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“That’s because it is an intervention,” said Hanna.
“Well, I don’t need one.”
Hanna let out a breath. “Oh, my darling …”
Elizabeth lifted the succulent sandwich. “I don’t know why I should take your advice anyway. You were the one who insisted I seduce him last week. And that sure went to hell in a handbasket.”
“That’s because you did it wrong.”
“I did it perfectly. I rocked in that red negligee. Reed was the problem. He was about to be arrested. How can a man concentrate on passion when he’s about to be arrested?” Point well made, Elizabeth took a bite of her sandwich.
“You need a job,” said Hanna.
Elizabeth swallowed. “Trust me on this. The one thing I don’t need is more money.”
Hanna waved her pickle. “It’s not the paycheck. It’s the getting out of the penthouse, exchanging opinions and ideas with other adults, hanging out with people who have absolutely nothing to do with your husband or with getting pregnant.”
“And you don’t think that will drag us further apart?”
“It’ll give you something interesting to talk about when you get home.”
Elizabeth was about to protest that they already talked about interesting things, but she stopped herself when she realized how hollow that would ring.
Reed was pretty much a workaholic, and he refused to discuss Wellington International with her. He seemed to think business problems would stress her out as much as SEC investigations. But if she introduced her own business issues, especially if there were problems, she was willing to bet he’d engage in the conversation.
Hmm. Getting a job. Developing an identity. The idea kind of appealed to her. In fact, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.
But there was a glitch. A big glitch.
“Who’s going to hire me? I haven’t worked since I graduated from college.” She paused. “With a degree in musical theater.”
“We’re less than five blocks from the theater district,” Hanna offered.
Elizabeth couldn’t picture herself as a script girl or a gofer. It would be silly for the wife of a billionaire to take an entry-level position. Not to mention embarrassing for Reed.
“He doesn’t have to like it,” said Hanna, guessing the direction of Elizabeth’s thoughts.
“Wouldn’t that pretty much defeat the purpose?” She was trying to save her marriage not alienate her husband.
“What do you want?”
Elizabeth suddenly felt tired. “Raspberry cheesecake.”
“And after that?”
“A baby. My marriage. To be happy. I don’t know.”
“Bingo,” said Hanna.
“Bingo what?”
“Get happy. Get yourself happy. Independent of Reed or a baby or anything else. Make your own life work. The rest will have to sort itself out around that.” Hanna paused, her blue eyes going soft along with her voice. “What have you got to lose?”
It was an excellent question. There was little left to lose. If something didn’t change drastically and soon, she wouldn’t have a marriage. She certainly wouldn’t have a baby. She wouldn’t have a life of any kind.
Hanna was right. She had to get out there and get a job.
A job?
Through the open door of the en suite, Reed watched Elizabeth rub scented lotion onto the smooth skin of one of her calves as she got ready for bed.
“You mean you want to sit on a charity board?” he asked. There were any number of worthy organizations that would be happy to have her support.
“Not a seat on a board,” she answered. “I mean a real job.”
Reed was stymied. “Why?”
She shrugged, putting the cap back on the bottle. “It’ll get me out of the house, into the community, help me meet new people.”
“You can get out of the house anytime you want.”
This was New York, and she had an unlimited budget. There was no end to the things she could get out of the house and do, and no end to the people she could meet while doing them.
“Shopping doesn’t give me the same sense of satisfaction.”
He searched her expression, trying to figure out what was really going on. “There’s more to life than shopping.”
“Exactly.” She stood up, replaced the bottle and selected a small jar of cream.
“The Hospital Foundation would be thrilled to have you on board.”
“My degree is in theater.”
“Then the Arts Board. I can make a call to Ralph Sitman. I’m sure one of the committees—”
“Reed, I don’t want you to make a call. I want to type up my résumé and get out there and apply for a job.”
“Your résumé?” he asked with disbelief. She was a Wellington. She didn’t need a résumé.
“Yes.” She turned to the mirror and rubbed the cream onto her forehead.
“You’re planning to schlep around the theater district with a copy of the classifieds under your arm?”
“That’s how it’s generally done.”
His voice went dark. “Not in this family, it isn’t.” If he was lucky, people would think she was eccentric. But some might actually think she needed the money. Like he was some miser who wouldn’t see to her needs.
Elizabeth stepped back into the room, her diaphanous gown backlit until she shut off the en suite light. “Excuse me?”
“It’s undignified,” he told her.
“Earning a living is undignified?”
He tried to stay calm, but he could feel the tension mounting behind his eyes. “You already earn a living.”
“No, you earn a living.”
“And it’s a damn good one.”
She stepped forward and flipped back the comforter on her side of the bed. “Congratulations. Bully for you.”
“Elizabeth,” he pleaded. “What is going on?”
She folded her arms across her chest, unconsciously thrusting her breasts out against the thin fabric. “I need a life, Reed.”
What the hell kind of a statement was that? “You have a life.”
“You have a life.”
“It’s our life.”
“And you’re never in it.”
“I haven’t left New York in months.” And don’t think that wasn’t tough to orchestrate. But he wanted to be on deck for making babies, and he wanted to be around Elizabeth in case she needed anything. It was a tough time for both of them. He recognized that, and he was doing his best to keep things calm and smooth.
“You think this is about your physical presence in the city?”
“What is it about?” He paused. “Please, Elizabeth, for God’s sake, tell me what this is all about.”
She hesitated, her hands dropping back to her sides. “This is about me wanting a job.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know. Whatever I can get. Script girl, production assistant, gofer.” She drew a breath and squared her shoulders. “This isn’t negotiable, Reed.”
He flipped back his side of the comforter, losing his grip on his temper, feeling the argument slip out of control.
“Great,” he intoned. “Our friends and associates will show up to an opening at the Met. They’ll all have dates. I’ll be stag, because my wife will be the gofer.”
“No. Elizabeth Wellington will be the gopher.”
“And you don’t think that’ll be just a little humiliating for me?”
Her jaw clenched. “Then I’ll use my maiden name.”
“You’ll use your real name,” he growled.
“Fine.” She flounced into bed, tugging the covers up to her chest.
Reed dropped in next to her, more frustrated with his wife than he was with the SEC. She couldn’t go slumming backstage at the Met. They’d both be the laughingstock of Manhattan.
He knew he was too angry to argue further tonight, but this conversation was far from over.
He switched off the lamp next to his bed and heard the beep of her digital thermometer. His head hit the pillow, and he closed his eyes.
Her light stayed on. She didn’t move. He couldn’t even hear her breathing.
He turned and opened his eyes, blinking at her profile in the lamplight, trying to figure out if she was too upset to sleep.
She twisted her neck to look at him, distress clouding her expression. “I’m ovulating.”
Reed’s stomach clenched. He only just stopped himself from cursing out loud.
Of all the asinine timing.
How could people be expected to live like this?
“Right,” he said with a nod, keeping his voice as controlled as possible.
He slid closer to her, reached over her and turned off her lamp, slipping the thermometer out of her hand to place it on the nightstand.
They’d made love hundreds, maybe thousands of times. They could do it now. Piece of cake.
He left his arm draped around her and burrowed his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. Once, twice, three times, giving them both a chance to get used to the idea of making love.
Her hair was soft against his cheek, and he ran his hand through it, letting his subconscious kick in and memories wash over him. Her scent was one of the first things he’d loved about her. He remembered dancing under the stars, on the cruise in the harbor, the warm June winds flowing over them as she swayed in his arms in that red dress.
Two minutes into the dance, he knew. He knew he was going to love her, knew he was going to marry her, knew he was going to spend the rest of his life taking care of this funny, gorgeous, intoxicating woman.
Now, he kissed the tender skin of her neck. He trailed his fingertips down the satin of her gown, pressing his warm palm against her abdomen. He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, then moved to her earlobe, drawing the soft flesh between his lips.
He wanted to tell her he loved her, but things were too tenuous between them. He was building a fragile peace, a respite in the midst of the tough conversation that would have to take place in the next few days. He couldn’t hope for more than that.
He fluttered his fingertips along the curve of her waist, up her ribcage, skimming the side of her breast. Desire was slowly but surely thickening his blood. He could feel his breathing deepen and the stirrings of need work their way though his body.
He stroked her shoulder, slipping off the strap of her gown. Then he made his way down her arm, over her wrist, intending to twine their fingers together as one.
But he found a fist.
A tense, tightly clasped fist.
He jerked back to look at her face.
Her eyes were scrunched tight, her forehead creased and her jaw clenched shut.
“Son of a bitch!” He vaulted off the bed.
Her eyes few open, and he was horrified at the grit, determination and aversion in their depths.
