Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was not in Elliot’s nature to walk away. Not when he’d decided he knew best. And she, more than anyone, should have known that. Lucy watched as Elliot made a lifelong slave of Lynne over a bunch of roses and some heavy-handed flattery.
Old-lady flowers, Lucy sniffed, as Lynne lovingly transferred them to a vase. Then she felt bad. Nobody, not even her, ever bought Lynne flowers.
Elliot was a master at the small, meaningful touches. He and Lynne had met before in Seattle a couple of times and Elliot worked the connection, slathering on the charm like axle grease. He was good at it too.
Even Carl seemed grudgingly impressed.
Lucy had to admit, Elliot presented well. He was tall and fit. His clothes were immaculate and elegant in away that silently yelled expensive, but would never deign to be flashy. His heather-colored sweater was definitely cashmere, Lucy decided, as she watched him pick crumbs from the sleeve. His manners were impeccable and he had the ability to talk to anyone about anything and at any time.
Case in point. He sat in the kitchen with Lynne, eating her mother’s date squares, eulogizing about the taste and trying to cajole Lynne’s secret out of her. Crisco, Lucy wanted to yell.
He’d arrived at the house shortly after dinner. There was no opportunity to talk to him though. Not with Lynne and him making up for lost time and chatting away like hens in a coop.
While she hovered around the background feeling, and, in all likelihood, looking like a sulky adolescent.
Lynne was already making noises about him not spending money on a hotel. Lucy would have told her not to bother. Elliot never went anywhere unless he was assured of at least an 800-thread count in his sheets.
She studied him while he nattered on to Lynne about the shocking state of the roads.
He was a good-looking man. His features aquiline and clean cut. His gray eyes were direct and confident and he carried himself with the effortless grace of one who understood his own worth. He was quite the catch. Apparently, the blood running through his veins was a touch blue as well. Not that Elliot would do anything so crass as mention such a fact, but a mutual acquaintance had felt no such reticence.
Despite that, Elliot was no trust-fund baby. He’d made his money in his twenties and early thirties, cashing in on the dot-com bubble before selling out at just the right time. While she tore up the neighborhood of Willow Park, Elliot had been busy buying and selling a fortune.
Since then he’d pretty much been doing what he wanted. Contemplating his navel, following Eckhart Tolle around for a while, and rescuing blond waifs with an unfortunate propensity for alcohol.
“What are you doing here, Elliot?” Lucy couldn’t stand another swapped recipe.
“Lucy,” Lynne chastised her, frowning at her over Elliot’s shoulder. Her mother had barely said a word to her since their little heart-to-heart in the laundry. Elliot’s arrival had given Lynne all the distraction she needed.
Elliot turned to her and she was caught in the tug of his attention. He had this way of looking at her that made her feel like she was locked in a tractor beam and being steadily towed along into the mother ship.
“It’s all right, Lynne. She has the right to ask after our last conversation. And I did just turn up on your doorstep, uninvited and unannounced.”
“I don’t like a guest not to feel welcome in my home,” Lynne said, twinkling at him.
“I doubt that’s possible, Lynne.”
Oh, please. Lucy wanted to throw up.
Elliot could sell sand in a desert when he turned it on. It was probably how he’d managed to make such a lot of money in such a short amount of time. It made Lucy want to gag.
The laughter in his gray eyes as he looked back at her told her he knew exactly what she was thinking and it amused the hell out of him.
“Perhaps we can go somewhere and talk?” he suggested reasonably.
“I don’t think there is anything more to say, Elliot.”
“Lucy,” Lynne twittered anxiously. “The man has flown all this way to see you. The least you can do is hear him out.”
“Boy, are my arms tired.” He gave her a soft smile that invited her to share the old joke.
Lucy softened a touch.
He was a good man. He was just not the man for her and the sooner they both realized that, the better. So, she would tell him again and again until he understood it.
“Come on then,” she invited graciously. “We can talk upstairs. You can bring those with you, if you like.” She indicated the date squares.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” he demurred unconvincingly. Who was Elliot kidding? He had one massive sweet tooth.
“Please.” Lynne pushed the plate in his direction. “They will only go to waste if someone doesn’t eat them.”
He took the plate from Lynne with a killer smile and followed Lucy upstairs.
“You’re angry with me,” he said, as Lucy closed her bedroom door behind them.
Lucy took a deep breath. “I am not mad at you, Elliot. I don’t really have any reason to be mad at you, but I’m not sure what you’re doing here.”
“Good God.” He looked around him with avid fascination. “Is this some sort of macabre shrine to a still-living person?”
“It certainly feels that way,” Lucy returned without thinking.
His gray eyes immediately went from transfixed to concerned and fastened on her face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him quickly before she found herself being psychologically dissected. “Really, I’m doing fine. The room is a bit too much.” She crossed her arms over her chest, knowing he would read the body language as defensive and not really giving a shit. “Why are you here, Elliot?”
He thrust his hands deep into his pant pockets and walked over to the desk. He peered forward to get a better look at the photos. “I thought, actually, I hoped, you might have changed your mind.”
Lucy closed her eyes and dropped her head. Some tiny piece of her had actually held out the faint hope she wouldn’t have to do this. Wrong.
She opened her eyes again and Elliot was watching her. “Have you?”
“No,” she whispered softly. God help her, she really didn’t want to hurt him. “I haven’t.”
“I was afraid of that.” He looked perfectly relaxed, but a telltale muscle twitched in the side of his jaw.
“Then why did you come?” Lucy gentled her tone. Elliot wasn’t the enemy.
“I love you,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a habit I can’t seem to break.”
The sting of tears burned behind her eyes. Life would be so much simpler if she felt the same. But she didn’t and no amount of wishing it could make it so. “And I love you,” she said. “Just not the way you want.”
Elliot dropped his chin onto his chest and kept his eyes locked on the floor. His chest rose and fell as he drew in a long breath. “Because of him?” he asked.
“No, Elliot. Because of me.”
Richard stopped in the act of flipping the light switch in his bedroom. He was about to have a shower to ease away some of the tension of a long day when he caught sight of the window in the opposite house.
Richard couldn’t wrench his eyes away.
It wasn’t really spying if you happened to look up and see something by accident. And if that thing captured your interest, it was only natural you would stop and take a closer look.
Lucy was clearly silhouetted in the window. And so was her Fancy Man with the flashy car.
There was nothing much to see, but pathetic bastard that he was, he stood and watched anyway.
They were talking. They were talking intensely. At least, Lucy talked intensely, waving her arms around and flapping her hands as she went.
Fancy Man stood and, for the most part, listened.
Richard had to offer the man a brief moment of brotherly empathy. She was talking. Talking, talking, talking. Couldn’t she draw him a picture and be done with it?
Fancy Man got into the spirit of things and put in his two cents worth. He got ardent, his hand movements abrupt, as if he was trying to make his point carry more weight.
Lucy shook her head.
Richard stepped closer to the window. Was Lucy crying?
Something perilously close to rage shot through him. He reserved the right to make Lucy Flint cry. Richard stopped in midstride and midthought. What the hell did he mean by that?
Fancy Man was trying to calm Lucy down. Stepping toward her and touching her arm in a way that got more rage bubbling through Richard’s system.
He didn’t like the man’s hands on Lucy. The fact the man had put them there before did not help matters. This was a man Lucy had been intimate with, maybe still could be intimate with, and the thought spiked his temper even further.
One of those out-of-body experiences he’d heard about hit him square in the jaw. He jumped back nine years in time. The fury was the same and so was the insane poison of jealousy flooding through his veins.
Another man had Lucy Flint.
Richard wanted to vomit and he forced his attention back to the present. The man with Lucy now was not Jason, but the cauldron within him still kept bubbling.
So, he stood there in his darkened bedroom and watched them. He couldn’t hear a word they were saying, but they were still talking.
They both looked sad and frustrated.
Fancy Man shoved his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped. The poor bastard looked defeated.
Lucy swiped a hand over her cheeks. She was definitely crying.
Richard ached with the need to hold her and comfort her. But stronger than that was the impotent savagery that held him back. He could go over there right now and take her in his arms, except the blackness welling within him held him prisoner.
Fancy Man stepped forward and put his arms around Lucy.
She held herself stiff and resistant.
Fancy Man said something close to her ear and Lucy collapsed against him.
Fancy Man lowered his cheek to the top of her head. He looked like a man who’d lost the thing most precious to him.
If he’d lost Lucy, then Richard knew how he felt.
The mind-numbing, clawing pain that had almost consumed him alive was there in the room with him. He knew how the other man felt, because he’d been that man. He had given everything he had to Lucy. He and the nameless man across the way, they had that in common.
Desperately, they had both tried to hold on to her. They thought they could make her love them. Stupid, starry-eyed dreamers, they believed if they loved her enough she would stay. They were comrades in arms, him and Fancy Man, battered, bruised, and confused, but still none the wiser.
Richard loosened the button on his shirt. It tightened and dug into his throat and he tugged at it roughly. The button popped and skittered across the floor and still he couldn’t drag enough air into his lungs. It was happening again and all around him the earth gave a sickening lurch.
In the room, Fancy Man had his eyes pressed closed as if he were trying to stem tears.
Richard knew that face. He’d worn that face for a long time. His chest constricted again and breathing became harder. He recognized the signs of a panic attack.
He had to get out.