Perfect Partners (27 page)

I glanced up just as the first drop of rain touched my face. Normally I’d pull up a hood and protect my out-of-control curly hair from frizz, worried about how I’d look to Lance and the carefully chosen people with whom he surrounded himself. He called them friends, but none knew the meaning of the word. Instead, I embraced the wildness of the storm that suddenly threatened to release from the heavens. Each warm droplet hit and spread across my cheeks, cleansing my skin and my soul. The wind took flight, lifting my hair, blowing strands onto my face and setting the rest of me free.

“Isabelle!” Lance yelled down from the window he’d opened on the second floor of his Hamptons summer home. It had been too long since I’d considered any part of it mine. If I ever had.

I unwillingly looked up.

“You’ve had your tantrum. Now come back inside, and we’ll talk like civilized people. You don’t want to cause a scene in front of the neighbors.”

Heaven forbid, I thought, sparing a last glance at the place I’d lived for too long. The house was Lance Daltry’s showplace, just as I had been nothing more than an accessory. I may have organized his personal life and thrown obligatory dinner parties, but I’d contributed nothing of substance. He’d never allowed me to spend any of the money I’d earned before I’d quit my interior design job. Unnecessary, he’d said. If I loved him, I’d stay home and take care of the house. More like he’d wanted control, and I’d given it to him.

Luckily for me, I’d saved a good amount from those early days. Not so luckily, I’d let Lance invest my money and maintain control of those accounts. And what were the chances that money would be available for my withdrawal on Monday morning? I closed my eyes at the thought.

Although I’d been in Manhattan for a couple of years by the time I’d met Lance, I was still the naïve girl who’d taken a bus from a small town near Niagara Falls and traveled to the big city alone. Too bad I hadn’t had the street smarts to peg Lance for the phony he’d turned out to be.

“Isabelle!” He yelled down to me again, not bothering to come out in the rain to talk to me, let alone apologize like a man. Not when the rain would ruin his thousand-dollar suit and hundred-dollar haircut.

Not talking
, I thought silently, and merely shook my head.

Talk was what had gotten me to remain in a relationship I knew I didn’t want with a man I couldn’t trust; it was what had convinced me that Lance, a Wall Street trader, was my soul mate when, in the deepest part of my heart, I knew there was no such thing. And most humiliating, talk was what had led me to believe his lies, despite knowing I wasn’t truly satisfied with him or in his gilded cage.

I didn’t need therapy to tell me why I’d been so susceptible to Lance’s charm and desire to own me. The childhood I didn’t like to think about held the answers. But having escaped him now, one thing was certain. I wasn’t going back.

“Would you quit being a child and get back here!” Lance tried once more, patronizing me even though he was the one in the wrong. Another favorite ploy of his.

Shaking, I climbed into my beloved car, slamming the door and escaping Lance’s tirade. I started the engine and paused, breathing in deep, the events of the last few minutes rushing through my brain like a bad film.

I’d been on our shared laptop, searching for recipes I’d stored there. Seeing a file I didn’t recognize, I’d clicked. And the graphic, sexual images of a naked and sweaty Lance along with my beautiful neighbor, who’d dared to call herself my friend, had flashed on the screen. Nausea had risen at the visual proof of what I’d only suspected before.

I shivered at the memory of those images, proud of how I’d walked out without a word—or a suitcase. My body was frozen, my heart encased in ice. Although I could turn on the heated seats, the reminder of what it felt like to be numb with betrayal would keep me safe in the future.

I turned on the ignition, but surprisingly, no water works mixed with the dampness from the rain. Instead, adrenaline raced through my veins faster than even my beloved car could take a highway. I ought to be afraid. Panicked. Yearning to turn around and go back to the security I’d known.

My foot pressed the accelerator, and I backed out of the driveway without looking back. I might not know where I’d go or what I’d do, but I was moving forward. At last.

On the satellite radio, the 1980s Bugles song proclaimed that video killed the radio star.
Untrue
, I thought, as I drove into the dark night. Radio had thrived anyway. And tonight, though video killed my dream of living happily ever after in a life I thought I’d carefully crafted to prevent loneliness, those graphic sexual images of betrayal wouldn’t destroy me. Instead, they’d set me free.

*     *     *

Isabelle: Out of the Frying Pan

I was arrested a mile outside of Manhattan. Grand theft auto, the cop said. Bullshit, I replied. The baby Benz belonged to me.

Still, he cuffed me and hauled me to the nearest police station. He said his name was Officer Dare, and he was a dark-haired man, tall, taller than Lance, who prided himself on his height, and broader beneath his uniform, from what I could tell. His intense expression never wavered. All seriousness, all the time, but I sensed he’d be handsome if he smiled. So far, he hadn’t.

Once inside the typical-looking police station—not that I’d seen the inside of one before, but what I’d thought one would look like from watching Law and Order—he sat me beside his wooden desk and
cuffed
me to the desk.

I ought to be scared, but some stupid part of me had already decided this new part of my life was some grand adventure. At least it was until Officer Dare asked me to empty my pockets and divested me of my last five hundred dollars, cash I’d taken from the
extra
stash I kept in my nightstand.

He thumbed through the bulging stack of twenties in never-ending silence.

The money represented my lifeline. “I’ll need to eat when I get out of here,” I told my jailer.

He didn’t look up. “You’ll get it back.”

“All of it?” I asked as if I seriously believed a member of the police force would take a
down-on-her-luck
woman’s chance at food.

He set his jaw in annoyance. “We log it and count it. In front of you. I was just about to do that … ma’am.”

For some inane reason, I burst out laughing. I’d gone from living in denial to homeless and arrested in a ridiculously short time. This whole turn in my life really was absurd.

I rubbed my free hand up and down over one arm. “Don’t I get one phone call?”

He nodded and reached for the telephone on the desk.

I frowned, suddenly realizing I had no one to call. Lance was out of the question, and
our
friends were really
his
friends. As for my parents, they didn’t remember my birthday, so something told me a late-night call to pick up their daughter from jail would not be their number-one priority.

“Never mind,” I said softly.

The officer stared at me, confused. “Now you don’t want to use the phone?”

“No thank you.” Because I was totally, utterly alone.

Nausea rose like bile in my throat, and I dug my nails into my palms. When I forced myself to breathe deeply, the familiar burning in my chest returned, and I realized I’d walked away without the one thing I never left home without, and it wasn’t my license.

“Any chance you’ve got some Tums?” I asked.

He ground his teeth together, and I swear I heard his molars scraping. “Okay, yeah. I’ll get right on that,” he muttered and strode off.

“I’ll just wait here,” I called back. I lifted my arm the short distance the cuffs would allow and groaned.

What felt like an endless stretch of time passed, during which I reviewed my options, of which, once again, I had none.

Now what
, I wondered, utter and complete despair threatening for the first time. Eventually I forced back the lump in my throat and forced myself to make the best of the situation.

I kicked my feet against the linoleum floor. Leaned back in the chair and studied the cracked ceiling. Hummed along to the tune crackling on the radio in the background. And yeah, I tried not to cry.

“You know, I thought it would take me longer to get you in cuffs.” A familiar masculine voice that oozed pure sin sounded beside me.

It couldn’t be, I thought, but from the tingling in my body, I already knew it was. “Gabriel Dare, what brings you into this part of Mayberry?”

He chuckled, a deeply erotic sound that matched his mention of the handcuffs, but he didn’t answer my question.

Left with no choice, I tipped my head and looked into his self-possessed, dark blue eyes. Eyes too similar to my cop, and suddenly the last name registered. In an unfamiliar place and time, my mind on my arrest and nothing more, I hadn’t made the connection before.

I knew Gabriel Dare from the country club Lance belonged to, but despite the upper-crust connection, there was nothing similar about the two men. Where Lance was sandy-haired and a touch Waspish in looks, Gabe, as his friends called him, possessed thick, dark sable hair and roguish good looks.

Gabe’s very posture and demeanor set him apart from any other man I’d met. His white teeth, tanned skin, and chiseled features were put together in a way that made him extraordinarily handsome. That he owned the space and air around him merely added to his appeal. An appeal that had never been lost on me, not even now, shackled as I was to a desk in a police station.

His stare never wavered, those navy eyes locked on me, and if I hadn’t been sitting, I’d be in a puddle at his feet.

“You look good cuffed,” he said in a deliciously low voice.

Immediate thoughts of me bound and at his mercy assaulted me. My body, which hadn’t been worshiped well in far too long, if ever, had been taken over by the notion of Gabe, his strong touch playing me with an expert hand.

I squeezed my thighs together, but instead of easing, the ache only grew. Heat rushed through me at a rapid pace, my breasts heavy, my sex pulsing in a dull throbbing that begged to be filled. I blinked hard in an impossible attempt to center myself.

He grinned, as if he’d heard every naughty thought in my head.

It had always been this way between us. Any time I ran into him at the club, the attraction had been electric, and when we found ourselves alone, the flirting, outrageous.

One night, Gabe had caught me exiting the ladies’ room. Lance had come upon us then, and once home, he’d accused me of desiring Gabe. I’d denied it, of course.

I’d lied.

Lance knew it, and after catching us talking privately at more than one event, he’d kept a firm lock on my arm. And because I desperately wanted the life I’d chosen to make sense, I’d allowed the possession.

Besides, Gabe always had an elegant woman on his arm, a different one each time. He could have any beautiful female he desired. Why would he choose me? Even Lance, who I’d been with for what felt like a lifetime, liked ownership, not
me
. And let’s face it, my parents hadn’t wanted me either. So believing in myself wasn’t my strong suit.

“So. What are you in for?” Gabe settled in his brother’s chair, propping an elbow on the cluttered desk so he could lean closer. “Prostitution?”

“Excuse me?” I choked out. “You know I’m not a hooker!” I said, offended, the whispers I’d heard when Lance and I had first gotten together rushing back.

Gold digger
and
mistress
were among the chosen words, never mind that Lance’s single-minded pursuit had broken down every one of my defenses.

Gabe chuckled, assuring me he’d been joking. “Seriously, you dress down as well as you dress up.” His gaze raked over me, hot approval in the inky depths, appreciating me in a way Lance never had.

My insides trembled at the overwhelming effect this man had on me. “Where’s the cop with my money?” I asked, glancing around.

“Worried about your stash?” Gabe drummed his fingers on the desk. “Are you sure you’re not a hooker?” he mused.

I didn’t want to grin, but I did. “Why are you so desperate to think I am? Are you a pimp or something?”

He burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the walls of the quiet station. “Not quite,” he said, obviously amused.

The tread of his brother’s heavy footsteps announced his return.

Gabe looked at the other man with a disappointed expression. “Bro, didn’t anyone tell you you’re supposed to handcuff a lady to the headboard, not a desk?” He folded his arms across his broad chest. “It’s no wonder you can’t get any action.”

I ducked my head, trying not to laugh.

A flush highlighted the other man’s cheeks. “What are you doing here, and why are you bothering my suspect?”

Gabe tapped on his wristwatch. Gold. White face. Rolex. All my jewelry was in Lance’s safe, I realized, the thought making me sad. Not because I was materialistic but because some of the pieces, the few I’d chosen myself, I really had liked.

Gabe glanced at his brother. “Didn’t you say you were off at eleven? I thought we’d go check out the club I’m thinking of taking over.”

“Are you really looking for a new club? Or is this trip an excuse to find some new woman to warm your bed?”

His sibling doesn’t pull punches
, I thought, glancing away, not wanting Gabe to see my reaction to the thought of any female in his bed.

“I’m still with Naomi.”

My stomach still twisted uncomfortably.

His brother frowned. “She’s a bitch.”

I cleared my throat, unwilling to sit here a minute longer and listen to details of Gabe’s love life. “Hello? Prisoner still here!” I reminded them with a wave of my free hand.

Gabe grinned at me.

I looked away, not wanting to acknowledge the utter rush of pleasure that small gesture brought me.

“What’s she in for?” he asked his brother.

“Grand theft auto, but her boyfriend dropped the charges.”

Gabe swore under his breath. “That son of a bitch had you arrested?”

I latched onto the latter part of his statement. “Lance dropped the charges?” Relief swamped me, and if I’d been standing, my knees might have given out.