The Other Man

Holding the whimpering baby against her shoulder, she went down the stairs, stepping more carefully now, afraid to trip over the long skirt of her dress.

Hands in his pockets, Aidan was standing in the middle of the living room, his face expressionless, his eyes the color of old pewter. He said nothing, and there was a curious stillness about him as he gazed at her holding the baby.

She drew in a steadying breath of air. “Get out of my house,” she heard herself say. Her voice was not her own. It was hard and frigid and she could not remember ever having spoken that way.

For a moment longer he just stared at the baby, then he turned sharply on his heel and marched out of the French doors into the garden.

How dare he? How dare he? For the next few days, the words echoed in her mind fueling her outrage. Anger was so much easier to deal with than the other emotions-—the pain, the longing, the fear. Easier than the devastating hunger she felt every time she looked at him. She could not allow herself to feel this way. It was wrong and dangerous.

On Wednesday she took Churi to the doctor for her scheduled checkup. She’d gained a pound. “Excellent,” the doctor said, smiling at her. “She’s doing great.”

Afterward they went to the small town’s only supermarket, crowded now with summer tourists who came to the beaches and the mountains. The store was full of the scents of suntan lotion brought in by the people and the fragrance of fresh bread baked on the premises.

With Churi propped up in the baby seat, Gwen pushed the shopping cart through the aisles, picking up bread and vegetables, diapers and baby food, all the while keeping up a conversation with Churi, who looked serious and drooled. A new tooth was coming through.

She met a friend and chatted for a while, dis-cussing babies and baby food brands, then headed for aisle nine to find a can of coffee.

She wasn’t the only one looking for coffee, but by the time she realized that one of the three people in the aisle was Aidan, it was too late to turn back; he’d already seen her.

Her heart skipped a beat and started a nervous gallop. Her legs felt oddly weak. Oh, God, she thought, this is so stupid, so stupid. Why does this happen to me? Why can’t I just stay calm? She clenched her hands tightly around the cart handle as she forced her gaze to pass over him casually, then return to the shelves.

“Hello, Gwen,” he said. So calm, so polite.

She looked back at him. “Hi,” she said coolly.

He studied the baby, who gazed back at him with dark, solemn eyes. Gwen glanced at the contents of his cart, seeing a big steak, jumbo shrimp, a bag of rice and assorted other groceries. Perhaps he and his wife took turns doing the shopping.

“How old is she?” he asked, and Gwen’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“Almost eight months. Excuse me.” She pushed the cart past his and kept on walking.

You should have told him. You should have explained.

I don’t owe him any explanations.

As she turned out of the aisle, Aidan’s wife turned in, a plastic bag of green grapes in her hand. Gwen kept on moving, pretending she hadn’t noticed her, her legs wooden, her chest aching.

At home, she made herself a cup of coffee and a sandwich and fed Churi her lunch. After a nice long cuddle, she tucked her in bed for her afternoon nap.

She had to try not to think about Aidan. She had work to do. She wanted to sell the house. Which meant she’d have to find another place to buy. What place? Where? A little closer to the beach, but not too far from school. Something simple and comfortable and not too big. She’d have to do some looking around, check with a real estate agent. Which one? Joe would know.

“You want what?” he said after she told him of her intentions.

“A real estate agent, to help me sell the house,” she repeated. “It’s too big, too fancy for me, Joe.”

Joe was silent. Joe had been Marc’s best friend and she knew what was going through his head. Marc had designed that house for them. They’d lived there almost all their married life.

“I have to move on, Joe,” she said quietly.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He was all business sud-denly, giving her the name and phone number of an agent he knew personally.

“Have you thought about my idea for the next book?” he asked then.

She hadn’t thought about anything but Aidan and the baby in the last few days. “I’m sorry, I haven’t,” she admitted. “Maybe we should see first how well this one sells. It’s only a couple of weeks before it’s out.”

“Yes, of course. I was just thinking of the possibilities.”

After they’d hung up she glanced around the house. She’d have to sell or give away a lot of the furniture when she moved to a smaller place.

A place of my own. All my own. Guilt swamped her suddenly, settling like wet cement in her heart. Marc had given her a home, love, security, stab-ility. All the things the scared little girl inside her had needed and craved. All the things her mother had said to look for. No, that was not true.

Her mother had not believed in love.

Love was an overrated, dangerous emotion that existed only in people’s fantasies. Love invariably caused grief and disillusionment. Love did not keep food on the table or a roof over your head.

Her mother had been a very disillusioned person.

That night she dreamed of her mother. She looked very old and gray, lying in a white hospital bed, her skin sallow. Her mother was crying. Her mother never cried.

“And what about me?” she was saying over and over again. “What about me?”

“I’m not leaving, Mom. I’m here.” Gwen searched for her mother’s hand. It wasn’t there. She broke out in a cold sweat, searching every-where under the covers. She couldn’t find it any-where. “I’m not leaving, Mom. Give me your hand. Please, Mom, give me your hand.”

“If you go to Africa, I’ll be all alone,” her mother whimpered.

“I’m not going to Africa, Mom! I’m going to stay with you. Just give me your hand. Please, just give me your hand.”

Churi was in her playpen on the terrace while Gwen watered her plants in the wide windowsill of the living room window. The room smelled deliciously of roses. She’d just picked a large bouquet of them in the garden where bushes flourished with abandon. Inside her plants did well, too. Plants were so easy. Just a little care and they grew and bloomed luxuriantly. She liked to take care of things, to see things grow. Plants. People. Babies.

A gleaming, blue-grey Mercedes-Benz came down the road and slowed down, then turned into the driveway. Every muscle in her body tensed and her breath caught in her throat as she noticed Aidan’s big frame emerging from the vehicle. He wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt and his hair looked disheveled. His appearance was in odd contrast to the luxury car, which was probably on loan from his globe-trotting parents. It struck her how easy it was to visualize this tough, rugged man in a Jeep or Land Rover. He strode purposefully up to the door.

Why was he here? What did he want?

The doorbell chimed its cheerful tune.

I don’t want to see him anymore, she thought desperately. I want him to stay away from me. He was shaking up her world, her hard-earned control of her life, her confidence and her peace of mind. She could not allow him to do that. She drew in a ragged breath. Her chest ached.

She went to the entryway and opened the door.

“Good morning,” he said, raking a hand through his hair, as if he realized it needed some attention. It did. He looked in serious need of a shower and a shave.

“Good morning,” she returned, forcing her voice to be calm and polite.

It did not appear to be a very good morning for him; he looked exhausted, his eyes weary, as if he’d been up all night. Maybe he’d had a fight with his wife and she’d kicked him out of the house. Maybe he’d slept in his car. It did not seem a likely expla-nation. Aidan Carmichael was not a man who’d let himself be kicked out of the house.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her body tense, forcing herself to look him squarely in the face.

“I want to talk to you.” A command more than a statement, and it didn’t escape her notice.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Why? Do you want to insult me some more?”

“Insult?” He frowned as if trying to remember what she was referring to, then shrugged lightly. “I was merely stating a fact. In that sexy red dress you looked quite the happy birthday girl.”

Well, she had been. She gritted her teeth. “I was the happy birthday girl, with absolutely no apologies to make! And I have no intention of standing here arguing with you. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, yes, I should.” Without further ado, he put his hands on her shoulders, moved her aside and stepped into the large hallway. She watched in stunned disbelief as he strode into the living room as if he had every right in the world to be there.

CHAPTER THREE

HIS RUDENESS rendered her speechless for a moment. This was not the Aidan she remem-bered—the one with the impeccable upbringing and superb manners and sophisticated ways.

Hands clenched, she followed him, furious for his intrusion. “What do you want?” she asked coldly.

He stepped through the open French doors onto the stone terrace, where Churi sat in her playpen playing with her toys.

He put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you introduce us?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Her name is Churi. I want you to leave.”

He smiled at the baby. “Hello, Churi,” he said gently.

The baby looked up at him with large brown eyes—eyes that looked too big for her small face.

Aidan glanced back at Gwen. “I’d appreciate a cup of coffee. Strong, please.” Another order. Who did he think he was?

Gritting her teeth, Gwen glared at him, her body rigid. “This is not a restaurant.”

“I’m aware of that,” he said with infuriating calmness. He was looking at the baby again. “Has she been ill?”

“No, she hasn’t,” Gwen said tightly, feeling her nerves begin to jump. She wanted him gone—fast, now. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a small town. People talk.”

He cocked a faintly contemptuous brow. “It does not interest me in the least what people might say.” He allowed a significant pause. “I do not arrange my life according to the wishes and opinions of others.”

As opposed to what she had done years ago-according to his opinion. A wave of hot anger washed over her. She wanted to slap his arrogant face, but with an effort she managed to control herself. For a fleeting instant she heard again his voice, saw his face as he had looked at her that fateful evening years ago. You can’t allow your mother to decide for you what to do, and how to live. You’re not thirteen. You’ve got to live your own life. She pushed the memory away, curling her toes as if it were a physical effort.

“What do you want?” she asked coldly, wanting not to feel disturbing feelings, trying to block them out.

“There’s something we need to discuss.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Oh,” he said lazily, “we can think of some-thing. There’s plenty of unfinished business.”

“It was finished twelve years ago.”

His mouth turned down at the corners. “Oh, was it now?” His voice was low. “Then why did you come to my house?” He moved a little closer, his eyes locking hers.

Her heart began to beat wildly. He was too damned intimidating with those pale, piercing eyes in that dark face. Too male, too overpowering.

“Stay away from me,” she said shakily. She felt like a little girl again and she hated it. She hated to feel the insecurity he seemed to evoke in her.

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