Karen Templeton - Anything for Her Marriage

Rod leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest again. He wasn’t frowning, exactly, but he sure wasn’t smiling, either.

“And why is that?” he asked softly. “Why do you feel you have to force things to go the way you want them to?”

Her own laughter died as the old, chronic hurt twisted her heart. “Because,” she said on a deep breath, daring to meet his gaze, “single women have to take care of themselves. And since the world at large ain’t too keen on giving its women what they need, forcing things to go our way is generally our only option.”

He didn’t seem to take offense. “Survival instinct?”

“Maybe.”

He surprised her by reaching across the table, capturing her hand in his. “Platinum butterfly,” he said, lifting her fingers to his lips. Just as soon as she collected a few brain cells, she was going to ask him what he meant. He beat her to it. “Durable, exquisite, delicate, all at once.” He let go of her hand, leaned back again. “Quite a combination.”

The calico cat jumped out of her way when she shot up from the table, not knowing where she was going.

“I really must be out of practice,” Rod said behind her. “What did I say?”

Arms folded across her stomach, she paced the tiny kitchen, the cat mewing in sympathetic confusion at her feet. “I’m not sure. It’s just that…” She blew out a stream of air, then faced him, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Stupid, the way she felt dizzy like this. “Oh, man…this is going to sound corny, but no one’s ever called me exquisite before.”

Rod frowned. “I’ve seen that painting, Nancy.”

It took a moment. “Oh…yeah, well, to hear Stan tell it, my main allure was being free and available. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.” No. At the time, she was thrilled that someone of Stanley Metzger’s talent thought her interesting enough to paint. There’d been times when she wondered if he’d married her just so he wouldn’t have to pay a model. But since he’d only painted her once, and she had the painting…

She looked up at Rod, unprepared for the mixture of compassion and apprehension in his eyes, even less prepared to deal with either of them. The wine-induced buoyancy had fizzled out some time ago, she realized, rudely dumping her into a vat of self-pity. At the moment, every mistake she’d ever made seemed to be screaming, “Hey! Remember me?” Or maybe that was her mother’s voice.

Nancy faced her fogged kitchen window, absently stroking the ginger tom, and decided she was too tired and too fed up with life in general to worry about making an impression on this man. On any man. “Call me superficial, but until ten seconds ago, I didn’t know how much it mattered to have someone, anyone, consider me…attractive. To care enough about me to at least…lie…”

Out of nowhere, tears bit at her eyes. She took a deep breath, trying to control them, only to fall apart when Rod took her into his arms.

“I don’t lie,” he said quietly, and she let ’er rip.

She had no idea how long they stood there, how long she cried. But when she was done, rather than feeling better, she felt like an idiot. She pulled away, grabbing a paper towel from the rack to blow her nose and wipe her eyes.

“Just what you needed tonight, I bet,” she said between swipes. “Coffee with a maudlin drunk.”

He’d followed her, only to hesitate—she could see the questions in his eyes, wondering how much to do or say, how far to wade in—before lifting a hand to her face. Kindness winning out over caution, she thought. With one thumb, he wiped away a tear. “You’re not drunk,” he said gently. “And hardly maudlin. My guess is, someone’s been trying too hard. Trying to be what she thinks she’s supposed to be, not what she wants to be.”

Realization sliced through her, threatening new tears, even as she wondered how this man she barely knew could hone in on things she hadn’t even admitted to herself. “Maybe so,” was all she said, then sniffed.

“I know so. Better than you might imagine.” Her eyes shot to his, waiting for the explanation, but apparently none was forthcoming. Instead, he traced one escaped strand of hair with his fingertip, frowning. “Were you serious about no one ever telling you you’re pretty?”

A raw, wretched laugh stumbled from her throat. “Oh, yeah.”

“Not even your parents?”

“Now there’s a laugh.” She swiped at her nose with her hand. “You’re looking at someone who lived her childhood in a perpetually awkward stage. I was too skinny, too short, my hair was hopeless, and my teeth were in braces longer than any other kid I knew. There’s a video of me taken at my brother’s sixteenth birthday. I was twelve, and for some reason insisted on wearing this light green dress. I looked like a praying mantis in a fright wig. A male praying mantis, no less.”

His low chuckle made her shiver. “Trust me. I do not think of insects when I look at you. And unless your ex-husband embellished, the woman in that portrait has nothing to feel inferior about.”

That stopped her. “Really?” she said, realizing at that moment just how much she craved approval, real approval. Part of her was ticked as hell that she did want it, but the other part really didn’t give a damn anymore.

Again, she saw a qualm or two skip across his features, the indecision in his eyes. “Really,” he said, stepping closer. “Nancy, you’re lovely.” His fingertips grazed her temple as his eyes traveled slowly, luxuriously, over her features. “No, you’re not typical,” he said with a smile, which got a weak laugh, “but that’s why I can’t take my eyes off you. Not that I’d dream of embarrassing you by cataloguing your attributes…”

“No, no, please. I’ll take the risk.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and lovely and, in a way, loving. “Okay. You’ve got amazing eyes, first of all, the way they’re deep set like that, the way your brows and cheekbones set them off.” He knuckled her chin. “Great jawline, fantastic chin, a nose the gods would envy.”

She had to laugh. “Yeah, well, considering how much it cost, a little deity-envy is the least it should get. Go on.”

“We’ve already covered your mouth…” His eyes dropped to that particular feature, and she thought how much she’d like him to cover it once more. With his. Then his attention shifted again, this time to her hair. “And this—” he fingered one strand “—is magnificent.”

“You sure you don’t mean ‘wild’?”

“Wild is good,” he said, and smiled for her.

And suddenly she saw it. Her reflection in his eyes. Not of her face, but her need, glittering like molten gold. Still, from what little she knew of Rod, this wasn’t someone prone to acting on impulse, of giving in to something, just because. Sure he’d kissed her—and damn well, too—but he’d also made it pretty clear he was only expecting coffee. If she was smart, she’d take the hint.

If she was determined, she’d take advantage.

“You do want me, don’t you?”

He laughed, a little. “I guess…yeah.”

“You…guess?” Teasing.

After a heart-stopping moment, his lips met hers. Softly. Sweetly. But when he lifted them, he was frowning. “The guessing part isn’t about how much I want to take you to bed. It’s about whether or not it’s right.”

That made sense. Too much, unfortunately. Not that a little thing like scruples was going to stop her. She looped her hands around his neck, no easy feat since he was more than a foot taller than she. “And here I didn’t think you liked me.”

His smile was gentle. His hands skimmed her arms, raising a flock of goose bumps. “Let’s see…you were wearing a sweater that came down past your hips. Black, with huge red flowers embroidered all over it. A long black skirt. And these little flat shoes that made you look like a ballet dancer.” He touched her hair. “It was raining that day, and your hair was all fluffed out like chocolate cotton candy.” His gaze touched hers. “And you smelled like my grandmother’s bedroom, of sandalwood and roses.”