She had packed her bags the moment Josh had retreated to his room. She had stuffed all the clothes she'd so carefully folded into the bags, dressed hurriedly, and, looking to see that she'd left nothing behind, gone to the check-in desk at Seascape.
Getting someone to drive her to the airport had been no problem. Even the paper work involved in renting a car for the rest of the trip home was handled smoothly. Or was it that she was so immersed in her heartache that she didn't notice the hassles?
With every mile that had clicked off between Hilton Head and Atlanta, she'd sworn that she hated Josh. He had mocked her, insulted her, made something sordid out of the splendor they'd shared, cheapened her unrestrained, loving responses to him.
But by the time she reached her dark, lonely house, she admitted that she'd provoked him to say what he had. It would have been so easy to reasonably suggest that he call Barnes himself and have him repeat verbatim what Clancey had said. Josh could have evaluated it himself. Maybe Barnes had been overreacting.
But she hadn't made such a suggestion. She had let pride and stubbornness blind her once again. At his first sign of indifference to her news, she'd gotten her back up. Once that happened, Lord help anyone who tried to dissuade her from the position she'd taken.
God help Josh, was her prayer all week. The newspaper accounts grew less informative, and by Wednesday they disappeared altogether. Then she had to rely on the grapevine for information. Filtering rumor from truth became a time- and energy-consuming enterprise, but she was eager to hear the latest developments.
“I think Clancey is seeing the error of his ways,” Barnes told Megan and Jo Hampson at the coffee machine. “Seems the folks at Air South aren't convinced that Powell can carry off the campaign with the panache that Bennett can. Clancey's hearing his own death knell.”
As Megan left them to return to her office, she heard Barnes say, “Hey, Jo, how about dinner some night?”
Megan's lips lifted into a smile, which seemed to be rare these days.
Time dragged by as she waded through the paper work that had collected during her brief absence. At night, exhausted but unable to sleep, she longed for Josh. She cursed her body's aching need for him. He flitted in and out of her mind in glorious memories of their days together at Hilton Head. She saw him in every attitude—teasing her as he dragged her into the ocean, his eyes alight with mischief; laughing, his head thrown back, his eyes shining with delight as they sailed over the ground in the swing; languorous, as they lay enmeshed on her bed, his eyes glassy with the aftermath of loving her.
&n
bsp; Somehow she made it through the week.
She arrived home late Friday evening after battling traffic that, had it been choreographed, couldn't have become more entangled. Shrugging gratefully out of her clothes and pulling on a thin cotton robe that zipped up the front, she padded barefoot into the kitchen to eat the pizza she'd ill-advisedly crossed six lanes of traffic to pick up.
“Damn.” As she pulled the top of the cardboard box away, the mozzarella she'd paid an extra dollar for stuck to it. It was the proverbial last straw. Dropping dejectedly into a chair, she laid her head on the butcher-block table and wept.
Her thin shoulders shook convulsively; tears coursed down her cheeks. She wept for the husband she hadn't loved enough, for the man she loved now. She cried for their lost love. She wept because she couldn't go to him now, when he needed her most.
Mascara dripped onto the surface of the table, and she smeared it even more when she tried to wipe it up with her hand. “What the hell difference does it make?” she sobbed. “Who ever sees it?”
“Did you say something?”
She spun around on the chair seat, fear clutching in her throat at the low, masculine voice. Josh was leaning against the doorjamb. His face looked almost as ravaged as hers must. There were dark circles under his eyes, his cheeks seemed sunken, and his rakish brow had lost some of it's cockiness. His suit coat was slung over one shoulder and held there by a crooked index finger. His vest hung open. White shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows and his tie was loosened. It gave her a vague sense of comfort to know that Joshua Bennett's clothes could wrinkle just like anyone else's.
She swiped at the tears on her face and stood up slowly. For once she didn't bristle, didn't squawk. She didn't demand to know what he was doing there. She did exactly what she wanted to do.
She walked into his arms.
They came around her like a protective cloak and hugged her tight. For long moments they clung to each other, not speaking, not kissing, not caressing, only rocking together. She imbibed his strength. He was what she wanted.
“Why were you crying?” he asked at long last, taking her face between his palms.
“My pizza,” she said, gesturing offhandedly.
A corner of his mouth twitched. As she had been all week, he seemed unable to smile. After a moment he tried it again, and grinned narrowly. “What's wrong with it?”
He maneuvered them backward toward the table, sliding his feet, careful not to step on her bare toe. He lifted the box top and saw the damage. He made a regretful sound, then pinched off a string of the cheese and popped it into his mouth. “Salvageable. Maybe.” He swallowed noisily and coaxed a smile from her trembling lips. “Why were you crying?” he asked again. His eyes probed hers, searching for answers.
“For me.”
“Why?”
“I'm abysmally unhappy.”
“Why?”
“The man I love is going through a very difficult time and I'm afraid he wouldn't want my offer to help him in any way I can.”