Cedar Cove Collection. Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
blue porcelain vase she was getting ready to display. “If you want to pretend it didn’t happen, fine, be my guest, but I can’t. I wish to God I could because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About us….”
“Rest assured the matter is out of my mind.”
He snorted at that, recognizing her remark for the lie it was. “If you gave us a chance,” he argued, “you might discover we have something worthwhile here.”
“I doubt it,” she said as blandly as she could, wanting him to assume that this conversation was boring her. “I’m afraid you’ve misread the situation.”
He stared at her. “You do this sort of thing on a regular basis?”
She laughed, hoping to sound amused when in reality she felt humiliated and ashamed. “Not in a while… Jon, I’m sorry if you read more into our night together than you should have, but—”
“I know, I know,” he said and raised his hands to stop her. “I get the picture.”
She sincerely hoped he did.
“Our relationship is strictly business.”
She nodded, forcing herself to smile. It probably looked more like a grimace.
He slowly surveyed the back room of the gallery. “That being the case, I won’t trouble you again.”
“I appreciate that, Jon,” she said gratefully.
“Will you mail me a check once the photographs sell?” he asked.
Maryellen didn’t immediately make the connection. “Mail you a check? You mean you won’t be in again?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said starkly.
“Ah…” He had her flustered now. “That’s exactly why I wanted to keep the personal out of this! There’s no need to end our professional relationship, is there? I mean, your pictures are wonderful, really wonderful, and—You will let someone else drop off your work, won’t you?”
The question fell between them and hung there for several tense seconds. While she waited for him to consider her solution, Maryellen clenched her hands behind her back. This wasn’t what she wanted. She was proud to display his photographs. His work brought in customers and paid him well. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. A business relationship.
Jon held her gaze, and in him she saw anger and regret.
“I think it’s time I made arrangements with another gallery,” he said with a shrug that looked anything but casual.
Maryellen bit back words that would ask him to reconsider, that would plead with him to stay. In a small voice she managed, “If this is what you prefer, then I can only wish you the best.”
“It isn’t what I’d prefer,” he told her flatly. “It’s what you want. Goodbye, Maryellen.”
A thickness formed in her throat as Jon turned and for the second time started to leave. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, turning back. He walked quickly toward her. “Don’t worry,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “Like I said, I don’t plan to bother you again, but I would like one last memory before I go.”
“What?” she asked, her voice trembling, reacting to the shock of his touch.
“This,” he said hoarsely. Then he kissed her as if it was the only thing that had been on his mind from the moment she’d dashed out of his home. His kiss was hard and hot and unbearably slow. By the time he tore his mouth from hers, the blood was pounding in her ears.
Maryellen tried to prevent herself from giving him the satisfaction of a response, but when he released her, she staggered back two steps and gasped for air. Her hand went to her throat in an instinctive reaction.
Muttering something she couldn’t quite hear, Jon left and this time she knew it was for good. Her legs were unsteady and Maryellen felt close to tears. Making her way to the coffeepot, she poured herself a cup and was shocked by how badly her hand trembled as she filled the mug.
He’d kissed her like that because he wanted her to remember him. To remember the night they’d spent together. His ploy had worked far too well. Maryellen shut her eyes, and their slow, seductive lovemaking played back in her mind. She recalled how he’d touched her, the feel of his strong, masculine hands as he’d explored her body, caressing her first with his fingers and then his tongue. She remembered in vivid detail the sensations she’d experienced as he made love to her. She’d wanted him with a passion that was difficult to renounce.
She hadn’t set out to hurt Jon, but she could see that she had. In the process she was hurting herself, too. Jon didn’t understand why she’d rejected him. He didn’t know, and he never would. She’d sent him away for a reason that lay buried deep inside her.
She’d walked this path once before and still bore the scars. Sometimes emotional wounds were harder to heal than physical ones. Sometimes they never healed at all.
Strings of Christmas tree lights were spread out on the living-room floor when Zach woke on Saturday morning.
“Hi, Dad,” Eddie said when Zach looked in, yawning, on his way to the kitchen. His son sat amid the lights, straightening them and draping the long cords along the back of the sofa.
“What are you doing with those?” he asked. Rosie liked having the outside of the house decorated with Christmas lights, but he’d always found it a nuisance. He glanced at the clock and saw it was barely seven. Apparently Rosie was already up.
“Mom got them out,” Eddie explained, and stuck the plug into an outlet. Lights instantly blazed, nearly blinding Zach.
He suspected this was his wife’s less-than-subtle hint that she wanted him to string up the lights this morning. Great, just great. She might’ve mentioned it earlier, but then they weren’t on the best of terms these days. Remaining civil during the Christmas holidays was going to be difficult if Thanksgiving was any indication. Somehow they’d made it through the day without a major blowup—probably because Rosie had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with her sister, no doubt complaining about him.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked irritably.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?” Zach checked the time again. “Where is she now?”
“Christmas Bazaar at the high school.”
“What’s she doing there?”
Eddie shrugged. “She didn’t tell me. Can we go to McDonald’s for breakfast? I’m getting tired of Pop-Tarts.”
Zach stared at his son. This nine-year-old kid actually believed the alternative to Pop-Tarts was a meal outside the home. Rosie had gotten so lax in carrying out her responsibilities as a full-time wife and mother that their children didn’t even know that most families ate meals together around a table.
“Dad?”
Eddie’s urgent cry cut into his thoughts. “Look!” He pointed to the television. “That’s what I want for Christmas.”
Zach studied the screen and watched some remote-controlled monster truck propel itself over a huge dirt mound with a deafening roar.
“Mom said I could have it.”
“She did, did she?” Zach would talk to Rosie about that. He wasn’t forking over a couple of hundred bucks for a stupid toy. Wandering into the kitchen, he discovered that the coffee wasn’t on but his wife had taken a moment to jot him a note, which she’d propped up next to the automatic drip pot.
Working until four at the Bazaar. Put up the outside lights, okay? Allison’s at a slumber party and will need a ride home. If you have a chance, would you buy the Christmas tree? See you later.
Rosie
His