As if a bath could wash away her sin.
“Ryan…”
But he was already disappearing down the stairs.
She slumped against the wall. Her darkest secret… and he didn’t want to talk about it.
Numbly, she returned to the bathroom and sank down on the side of the tub. She’d never planned to trap him. But then one night she’d heard herself say that she was on the pill, and he didn’t have to worry. Since she was Winnie Davis, he’d believed her.
She had responsibilities, so she turned on the faucets. The concert was this afternoon, the reception. If only she could be like Sugar Beth-callous and self-centered, utterly without conscience. She began to cry. How long did a person have to pay for old sins? Her lie had made Gigi, so she couldn’t regret it. Why, then, did she keep hating herself?
Maybe because Ryan had never done the job for her.
Sugar Beth smelled coffee. And bacon. She loved bacon. She rolled over, saw that it was nearly eleven, and headed for the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she was on her way downstairs wearing clean underwear, a black satin Victoria’s Secret robe she’d had forever, and her oldest pair of cowboy boots. She’d washed her hair, but she hadn’t taken the time to dry it. She also hadn’t bothered with makeup. After yesterday, Colin Byrne didn’t deserve more than clean hair and a little moisturizer.
Her muscles ached from hard work and righteous indignation, but more than that, she felt relief. Whether Colin knew it or not, he’d finally forgiven her. The burden she’d carried for so long had been eased at last.
He stood at the stove in the small kitchen, his back turned to her, his presence dominating the small space. Just looking at him made her want to rip off his clothes and drag him upstairs.
“I was getting ready to wake you up.”
She wished she’d stayed in bed longer and let him do it. That ol’ black magic-falling for the wrong man. Except she wasn’t so stupid now. It might have taken her awhile, but she finally knew the difference between lust and love. “Good Lord, are you really wearing jeans? Give me some coffee fast.”
“They’re custom made,” he said as she pulled one of Tallulah’s Wedgwood cups from the shelf and helped herself. “French. They cost over three hundred dollars a pair, but I think they’re worth it.”
She studied the way the denim conformed to his hips beneath the Gap label. “Those Frenchies sure do know something about making jeans,” she said dryly.
“I heard your admirers last night.”
“Cubby and the boys?”
“Celebrating their graduation from idiot school, no doubt. One egg or two?” He cracked two into the skillet.
“Tell me there’s a box of Krispy Kremes hidden somewhere.”
“You’re lucky the toast isn’t whole wheat.” He took in her satin robe and the cowboy boots. “Fetching.”
“You are the only man in Parrish with the nerve to use a word like that. Where’s my dog?”
“Outside. He doesn’t seem inclined to wander.”
“Too obstinate.” She carried her coffee to the kitchen table and sat. “I smell bacon, so why am I not seein’ it?”
“I’ll make you a fresh batch.” He scooped her eggs onto a plate with surprising competency, added toast he’d already buttered, and set them on the table in front of her.
“What are you doing eating bacon? Your arteries have probably gone into shock.”
“A moment of weakness.”
“I sure know how that feels.” The toast was cold, but he hadn’t spared the butter, so she didn’t complain. And the eggs weren’t bad. The bacon sizzled as he tossed it into the skillet, every motion efficient. She spoke around her first bite. “I hope nobody finds out you’re providing aid and comfort to the enemy.”
“No doubt I’ll survive.”
“Are you making me breakfast because you’re still working through your guilt, or are you just being nice so you can get to the goodies?”
“By goodies, I assume you’re referring to those delectable parts of yourself tucked away beneath your robe.”
“Those would be them, yes.”
“Probably.”
“Which one? Guilt or goodies?”
“I have to choose?”
“Never mind.” She polished off the first egg. “Tell me about your wife.”
“No.”
“No talky. No goodies.” He didn’t pull his punches with her, and she wasn’t going to do it with him. “How did she die?”
He stabbed at the bacon. “If you must know, she ran into a bridge abutment. Tragic enough under any circumstances, but she did it deliberately.”
“Ouch.”
“Exactly.”
There was a whole world of pain hidden behind that impassive profile. “You know a lot more than I thought about guilt,” she said. “Funny how you can misjudge people.”
“I had no reason to feel guilty. I’d done everything I could to help her.”
Sugar Beth knew way too much about recrimination to believe he was that clearheaded, and she lifted an eyebrow.
He looked away. “All right, she was pregnant, and it took me awhile. But sanity reigned, and I finally worked through it. Learned a bit about myself in the process.”
“Such as?”
“That marriage isn’t for me. Some people can make it work, but I’m not one of them.”
“You haven’t been tempted since then?”
“Hard for you to imagine, I’m sure, but not even once. I finally have my life exactly where I want it, and I’ve never been happier. But enough of my tedious past.” He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and turned to regard her. “Tell me if there was anything beyond the obvious that possessed you to marry a man forty years your senior.”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
“I’m becoming more discerning about sorting through your bullshit, so let me try.”
She broke off a corner of her toast, but couldn’t eat it. “I loved him.”
“And why not? He was worth millions.”
“Ordinarily you’d have a point, but I didn’t find out how rich he was until he’d already worked his magic.”
“He was seventy. How much magic could the man work?”
“You’d be surprised. He was a handsome son of a gun, looked fifteen years younger than his age, a Texas version of Anthony Hopkins, but without that scary dental appliance.” Her throat began to tighten. “The most charming man I’ve ever known. Real charm, the kind that goes bone deep because it’s born of kindness. He was the love of my life.”
“Touching.” His tone was caustic, his smile sympathetic. She appreciated the combination. He pulled out the bacon. “I gathered from something you mentioned earlier that he was sick for quite a while.”
“For two years. In a coma the last six months.”
“And he died four months ago?”
She nodded and shook off her sadness. “So here we are. A grieving widow and a lonely widower staving off lives of quiet desperation with a well-intentioned, but badly prepared, breakfast. It’s enough to make Hallmark cry. By the way, I’m fixing you grits next week. I’ve got a hankerin’.”
He’d begun to pick up the plate of bacon, but now he set it back down, no longer looking cynical, just serious. “There’s not going to be a next week for us, Sugar Beth.”
She jumped up from her chair. “Oh, no, you don’t. I haven’t found that painting yet, and you are not firing me. I need the money, as paltry as it is.”
He regarded her with his old haughtiness. “The job is demeaning. I only offered it to humiliate you.”
“You’re coming closer all the time. Another few weeks, and I know you’ll get it right.”
He lifted his eyes. She sat back down. “Please, Colin, don’t be a prick.”
“Exactly what I’m trying not to be. You can’t stay in this town any longer. I’ve written you a check that’ll tide you over for a while. Go back to Houston. You can support yourself a lot better there than you can here.”
Supporting herself had never been the problem. It was paying Delilah’s bills she couldn’t seem to manage. “I’m not leaving without that painting.”