goals, and lifestyles were
all at extreme odds.
Dean claimed that part of him was the man
Kelly had met in Las Vegas, but she hadn't seen an ounce of
evidence to support such a theory. He was cold, remote, and
judgmental. And he'd been avoiding her ever since she'd moved in
here.
Kelly lowered the finger she'd been gnawing
and frowned. On the other hand, Robby had said things: about their
absent father, about Dean's own youth spent shunted away in
boarding schools, and about the endless stream of stepmothers. She
could almost see why Dean behaved the way he did. He practically
didn't have a choice. If no one had treated him with warmth, how
could he know how to treat anyone else with warmth?
She'd noticed his abruptness when he'd met
them out on the patio the other evening. It had been as if he'd
wanted to join in, but had no idea how. As if, maybe, he were
shy.
Kelly combed her hair back with one hand.
Heck, maybe a part of 'her' Dean was inside there,
trapped.
With her hand in her hair, Kelly halted. She
blinked at the colorful her array of her clothes.
Whoa! No. Stop. Maybe Dean had
suffered a lonely childhood, maybe no one had ever showed
him they cared. Maybe that made him wall himself away, in
self-defense.
But more likely he was just a cold fish.
Slowly, she finished combing her hand through
her hair. She had a habit of making up virtuous qualities in a man
to support her attraction. She couldn't do that this time. She had
to keep her eyes open, her judgment clear.
She had to see the man for who he truly was,
and not who she wished he would be.
'Her' Dean, trapped inside. Kelly shook her
head at herself. Not likely. The real Dean was utterly
self-contained, an island unto himself, and happy to be so. He
wasn't needy . She'd see that crystal clear after spending
five hours at the opera with him.
She pursed her lips and reached out to toy
with a cerise silk number. That's right. She could get rid of her
ridiculously romantic vision of 'Dean' trapped inside of Dean by
the end of the evening. She'd see that her husband was not at all
the man she had married.
Hmph. Kelly swept the cerise aside to pull a
purple spandex miniskirt off the closet rack. So actually, this
'date' might not be such a bad idea, after all.
###
On a Saturday night Troy had any number of
parties to choose from, the host of which would have been glad for
his witty, charming presence.
On this Saturday evening he wasn't getting
ready to go to a single one of them. He was sitting in Dean's
formal dining room laying out solitaire hands. As he dealt the
cards, he listened for the descent of Kelly from her bedroom. That
scary interview of hers with Dean in the study had turned into a
date.
Not that Troy was worried about Kelly. She
could obviously hold her own with Dean, which meant,
coincidentally, that Troy didn't have to worry about the outcome of
his little bet with Robby, either. She'd be gone in a week, more's
the pity.
Troy heaved a gusty sigh as he flipped the
cards in a game of Klondike. No, he wasn't worried about Kelly. He
was sitting here all by himself because he couldn't bear to be with
anybody he knew.
He couldn't bear to be with himself, for that
matter. Specifically, he wished he could part company from the
segment of himself that kept thinking about Felicia.
Since Monday and his altercation with her at
the tennis court, he hadn't been able to get the woman out of his
mind. He kept seeing the expression on her face when he'd told her
the news about Dean. She'd resembled a delicate little bird, yes a
delicate little bird that had just gotten shot between the
eyes.
Considering how much Troy hated the memory of
that expression, it was bizarre how often it kept popping into his
head.
"Damn," Troy muttered. "Lost again." With a
vigorous movement, he swept the cards into a pile.
All week he'd been trying to tell himself
that Felicia's shot bird expression hadn't been his fault. Because,
hey, was there anything wrong with
all at extreme odds.
Dean claimed that part of him was the man
Kelly had met in Las Vegas, but she hadn't seen an ounce of
evidence to support such a theory. He was cold, remote, and
judgmental. And he'd been avoiding her ever since she'd moved in
here.
Kelly lowered the finger she'd been gnawing
and frowned. On the other hand, Robby had said things: about their
absent father, about Dean's own youth spent shunted away in
boarding schools, and about the endless stream of stepmothers. She
could almost see why Dean behaved the way he did. He practically
didn't have a choice. If no one had treated him with warmth, how
could he know how to treat anyone else with warmth?
She'd noticed his abruptness when he'd met
them out on the patio the other evening. It had been as if he'd
wanted to join in, but had no idea how. As if, maybe, he were
shy.
Kelly combed her hair back with one hand.
Heck, maybe a part of 'her' Dean was inside there,
trapped.
With her hand in her hair, Kelly halted. She
blinked at the colorful her array of her clothes.
Whoa! No. Stop. Maybe Dean had
suffered a lonely childhood, maybe no one had ever showed
him they cared. Maybe that made him wall himself away, in
self-defense.
But more likely he was just a cold fish.
Slowly, she finished combing her hand through
her hair. She had a habit of making up virtuous qualities in a man
to support her attraction. She couldn't do that this time. She had
to keep her eyes open, her judgment clear.
She had to see the man for who he truly was,
and not who she wished he would be.
'Her' Dean, trapped inside. Kelly shook her
head at herself. Not likely. The real Dean was utterly
self-contained, an island unto himself, and happy to be so. He
wasn't needy . She'd see that crystal clear after spending
five hours at the opera with him.
She pursed her lips and reached out to toy
with a cerise silk number. That's right. She could get rid of her
ridiculously romantic vision of 'Dean' trapped inside of Dean by
the end of the evening. She'd see that her husband was not at all
the man she had married.
Hmph. Kelly swept the cerise aside to pull a
purple spandex miniskirt off the closet rack. So actually, this
'date' might not be such a bad idea, after all.
###
On a Saturday night Troy had any number of
parties to choose from, the host of which would have been glad for
his witty, charming presence.
On this Saturday evening he wasn't getting
ready to go to a single one of them. He was sitting in Dean's
formal dining room laying out solitaire hands. As he dealt the
cards, he listened for the descent of Kelly from her bedroom. That
scary interview of hers with Dean in the study had turned into a
date.
Not that Troy was worried about Kelly. She
could obviously hold her own with Dean, which meant,
coincidentally, that Troy didn't have to worry about the outcome of
his little bet with Robby, either. She'd be gone in a week, more's
the pity.
Troy heaved a gusty sigh as he flipped the
cards in a game of Klondike. No, he wasn't worried about Kelly. He
was sitting here all by himself because he couldn't bear to be with
anybody he knew.
He couldn't bear to be with himself, for that
matter. Specifically, he wished he could part company from the
segment of himself that kept thinking about Felicia.
Since Monday and his altercation with her at
the tennis court, he hadn't been able to get the woman out of his
mind. He kept seeing the expression on her face when he'd told her
the news about Dean. She'd resembled a delicate little bird, yes a
delicate little bird that had just gotten shot between the
eyes.
Considering how much Troy hated the memory of
that expression, it was bizarre how often it kept popping into his
head.
"Damn," Troy muttered. "Lost again." With a
vigorous movement, he swept the cards into a pile.
All week he'd been trying to tell himself
that Felicia's shot bird expression hadn't been his fault. Because,
hey, was there anything wrong with
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