As he left, Kurt had turned to Jared and said, “I’ll look forward to seeing you at the groundbreaking. I hope Lauren is feeling better by then. I would hate for her not to be there.” His smile was mocking, and Jared’s fists clenched at his sides to keep from smashing them into that smirking face.
After that, he had spent several hours getting progressively drunker. The sound of Lauren’s slippers tapping on the floor of the hall had penetrated his alcohol-befuddled mind, and he listened, following their progress.
It surprised him when he heard the front door opening and closing. From his front window, he saw her step from the porch and walk toward the iron gate. She was wearing the dressing gown he had seen before, her hair trailing down her back. She folded her arms tightly to ward off the chill November air.
Bitch! he thought vindictively. She was playing it so cozy with that Vandiver buffoon. He had been right about her all along. She was a schemer, an opportunist, a whore who teased and tormented but never came across.
Well, I don’t give a damn, he swore. But he did. That was what rankled. He did care, and it ate at his gut every time he saw that Vandiver bastard go anywhere near her.
Jared watched her now with the moonlight shining silver on her hair. She leaned wearily on the gate and bowed her head, some of her hair falling forward over her cheeks. Her slender back was outlined by the trim, snug fit of the dressing gown, and with a growing ache in his groin, Jared remembered how her body looked partially clothed. He gulped the whiskey in his glass.
If he had to have a wife of convenience, why couldn’t she be ugly? Why did she have to be Lauren?
His sexual exploits were well known in the capital city, and in others as well. Whores vied for the chance to offer him their services. His ardent lovemaking was followed by a nonchalant, take-it-or-leave-it attitude that challenged every woman’s innate feminine instincts. Perversely they loved him for it.
But when he had been in Austin, he had had no desire to frequent any of his usual haunts. Lauren’s image was constantly in his mind, leaving no room for others. Her body was the one he saw in his fantasies, the one he craved.
Furious with the monklike existence he was leading, he had finally forced himself to go to one of the most exclusive “clubs” in the city. He was greeted enthusiastically. Everyone had missed him. Had marriage spoiled Jared Lockett? they asked.
He had drunk whiskey. He had gambled. But when it came time to choose a woman and retire with her upstairs, he was tired of pretending to enjoy himself.
Striving for objectivity, he surveyed the women displayed provocatively before him. This one was too heavy. That one’s hair was too brassy. Another one was too coarse. And so it went.
Finally, disgusted with the place and more so with himself, he mumbled some lame excuse and returned to his hotel room. Lying alone on the bed, the hard throbbing between his thighs painfully demanded assuagement. He resorted to a means that had been unnecessary since early adolescence.
Afterward, as he was drifting off to sleep, he convinced himself that it was purely an accident that it had been Lauren’s name he had cried into his pillow when the tumult came.
I ought to leave right now. If I did, I could tumble several good whores before morning. But he didn’t want anyone else. No, he decided. What I ought to do is act like a man and tumble my own wife.
Lauren was walking slowly back toward the house. Why not? he thought. She is my wife, isn’t she? She flirts with everyone from the lowliest vaquero at Keypoint to Kurt Vandiver, and God knows how many others when I’m not around.
Why not?
He took one last long swallow of the liquor before he staggered out into the hall.
* * *
Lauren had been miserable when she retired to her room pleading a headache. She threw herself across her bed and cried as she had not done in a long time. The tears were bitter, angry ones, and had no healing properties. She had drenched her handkerchief and the pillowcase before the tears ran out and then she cried in dry sobs.
Elena had knocked and inquired about her, but Lauren sent her away with reassurances that she was feeling better, and only needed a good night’s sleep.
She heard Jared when he came upstairs and went into his room. The house had been quiet for some time when she undressed and climbed into bed. Sleep eluded her. Every time she closed her eyes, Jared’s angry face rose up before her. The lips that had curled in contempt were so different from those that had kissed her. The eyes that had looked at her with such enmity were not the same ones that had looked at her tenderly over the top of his red bandana.
Seeking respite from the agonizing images, she donned her robe and crept downstairs and outside to get some fresh air. The night was quiet and beautiful. Everything was bathed in silver moonlight. The stars were brilliant and close.
Lauren was never sure when the thought took form and solidified in her mind, but all of a sudden it was there. I am in love with Jared Lockett. I love Jared.
Never before had she known the meaning of the word in all its scope. Never had she experienced this all-consuming passion.
Every thought related to Jared. Each word she spoke was weighed against what he would think of it. With everything she did, no matter how trivial, she secretly sought his approval. He dominated her mind. She wanted to share his torments as well as his joys. Was this love? Did it always bring so much pain?
She loved Jared. Smiling to herself, she basked in her secret knowledge as she went back into the house and climbed the stairs.
Jared was standing behind the door in her room, so she didn’t see him until she shut it. She stifled a startled scream. “Jared, you scared me out of my wits,” she gasped, holding a hand against her thumping heart. “What do you want?”
He
was balanced on the balls of his feet as if about to pounce. She noticed for the first time that he reeked of whiskey and his golden eyes shone maniacally. His shirt was opened and the shirttail hung around his hips.