Нора Робертс - Bed of Roses

“What? No. I never said . . . Of course, I love Jack. We all love Jack.”

“We all didn’t put on a red dress and sexy shoes to spend the evening with him.”

“Oh, well that’s just . . . I’m going out.”

“It’s not just that. Em, you’re going out with Jack. You’re sleeping with Jack. Which is what I figured was what, more or less. But I listened to you just now, I watched your face just now. And, honey, I know you. You’re in love.”

“Why do you have to say that?” Distress covered Emma’s face. “It’s just the sort of thing that’s going to mess with my head, and make everything all sticky and awkward.”

Brow lifted, Parker angled her head. “Since when have you thought of being in love as sticky and awkward?”

“Since Jack. I’m okay with the way things are now. I’m better than okay. I’m in an exciting relationship with an exciting man and I don’t . . . I don’t expect it to be anything else. Because that’s not Jack. He isn’t the kind who thinks about what we’ll be doing five years from now. Or five weeks from now. It’s . . . just now.”

“You know, it’s odd that you and Del, who are closer to him than anyone, both have such little confidence in him.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that in this particular area, Jack’s not looking for . . . permanent.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to enjoy the moment.” She said it with a decisive nod. “I’m not going to be in love with him, because we both know what’ll happen if I am. I’ll start romanticizing it, and him, and us, and wishing he’d . . .”

She trailed off, pressed a hand to her belly. “Parker, I know what it’s like to have someone feel that way about me, when I don’t feel that way. It’s just as awful for the one who’s not in love as it is for the one who is.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not going there. We’ve only been seeing each other like this for a little while. I’m not going there.”

“All right.” To soothe, Parker stroked a hand over Emma’s shoulder. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“I am.”

“I’d better run. Thanks for putting these together.”

“Never a problem.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Follow-up consult on the Seaman wedding.”

“I’ve got it in my book. I know they want to walk around the gardens, see them now to project what they’ll want in those areas next April. I’m going to dress a couple of the urns with Nikko blue hydrangeas I’ve been coaxing along in the greenhouse. They’re lush, and should give a good show. I’ve got a couple other tricks up my sleeve, too,” she added as she walked to the door with Parker.

“You always do. Have a good time tonight.”

“I will.”

Emma closed the door, then just leaned back against it.

She could fool herself, she admitted. She could certainly fool Jack. But she could never fool Parker.

Of course she was in love with Jack. She’d probably been in love with Jack for years, and simply convinced herself it was lust. The lust had been bad enough, but love? Deadly.

She knew exactly what she wanted from love—from the down into the bones, rooted in the heart, blooming through the body love. She wanted forever.

She wanted the day after day, night after night, year after year, the home, the family, the fights, the support, the sex, the everything.

She’d always known what she wanted in a partner, in a lover, in the father of her children.

But why did it have to be Jack?

Why, when she finally felt all the things she’d waited all of her life to feel, did it have to be for a man she knew so well? Well enough to understand he was someone who wanted his own space, his own direction, who considered marriage a gamble with long odds?

She knew all those things about him, and still she’d fallen.

If he knew, he’d be . . . appalled? she wondered. No, that was probably too strong. Concerned, sorry—which was worse. He’d be kind, and he’d pull the plug gently.

And that was mortifying.

There was no reason he had to know. It was only a problem if she let it be a problem.

So, no problem, she decided.

She was as skilled at handling men as she was at handling flowers. They’d go on just as they were, and if it got to a point where it caused her pain instead of pleasure, she’d be the one to pull the plug.

Then she’d get over it.

She pushed away from the door to wander into the kitchen for a glass of water. Her throat felt dry and a little raw.

She’d get over him, she assured herself. What was the point in worrying about that now when they were still together?

Or . . . she could make him fall in love with her. If she knew how to keep a man from falling for her—or nudge him into falling out if he thought he was falling in—why couldn’t she make one fall in?

“Wait, I’m confusing myself.”

She took a breath, took a sip.

“If I make him fall in love with me, is it real? God, this is too much to think about. I’m going out to an opening. That’s it, that’s all.”

The knock on the door brought relief. Now she could stop thinking, stop worrying all this to pieces.

They’d go out. They’d enjoy each other. Whatever happened next, happened.

Satisfaction, Emma decided, went a long way to stamping out worry. The look in Jack’s eyes when she opened the door was exactly what she’d aimed for.

“I need a moment of silence,” he told her, “to offer up thanks.”

She gave him a slow, sultry smile. “Then let me say you’re welcome. Do you want to come in?”

Closing the distance, he trailed his fingers over her shoulder, down her arm. Those smoky eyes stayed fixed on hers. “I’m just having this thought about how I come in and we forget about the opening.”

“Oh no.” She nudged him back, and stepped out. Handing him the wrap, she turned her back, glanced around as he draped it over her shoulders. “You promised me strange paintings, lousy wine, and soggy canapes.”

“We could go back inside.” He leaned down to nuzzle her neck. “I’ll sketch some erotic drawings, we’ll drink good wine, and call out for pizza.”

“Choices, choices,” she said as they walked to his car. “Art opening now, erotic sketches later.”

“If we must.” But he stopped at the car to draw her into a luxurious kiss. “I like the way you look, which is amazing.”

“That was the plan.” She stroked her hand over the slate gray sweater he wore under a leather jacket. “I like the way you look, Jack.”

“Since we look so good I guess we’d better go be seen.” When he got behind the wheel he sent her an easy smile. “How was the weekend?”

“Jammed, as advertised. And successful, since Parker talked the clients into renting the tents for Saturday. When it rained, everybody stayed dry. Even better, we scrabbled around for more candles and some of my emergency supply of flowers so we had all this soft light and fragrance while the rain pattered on the tent. It was really lovely.”

“I wondered how that worked out. I was out on new construction Saturday afternoon, and we didn’t. Stay dry, that is.”

“I like spring rains. The way they sound, the way they smell. Not all brides feel the same, but we managed to make this one really happy. And how was Poker Night?”

He scowled at the road as his headlights cut through the dark. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She laughed. “I heard Carter cleaned your clock.”

“The guy hustled us with all that ‘I’m not much of a card player’ routine, and that open, honest face. He’s a shark.”

“Yes, oh yes, Carter’s a real shark.”

“You haven’t played cards with him. Believe it.”

“Sore loser.”

“Damn right.”

Amused, she leaned back in the seat. “So, tell me a little about this artist.”

“Ah . . . yeah, I should do that.” During a beat of silence, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “A friend of a client. I think I mentioned that.”

“You did.” She’d meant the art itself, but she caught enough in his tone to zero in. “And a friend of yours?”

“Sort of. We went out a couple of times. A few times. Maybe several.”

“Ah. I see.” Though her interest spiked, she kept her tone casual. “She’s an ex.”

“Not exactly. We weren’t . . . It was more we hooked up for a few weeks. More than a year ago. Closer to two, actually. It was just a thing, then it wasn’t.”

His uneasiness struck her as both interesting and flattering. “If you’re looking at this as boggy ground, Jack, you don’t need to. I’ve had my suspicions you’ve slept with other women.”

“It’s true. I have. And Kellye—she spells it with an ‘e’ on the end—is one of them. She’s . . . interesting.”

“And artistic.”

His lips twitched, intriguing her. “You be the judge.”

“So, why did the thing stop being a thing, or is that too awkward a question?”

“It got a little too intense for me. She’s an intense sort, and high-maintenance.”

“Required too much attention?” Emma asked, with just a hint of cool.

“

Required is a good word for it. Anyway, it stopped being a thing.”

“But you stayed friendly.”

“Not so much. But I ran into her a couple months ago, and we were okay. Then she got in touch about her opening, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to go. Especially since you’re here to protect me.”

“Do you often need protection from women?”

“All the time,” he said and amused her again.

“Don’t you worry.” She patted his hand on the gear shift. “I’m here for you.”

After he’d parked, they walked through the cool spring evening in a breeze that fluttered the ends of her wrap. The little shops she enjoyed browsing were already closed, but the bistros did brisk business. A number of diners braved the chill for a chance to eat outside with candles flickering on tables.