d told her how to wear her hair or to give up her penchant for chocolate sodas. All he’d ever wanted to do was show her affection. Was it so damnably bad that he’d improved her wardrobe and her diet in the process?
He’d lived in fancy boarding schools in England since he was ten years old. His dad had been dominating, his mother submissive. That kind of behavior was all he knew. He’d been glad to leave a home where there hadn’t been much love, and though the boarding school had been strict, he’d flourished there, because his instructors had rewarded his efforts. He’d grown up to emulate his beloved teachers—learning to show love by offering guidance. That’s why, even having inherited a fortune, he’d chosen to be a college
professor. He cared about young people and wanted to enrich their lives as his teachers and mentors had enriched his.
But now, the one person in the world he loved beyond all else, wanted to rid herself of him, as though he were an old, worn-out overcoat. He wondered if she’d ever realized he’d tried to keep himself in shape for her. Being thirteen years her senior, he’d hoped all the things he’d done for her would bind her to him so closely that she would never want a younger man; would never regret her decision to marry him. He’d worried about their age difference for years, and because of it, he’d tried to become indispensable to her so she wouldn’t turn to someone else; but now, it seemed that maybe his efforts had been in vain.
It killed his soul to know that he’d lost Gina’s love—that, in her own, devastating words she’d “outgrown him.” But he wouldn’t let that defeat him! He had no idea what to do to get her back. He’d been hurt and confused when she’d walked out, but once he’d been served those cursed papers—well, enough was enough! For her own good, he’d put a stop to this defiant foolishness of hers. Though he was in too damned much pain to have a good handle on exactly what he was going to do to get her back, he was here. They were together; and that was a beginning.
“I said, move!” she repeated, nudging his rock-hard calf with her elbow. “David, I hope you don’t think brute force is going to help.”
He swallowed the angry bile that blocked his throat and made do with a careworn frown. “I’m sorry dar—Gina, but I don’t know what side I’m supposed to take.”
She was startled by his sudden capitulation. “Oh—er…” She decided to give him the side with the couch and the front door, leaving her the bedroom. She waved him that way. “Of course, you’ll have to allow me a path to the door.”
He inclined his head agreeably, but his frown remained intact. “Of course.”
That was easy enough, Gina thought, feeling a rush of satisfaction.
“And which side of the bed would you have me take?”
Her gaze sped to his face. “The bedroom’s on my side,” she explained, fresh suspicion in her tone.
He shrugged his hands into his pockets. “But half the bed is mine.”
“Who says!”
“California’s community-property laws.”
Gina groaned. “Okay, then you take that side. I’ll take the couch.”
He stepped back across the makeshift dividing line before turning to face her again. “Gina, have you forgotten your bicycling accident? With those two fused vertebrae, you have to sleep on a hard bed.”
She dropped her gaze, taking up her backward scooting along the scratchy rug. Smoothing down the tape as she went, she muttered, “My bad back is no longer your business. The couch will be just fine.”
“But, sweet—”
“Don’t!” she interrupted, shifting so that he could see the determination on her face. “David. I’m not sleeping with you, and that’s final!”
His eyes were strangely luminous in the lamplight. “Are you afraid?” he asked.
She blanched. Why did the mention of sharing a bed with him make her feel so defensive? “No! I’m not afraid. How ridiculous,” she lied. “Can’t you understand that I just don’t want you around?”
She backed onto the kitchen’s linoleum tiles, the floor suddenly cold against her bare knees. David didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t look up to see where he was. When she reached the end of the narrow room, she ran into a table leg. Unrolling the tape with a loud z-i-i-i-i-p, she stood and divided the tabletop in half, finally stopping the division where the table butted up against the window.
“David, you may use half of my divided sink if I may use two of your stove burners.”
“This is crazy,” he groused. “Of course, you may use two of my burners. Damn it, Gina how long are we going to play this child’s game?”
She spun to face him as he leaned against the kitchen door, his tall frame filling the open space. “Until you give up and go home,” she vowed quietly.
“I have no home without you,” he retorted, his tone bitter.
She felt the stab of his words, heard the hurt in them, but fought the urge to be affected. Tossing him a contemptuous glare, she flattened herself against the door frame to avoid his touch, and made a brisk exit from the kitchen. “I don’t have time to stand around and chat. I have things to do.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Don’t worry about me. You’re not my mother.” She started to cross the line to get to the bedroom, but looked back at him for a minute, about to ask his permission, but she caught herself. With a haughty sniff, she stalked across his space and disappeared into the bedroom.
After a moment, she noticed that he had come to stand in the doorway. By then, she was lounging on the bed with a pair of scissors, slicing away at a new pair of jeans.
“What in Hades are you doing, now?” David asked perplexed.
She smirked. Naturally, he would find the idea of wearing shredded jeans abhorrent. That fact made her project all the more enjoyable, and she began to whack away with renewed glee. “That’s none of your business,” she reminded him curtly. “But, just for your edification, I’m doing my own thing, for a change.”
“And doing your own thing requires the destruction of perfectly good clothes?” he asked dryly. “Hell, Gina, you’ve done nothing but destroy clothes since I got here. What do you want to be, anyway, a fabric terrorist—or maybe just a nudist?”
“I think nudists call themselves naturalists, these days,” she corrected laconically. “But, no, I don’t think I’ll become a naturalist—unless it will get you to leave!” she added, new hope in her voice.
He laughed. The sound of it seemed almost genuine, and she looked up at him, surprised.
“If you decide to run around here naked, you’d have one hell of a time getting rid of me,” he told her honestly. Then, his face once again devoid of amusement, he added, “But you’re going to have one hell of a time getting rid of me, anyway.”
She clamped her jaws tight. Darn him! Why did he have to have the persistence of a mule? Why hadn’t she foreseen this possibility? Why hadn’t she known about California’s confounded community-property laws? Why did he have to stand there, looking so serious, watching her with those hooded, bedroom eyes?
She cleared the strange knot that had formed in her throat. “Do you mind?” she asked a little hoarsely. “I’d like to try these on—see how they fit.”
“Why? Aren’t you going to burn them?”
“Of course not.” She waved him out the door. “I told you I’m through with hidebound conservatives. Go ’way.”
He simply stood there. “It’s my bedroom. Remember?” he reminded her, obviously prepared to be an obstacle.
She exhaled distractedly and flounced around turning her backside to him. Quickly she removed her navy walking shorts, exposing her bikini-clad bottom to his gaze as briefly as possible. She slipped on the jeans, pleased with the mutilated effect she’d created.
“Very Dadaist,” he offered darkly.
She turned back, her brows knit. She hated it when he used words she didn’t understand, but she refused to admit that she had no idea what he’d meant.
“Dadaist—a meaningless, nihilistic art form,” he informed her coolly, knowing her all too well.
“Thank you Mister Funk and Wagnall’s,” she muttered. “But allow me to remind you that I’ve dropped your course.”
She thought she saw him flinch, but he went on, apparently undaunted, “No doubt you’re a disciple of the Freddie Krueger school of slasher haute couture.”
She was surprised. “How do you know about the Freddie Krueger slasher movies?”
He shrugged. “Even intellectuals hear occasional rumblings from the prosaic, outside world.”
“Prosaic,” she sniffed scornfully. “That would be your opinion.”
“I read somewhere that Freddie Krueger had lost some of his popularity, and that horror
enthusiasts are turning to darker, more psychological thrills in the last few years.”
“Must you always insist on force-feeding me your stuffy insights? I couldn’t care less!” she blazed. “Turn around, David!”
He frowned, puzzled.
“Please!”
“Why?”
With a groan, she relented. “Oh, never mind. Spinning to once again present her back to him, she stripped off her pin-stripe shirt. Deftly she removed her bra, not surprised to hear a low intake of breath from her husband—whom she knew to be highly sexual and aroused quite effortlessly. She gritted her teeth, hoping she hadn’t unleashed a horny monster she couldn’t handle—especially considering her own month-long celibacy.
Realizing she’d been rash not to retire to the bathroom for her striptease, she hurriedly donned a cotton-knit T-shirt.
When she turned to face him, David seemed a little pale, and there was a muscle jerking in his jaw.
His eyes roamed restively over the stretchy lilac fabric. The feminist message I Am Woman was emblazoned across his wife’s liberated breasts. David’s gut tightened with painful longing. He was afraid to try his voice to mention that the phrase was wholly redundant in Gina’s case.
“There,” she sighed, grinning wickedly at his uneasiness.
“Comfortable now?” he managed, his voice tight.
“Don’t I look comfortable?” she asked brightly, stretching her arms languidly over her head. “And you?” She was blatantly taunting him and they both knew it. Deep in her heart, Gina felt that David wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to. This was a rotten thing for her to do. But then again, he’d done a rotten thing to her by moving into her lighthouse! A little good old sexual frustration would serve him right!
David could see the calculating gleam in her eyes and valiantly resisted the temptation to throttle her then and there. His body had reacted vigorously to the immodest display of those soft curves that he missed and craved so. He’d meant to thwart her by not turning around, but his plan had backfired badly. All he had to do was look at the self-satisfied smile on her face to know that he’d lost this round.
