Unwilling Wife

by Renee Roszel

  He shrugged his broad shoulders, eyeing her somberly. “It’s a tough business, Gina. About as tough as making nuclear fusion a feasible energy source by next year.”

  With a defensive thinning of her lips, she shot back, “I already have an interested publisher.”

  “That and four dollars will buy you a cup of coffee.”

  With her face set, she declared, “‘Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us/To see oursels as others see us!’” With that, she jumped up and headed toward the door. When she’d opened it, she turned back just long enough to fling two words at him. “You bore!” she shouted, and dashed outside.

  The slamming of the door echoed in his brain for a very long time, but not as long as the crushing insult. Bore? He closed his eyes. Absolutely. He had been a condescending bore. He sat back heavily, allowing his scientific periodical to slide to the floor. What in hell had he thought he was doing when he’d provoked her? What did he think she was? Some kind of masochist who loved to be hurt and who’d come rushing into his arms for insulting her like that?

  He had no excuse—only that he’d been desperately unhappy, and had tried to hide his misery behind sardonic wit. The truth was, all he wanted in the world was to know how to love her the way she wanted to be loved. But right now, all she seemed to want from him was for him to leave her alone.

  He didn’t know how to ask for her love. His father had been a tough-minded man who’d never shown much softness to either David or his mother. Might Meant Right! had been Robert Baron’s iron-fisted credo, and it had done his son more harm than good.

  Not wanting to be like his father, but knowing he was more like him than he cared to admit, David had always tried to use kindness in his relationships, depending on reason and instruction to show how much he cared. For ten years, he’d thought his efforts had broadened Gina’s horizons and drawn her close to him. Clearly, he’d been wrong, and he was at a loss as to what to do now.

  One thing he had learned at his father’s knee was that a Baron couldn’t beg, couldn’t belittle himself. Dammit! He’d find a way to win her back—without groveling.

  Feeling empty, he got up and crossed the room to look out the window. Far below him, on the beach, he could see her rigid form as she tramped away, wind whipping her hair. Staring at her he saw something he hadn’t noticed in a long time. Though stiff with anger, her shoulders were beautifully erect—as they had been when he’d first met her. Strange. He hadn’t realized, until now, she’d lost a fraction of that splendid, proud stature over the years. He’d loved that confident stance of hers and felt a surge of delight to see it had returned. With a gruff, ironic grunt, he tried to shake off the feeling. He didn’t want to be glad about anything she’d begun to do since she’d moved away from Boston!

  Heading briskly along the beach now, she looked as though she was being chased by the devil. His lips quirked with melancholy. Perhaps she was—and he was the demon at her heels. That was the last thing he wanted to be to his proud, strong Gina. Why had his life turned into such an ironic mess?

  As he watched her, he was surprised to see that she’d begun to drag an old rowboat toward the water. Even from where he stood, the boat didn’t look seaworthy. Without stopping to think about it, he bolted from the lighthouse and headed off after her.

  By the time he’d descended the stone steps and was loping along the sand, she was clambering into the boat. David shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She settled into the weathered craft and took up the oars before tossing him a defiant glance. “Leave me alone, David!” she called. “I can row out to Sweetheart Island if I want. Don’t bother me. I want to be alone!”

  He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the place where she’d entered the water. Fully dressed, he didn’t relish plunging into the surf after her, but he had a bad feeling about the boat. “I don’t know, Gina. I’m not sure what you’re doing is a good idea.”

  “Shut up, David. Stay out of my life!”

  She was rowing erratically, but managing to move away from shore. By now she succeeded in escaping to almost twenty yards out.

  Knowing her present state of mind, if he persisted in arguing, she might decide to spend the night on that tiny island to spite him. The nighttime chill would do her no good, since she was wearing such a skimpy outfit. He clamped his jaws shut, and against his better judgment, watched her row farther and farther away.

  Gina was near tears. She’d managed to hold them back all day, managed to keep from letting him see how terribly torn she was feeling. Yesterday’s romp in the sand had done calamitous injury to her determination to change her life.

  He was so gentle, so sensitive to her needs when they were naked in each others arms. She was sure that there were many marriages that would be made perfect if other men knew how to please a woman the way David could please. If only her husband could be as sensitive to her needs out of bed! She struggled to control the wobbling boat, rowing unevenly through the ocean’s swells. She was no sailor, and her efforts were marginally successful at best.

  Tears blurred her vision, and the tiny sand island grew indistinct in the distance. She needed to get away and be alone so that she could cry—sob, scream, tear at her clothes—until David was out of her system. She couldn’t allow yesterday to color her thinking. If she did, he would lure her back into his silky web with soft words and expert loving, and there she’d be, trapped again, to serve out her life—lost, invisible.

  She’d fallen in love with him for his bold aggressiveness, but it had become all to clear to her that for a man to be successfully bold and aggressive, his mate had to be constantly weak and submissive. She forced her mother’s face into her mind’s eye, holding it there, reminding herself what her fate would be if she allowed David to lure her back.

  Her mother’s eyes had been so dull and hopeless, as she smiled, saying, “My John was everything to me, just as David is to you, Gina. We’re so much alike.” Chills still ran down her spine when she thought about it. Dead—long before her time because she forfeited her identity to please her man. What a stupid, tragic loss. No human being should abandon themselves to another person: not in body, mind or soul!

  Gripping tightly on the oars, she bit off a sob. She couldn’t let the same thing happen to her. She wanted to make a contribution to the world—even a small one, but one of her own. She just had to do something—create something, and David must understand that. Now it was her turn to be bold and aggressive. And maybe it was David’s turn to stand back and listen—however bitter that lesson might prove to be.

  She leaned into her rowing, hauling back on the oars with all her strength, sniffling and blinking away tears. He’d stopped shouting after her. That was good. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she could see him there. Legs braced wide, his hands fisted on his hips, he stood still, mute, watching her, his expression harsh and unhappy.

  She turned abruptly away, bent on showing him once and for all that she meant what she’d said. They were finished. But first, she had to have a good, private cry. She stopped rowing long enough to wipe her eyes. Shifting for a better position, she moved her feet wider apart, surprised that when she did, water sloshed over the tops of her canvas shoes, chilling her ankles.

  She looked down, baffled. There shouldn’t be water inside the boat! To her horror, she saw that not only was water in the boat, but it was rising fast. It had come in suddenly, and hadn’t even had the time to soak through her shoes. Now, seconds later, it had already risen to lap around her bare ankles.

  Rowing was becoming futile as the boat moved sluggishly, though she’d never gotten the process all that smooth before she’d sprung a leak.

  The island was about fifty yards ahead of her. She spun around to stare back at the shore. She jerked off a shoe and began to bale water from the sinking boat. It quickly became evident that her efforts were too little and too late. For every shoeful of seawater she tossed overboard, several inches crept up her l
egs.

  She gritted her teeth. She didn’t want to call David for help after having told him in no uncertain terms to leave her alone, but she was frightened. Seconds later, the boat slipped beneath the surface. It had listed slightly to the left, and then to the right before it went under with little more than a soft “glug.” As her own personal Titanic went down, Gina gave out a cry, belly flopped into the water and began her panic-stricken battle toward the beach. Thirty grueling seconds passed as she flailed along. Her eyes stinging with salt, her throat raw from swallowing water, she abruptly stubbed her toe on the sandy bottom.

  It came as a shock to her that she was struggling valiantly to survive in what turned out to be three feet of water. When full realization hit, she stumbled to a standing position and began lurching toward the beach. The ocean current nudged her in that direction as though it were taunting her for her foolish hysteria.

  Once she reached the beach, bedraggled and very shaken, one shoe on and the other lost, she tossed David a look that was dagger sharp, daring him to say it—daring him to suggest she would have been better off walking out to the island. Okay! Maybe she would have been, but how was she to know the water was so shallow? She’d never chanced going even ten feet offshore before. She believed in the buddy system—that it was dangerous to venture too far out alone—and before David had arrived, she’d been by herself. She couldn’t be blamed for her ignorance, and she wouldn’t allow any smirking, almost-ex-husband to ridicule her for it.

  He was standing there, fully clothed. Dry. Pressed. His expression was not even vaguely amused, which was the only thing that saved his life. And, though he was frowning, he did show signs of relief around his mouth, as though he’d spent a little time during her agonizing experience worrying about her.

  Pulling her shoulders erect, she glared at him and protested hoarsely, “You could have done something! I almost drowned!”

  Pursing his lips, he shrugged his hands into his pockets. When he merely continued to consider her with those disconcerting eyes and made no effort to defend himself, she marched by him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing that when she thought she was about to be devoured by sharks, the last thing she’d thought of was David Baron. Damn him!

  As she stalked away, her one soggy shoe making embarrassing sucking noises, she thought she heard him mutter something. What was it that he’d mumbled, she wondered? Absently squeezing water from her soggy hair, she sloshed off down the beach, trying to decide. It had sounded something like, “Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

  5

  Thunder cracked, startling Gina from her reverie. She looked up, realizing for the first time that clouds had rolled in. Odd, she thought. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees, and, even soaking wet, she hadn’t noticed the sudden chill in the air.

  As thunder rumbled again, fat drops of rain began to crash and explode about her. She started to run along the beach to the lighthouse. Just why, she wasn’t sure, since she was already soaked to the skin. The rain wasn’t likely to ruin her tangled coif or her drenched clothing. Maybe it was just the years of conditioning to dash inside when it started to rain that prompted her flight. Or maybe it was because she could hear David’s thudding footfalls approaching rapidly from the rear.

  It had probably taken him a few moments of thinking about it—allowing his fury and frustration to rise—before he’d finally decided to give her a good tongue-lashing, outlining to her the error of her ways. Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction; she was going to beat him to the house and then lock herself in her bedroom—his bedroom. Whatever.

  In her attempt to keep ahead of David, Gina lost her other shoe. By the time she’d hit the crest of the cliff and was dashing for the picket fence, her breathing was coming in harsh gasps and the rain was pelting down heavily. David, not breathing noticeably hard, was pulling slightly ahead. She groused inwardly over the fact that she’d quit jogging when she’d left him. Plainly, she’d gotten badly out of shape in the last five weeks.

  When he made the gate, David surprised Gina by leaping it with the grace of an Olympic hurdler. It rankled her to have to stop and fumble for the latch. By the time she’d made the door, he was already there. But he hadn’t gone inside. Instead he was standing on the covered porch staring down at something.

  Gina halted, panting, just behind him. “What are you—looking at?” she wheezed.

  “I think it’s a cat,” David observed, breathing a bit heavily himself. “But it’s damn ugly, if it is.”

  The ball of bedraggled gray-and-white fur was cowering and hissing in a dry corner, half hidden behind a potted geranium.

  Gina knelt, forgetting that she was now chilled and soaked through. “Oh, the poor thing,” she cooed, trying to sound as unthreatening as possible. “David,” she whispered, “do you have any tuna fish in your larder of disgusting health food?”

  “I have some water-packed white-chunk.”

  She peered up at him. “I don’t care if it was packed by marauding hordes of wild-eyed members of Greenpeace. Would you open a can? This poor thing looks half starved.”

  “It also looks like it would as soon kill you as look at you,” he observed darkly.

  She glanced up at him, noticing for the first time that he was now soaking wet, too, his Yuppie attire plastered to his body. She couldn’t help but smile wryly. “You don’t look so good yourself.”

  His frown deepened. “How bad do I have to look for you to care about me?”

  With an unhappy sigh, she turned back to inspect the cat. “Please—just get the tuna. Seems like this poor animal was dumped. He needs our help.”

  He decided not to argue. Turning to go, he muttered, “I’ll get the fish but I don’t think it’s a good idea. That thing could have rabies or something.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the stray was inside the kitchen, stomach full of water-packed tuna. Contentedly cleaning his fur, he was purring, curled up on David’s lap. David, having changed into dry clothes, was far from contented, however. He sipped a cup of decaf and scowled down at the unkempt beast that had forsaken Gina’s cooing ministrations and leaped determinedly into his lap a short time before. “Why the hell my lap?” he growled.

  Gina, who now wore jeans and a dry T-shirt, her hair wrapped in a towel, was fixing herself a hot dog. “He likes you, David. Why he chose you over me, though, I can’t imagine.”

  “I hate cats.”

  She spread mustard over her bun and grinned at him in spite of herself. “No, you don’t, David. You just haven’t ever been around animals. All men think they hate cats until they’re around them.”

  “I’ve been around animals. I was born on a ranch.”

  “Yes, but you were a little boy when you went to that boys’ school in England.”

  His expression, as he met her gaze, was skeptical. “Nevertheless, this is the ugliest cat conceivable. Not to mention the fact that it has only half a tail.”

  Gina’s smile faded and she looked suddenly sad. “All the more reason why the poor little guy needs love. He’s had rough treatment at somebody’s hands. Look there.” She indicated the purring feline. “Why, some food and human warmth is all in the world he wants. It’s little enough for one of nature’s creatures to ask.”

  David’s expression changed from skeptical to somber, and the gaze he turned on her spoke volumes. He was saying, All I want from you is a little human warmth, my love. The plea was so clear, etched in the pain in his eyes, he might just as well have screamed it at her. Unable to deal with his feelings of rejection, she pivoted away and piled relish on her wiener.

  When she’d finished constructing her meal and was walking to her side of the divided table, she noticed David absently lay his hand on the cat’s back. He was watching the animal, and when it switched from licking its fur to licking David’s hand, he murmured, “Dumped, huh? I know the feeling.”

  Gina heard that exchange, even though it had been low and barely aud
ible. She only wished she hadn’t.

  Halfway through Gina’s hot dog, the phone rang. David looked toward the phone and then at her. The cat didn’t stir.

  Gina mouthed the words, “I’ll get it. You sit.”

  When she picked up the phone she whispered, “Hello? Oh, hello, Paul. Whispering?” She laughed, raising her voice to a normal level. “Sorry. We found a cat. It’s sleeping, but I guess whispering is a little much.”

  David was now listening intently. Paul? What in the hell did he think he was doing, calling back? David had thought the last time they’d seen him would be the very last. Paul had been miserable, poor guy. Looking back on it, David felt a little badly—not badly enough to invite the young milksop to dinner and apologize, but a little badly.

  “Oh, sure, Paul. That’s nice of you. We’ll be here.” Gina started to hang up, but had a thought. “Oh, Paul? Could you pick up some cat food and a litter box? I’ll pay you when you get here. Thanks.” She hung up.

  David couldn’t stand it. Sleeping cat or no sleeping cat, he called out, “He’s coming out here?”

  The cat’s eyes opened, but only languidly. He stretched, yawned and went back to sleep.

  Gina returned to the kitchen. “He’s bringing out the part for the oven that’s been on back order. Clute Bradly’s wife has gone into labor, so he’s closed down the hardware store for the day. Paul said Clute gave him instructions about how to install it and asked him to deliver it since Paul was coming out this way to look over some property. Naturally, being an agreeable man, he said he’d do it.”