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“I think he’s afraid that deep down I get my confidence and self-worth from men. That he can’t trust me to be faithful to him.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He gets really quiet sometimes. Usually when I’ve mentioned talking to some other man. Then I don’t hear from him for a day or two.”
“Do you ask him about it?”
“Of course. He always says nothing was wrong, and he’s got an excuse as to why he didn’t call. They’re usually good excuses.”
“You were never once unfaithful in a relationship.”
“I was never in any real relationships.” Duane was the first. Hard to believe from a woman with her experience. “And, considering how many lovers I’ve had, how can I expect him to see me as anything but a woman who needs multiple men?”
“You haven’t had a lover, other than Duane, since Matt and Phyllis helped you acknowledge the bulimia, have you?” Annie asked.
“No.”
“Does Duane know that?”
“I told him.”
“And?”
“He says he believes me. He says my past is past.”
“But you don’t believe he means it.”
Sophie shrugged. “I wouldn’t blame him if he doubted me.”
Annie watched her. “Is that because you doubt yourself?”
“I know I can be faithful to him.”
“Of course you can. You know your worth now, Soph. You know that it’s not found in some man’s arms. Or in any man’s opinion of you.”
She’d thought so—until the fear of losing Duane had started to take hold of her. She’d seen the writing on the wall—several times—over the past months as Duane’s political backers became more obvious in their intentions to name him as their candidate in the upcoming election.
People would want to know about the man who sought the power to pass laws in their state. The press would start to dig.
Her and Duane’s safe little world would be exposed. Her past would be exposed.
And she’d lose him. Would be completely alone again.
And she’d started to be more concerned about how she looked. Needing to be certain, if she was going to be single again, that she was still attractive.
She didn’t feel attractive.
“So why do I suddenly feel so unworthy? So…ugly?” she asked, a question reminiscent of the olden days. Certainly the Sophie she’d become would never have allowed herself to be so vulnerable.
Another sign of the depths to which she’d sunk?
Annie’s gaze grew shadowed and she leaned forward. “It has nothing to do with the way you look. You couldn’t be ugly if you tried, Soph. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. You always have been. Those long legs and flat stomach are the envy of every dancer on your stages. And your features are classically perfect.”
She liked her nose. The rest was too…this. Too that.
“You have all those things going for you, but it’s never enough,” Annie continued. “You seem to think you have to be physically perfect to be good enough, and that’s a lost cause. No one is perfect. We’re all flawed. And we’re all beautiful, too.
“What matters is what’s inside the package,” Annie said, her eyes softening. “You know that. And you’re beautiful there, Soph. Even more than on the outside. You keep to yourself too much these days, but the you that’s in there still comes out through your work. You know precisely what lights to use, precisely what shadowing or backdrop, what depth, what timing, what colors to make everything onstage look like more than it is. You take the art we work so hard to perform and make it magic.”
“I went to school to learn how to do that.”
“So did a million other people and no one does a show like you do. Even you can’t argue with the amazing success of Sophie Productions. Your shows have heart, depth. They speak to every single sense every single minute, engaging the audience’s full attention. Performers, directors want you for a reason, Soph, and it’s not your great bod.”
“What about Sam Wynn?” Sophie interjected, needing to distance herself a little bit from Annie’s intensity. An intensity that matched the emotions churning inside her.
“He’s a jerk and should be arrested for the way he came on to you.”
Sam wasn’t the only one. He’d happened to be working on a show Annie was in, so her friend knew about that one.
Mostly the advances, the come-ons, didn’t matter to Sophie. She’d learned to take them in stride, to blow them off, years ago. Mostly.
A guy she’d once slept with told her she “exuded.” She couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Couldn’t really even remember what he looked like. But she remembered those words.
“Exuded what?” she’d asked.
He hadn’t been able to tell her.
She’d watched herself over the years, pulled inside herself more and more in an attempt to make sure she didn’t keep doing whatever it was she did. But it seemed to happen anyway.
And so she’d made certain that no one got too close. No one saw all of her.
Duane came closest. Sort of.
And he knew she exuded. He saw whatever it was she missed. He reacted to it.
Not that he’d said so.
But Sophie knew.
Was it also what drew him to her?
Was he, in his own sweet way, just like all the rest?
Sophie didn’t know, but she had a feeling that whatever it was she did around men was something she’d been doing since birth. Inadvertently inviting them, tempting them, to hurt her.
Chapter Four
DUANE GLANCED AT HIS ROLEX, a gift from the other partners in his firm a couple of Christmases ago. Six-fifteen.
The table was set. With her regular dishes and silver, the ones he’d used with her many times in the past. She had china and table linens—he’d been treated to a couple of anniversary celebrations on them—but Duane felt uncomfortable enough about being in Sophie’s place without her. He couldn’t bring himself to look through drawers and cupboards that she hadn’t specifically invited him into.
He’d had the key to her place for over a year—to let himself out those days he had to leave before dawn to get to court in Phoenix, and hadn’t wanted her to have to drag herself out of bed to lock the dead bolt after him. But he’d never been in her small home without her before.
She’d invited him to use the place like his own. To stay there, if he wanted to get out of the city, when she was out of town.
He hadn’t.
After another peek at his watch, he checked the foilwrapped potatoes he’d put in the oven almost an hour before. They were softening nicely.
A glance in the refrigerator assured him that the steaks had stayed right where he’d left them, soaking in his own special marinade recipe in the Ziploc bag on the second shelf. And the salad still looked crisp.
Six-twenty. The table might not look like much—certainly nothing resembling the lavish, something-from-a-magazine settings Sophie had made for them over the past couple of years—but the flowers were noticeable. He’d personally chosen every single bloom—going heavy on the red roses. Chosen the delicately colored, handwoven basket they were in, as well.
And waited at a specialty importer in Phoenix, one of few florists open on Sunday, while they were arranged.
He might be a man—a lawyer and not talented in the ways of his artistically creative lover—but he could still manage to pull together something special.
For Sophie.
Something in the woman made him capable of moving mountains.
For her.
Six-thirty.
Her flight had been scheduled to land in Phoenix at five. If luggage had arrived in a timely fashion, she could be driving up any minute.
And somehow he had to pull this off. This dinner. This life. He wasn’t ready. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. But time wasn’t waiting for him. He might not have what it took to be there for Sophie in the long run, might not have the confidence to squire a young beauty around town and not get jealous when other men paid attention to her. He might not be man enough to keep her interest, her faithfulness, in the years to come, but if he didn’t try, he wasn’t going to have Sophie.
Patting his jacket, feeling for the thickness of the card he’d slipped into the inside pocket, Duane paced for the umpteenth time from the dining area into the living room and back. Straightened the knot in his tie. Now wasn’t the time to ponder things that were out of his control. Things that were probably not worth pondering.
Now was not the time to get himself worked up over what could go wrong.
Now was the time to think about what was.
Sophie Curtis was a nationally acclaimed theatrical producer who’d put herself through college, owned her home and had true friends who stood by her.
She was also the only woman who’d ever been able, or cared enough, to scale his walls and find his heart.
Six-forty. One more glance out the window on his way through the living room.
“This is ridiculous.” His voice, sounding so loud in the silence, startled him.
And reminded him that he needed some tunes. Mood music. Turning on the stereo occupied about ten seconds. He went for the light-rock station that he and Sophie preferred.
Though he’d tried a time or two, he’d not been able to entice her over to his jazz station. She and Jean Luc Ponty had yet to bond.
And if they never did, that was fine. Lots of couples—longtime married, happy couples—had different tastes in music.
Duane slid a hand into his pants pocket, seeking and finding its sole occupant—the ring he’d purchased a week ago, and picked up that afternoon. Turned out jewelers in Phoenix were open even on Sundays. The velvet-lined case, a dead giveaway, was out in his car.
He wanted to surprise her.
Life presented a lot of unanswered questions, but, finding himself at a crossroads that was going to make decisions for him if he waited too long, Duane had done some heavy thinking.
And come up with one sure thing.
He wasn’t ready to tell Sophie Curtis goodbye.
Six forty-five. Noticing the path he was wearing in her freshly vacuumed cream-colored carpet, he sank into the leather chair in front of the fireplace. When she was home, they sat on the love seat.
Unless they were lying in front of the television. Then they used the sofa.
Raising his ankle to his knee, Duane studied the shine on his wingtip shoe. As far as he could tell the day had produced only one smudge.
He tried to care, but couldn’t work up the focus. Where was Sophie?
Would she be as glad to see him as he would be to see her?
Had she missed him as much?
Would she accept the ring?
And was that someone at the front door? Was she looking for her key? Had she lost it in the bottom of her bag? Why hadn’t he heard her car? And why hadn’t she pulled into the garage and come in through the kitchen like she usually did?
Like he’d planned?
He’d wanted her to see the flowers first.
With nerves tensing his stomach, Duane strode to the front door, a smile of welcome on his lips—in his heart—and a full-carat solitaire diamond burning against his leg.
“Welcome ho—” His voice broke off as he saw the inexpensively dressed, fiftysomething man standing there with a warm smile spread across his face.
“Oh, sorry.” The man straightened, and Duane noticed the brown paper bag he’d just left next to the decorative stone beside Sophie’s front door. The stranger seemed surprised to see Duane there.
The feeling was mutual.
“I, um, left some welcome-home cookies. Chocolate chip.”
Sophie’s favorite. And how did this man know that?
For that matter, how did he know Sophie at all?
Intending to grill the stranger as though he were on trial, Duane affected the proper, intimidating pose, and intended to deliver his first put-the-witness-firmly-in-his-place question.
“You from around here?” he asked when his brain let him down.
“For now.”
