Arrest (A Disarm Novel) (13 page)

POSSESS

I leaned back in my first-class seat and closed my eyes, feeling the waves of emotion crash over me. I didn’t know how people did it day in and day out, leaving their spouses for temporary duty assignments or work trips, but somehow I thought it would be easier than this. I didn’t expect to be overcome with guilt, didn’t expect to want to throw up and hold back tears and pace the aisles all at once. When I’d suggested some time apart, I’d expected to feel a little pressure lift off my chest; instead I felt crushed under the weight even more.

“You feeling okay?” Conor asked after the plane had taken off. He placed a hand over mine on top of the armrest. “You afraid of flying?”

I stared down at our hands as beads of sweat sprouted on my forehead. “No, just a little under the weather,” I said, slipping my hand out from under his.

“Nerves? About the pitch?”

I nodded, realizing how close Conor and I really were, how the only thing separating us was a few inches of metal and foam. Yes I was nervous, but not about the presentation. “I’ve never done this before.”

Conor’s green eyes watched me awhile, unnerving me to the core. “Don’t worry,” he finally said. “You’ll do great.”

—

We landed in Atlanta at two in the afternoon. I felt instantly better the moment we stepped off the plane, like I could finally breathe again.

Conor and I took a taxi to the hotel and checked into our own rooms, our doors separated only by the hallway. I set my luggage down and looked around at the king-sized bed and the modern furniture, feeling an overwhelming sadness engulf me. It reminded me of the same room I’d seduced Henry in a long time ago before he’d flown to Korea, back when I’d had something to prove.

The room phone rang. “Hey, you hungry?” Conor asked without preamble.

“Yeah, actually.” It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning. I’d been too anxious to even bother with food.

“Meet me downstairs in the conference room in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ll have lunch delivered and we can go over the presentation.”

After hanging up, I washed my face with cold water and tied my hair up into a haphazard bun. “This is just work,” I told my tense reflection in the mirror. “Conor is here for work and work only.”

I grabbed my portfolio and laptop and headed downstairs, my sense of purpose returning with each step. We were here to win the Lombart account from three other design companies and nothing more.

The conference room was a fairly large space on the first floor of the hotel; it held approximately twenty rolling chairs that surrounded a long table. Seated at the head was Conor, his laptop and several other electronic gadgets laid out in front of him.

“Ah,” he said, flashing me a wide, carefree smile. “Just in time. I need you to look at this file Kari just sent and make sure everything’s perfect.”

I nodded, setting up three seats away from him. “Is it on the server? I’ll take a look at it there.”

“I’ve got it open right here,” he said, waving me over. “Come on. I won’t bite.”

The cool scent of his cologne hit me as I leaned over his shoulder. “What cologne do you wear?” I asked, trying to breathe through my mouth. “It’s very strong.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not wearing cologne.”

“Oh.”

I could feel his eyes on me as I studied the image on the laptop, looking over the information on the banner ad that we were including in our presentation. I shut the laptop, intending on addressing the uncomfortable undercurrent. “Conor, look, we have to talk.”

He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms behind his head. “About what?”

“About this working relationship.”

“What about it?”

I took a deep breath. “About the fact that I’m married, that you’re still calling me by my maiden name, that you try to flirt with me subtly.”

His expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. “And what do you take from all of that?”

I opened my mouth, unsure of what would come out, when a knock on the door interrupted our conversation. At Conor’s word, a man in a starched white shirt, a tie, and black slacks came in bearing a large cloth sack with
RESTAURANT MONDRIAN
emblazoned on its side.

Conor stood up, waiting as the deliveryman laid out five dark brown boxes with the restaurant logo printed in silver leaf on the top. Beside them he placed a bottle of champagne and two sets of cutlery nestled inside dark brown napkins. Conor signed a receipt, slipped the guy some cash, and sent him on his way.

He turned to the spread and held out his hands. “Lunch is served.” He held up a finger and retrieved two champagne glasses from a table at the other end of the room. “Mondrian is known for using only local-grown, organic ingredients,” he said, taking the lids off the boxes to reveal the beautifully arranged food. “I bought two different kinds of salads, two entrees—one fish, one lamb—and dessert.”

It didn’t escape my attention that there was only one dessert box. “Who gets the dessert?”

“I figured we could share.”

I eyed the food to avoid Conor’s gaze when the scent of the braised lamb wafted up my nose. A heave worked its way up my throat, and I turned my head to avoid smelling any more.

A cold sweat broke out all over my body at the swift realization that I’d had this reaction another time, back when being pregnant was still a possibility.

No, this is not happening. It’s not possible.

“Sherman, you all right?” Conor asked, walking toward me.

I held out my hand to keep him at bay. “I just need a moment,” I said and raced to the bathroom.

—

I only ate the salad. I couldn’t stomach much else.

Conor watched me from the corner of his eye as we ate and worked separately. He didn’t say much, recognizing the change in my mood, and didn’t even protest when the obviously expensive food sat untouched at the other side of the room.

I did, however, take a small sip of champagne, finding that the bubbles helped to settle my stomach. Now my nerves—that was a different story.

I tried to concentrate on the presentation but the possibility of being pregnant occupied most of my brain cells. I wasn’t being very discreet apparently, because Conor called it quits around five. “Alright, your brain is obviously not in this conference room right now,” he said, standing up and shutting his laptop. “Why don’t you get some rest and we’ll regroup early tomorrow morning?”

“I’m fine,” I insisted. “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves.”

“Look, I know something’s wrong and you’re not able to concentrate. You’ve been trying to write one sentence on that note card for the past fifteen minutes,” he said. “So I would rather you get some rest and be fresh tomorrow than keep you working while your brain is elsewhere.”

I felt short of breath as we walked to our rooms in silence, as if the hallway walls were bowing down, closing in on me.

When we reached our doors, Conor stopped and said, “We can continue the conversation about our relationship tomorrow. After we win the account.”

I nodded absently and turned to my door.

“And, Elsie,” he said, giving me a meaningful look. “If you need anything at all tonight, just come to me. I’m only a few steps away.”

“Thanks.”

“Even if you just need to talk. I’m here.”

“You’re there. Got it,” I said and slipped into my room before he could say anything else.

—

I dialed Henry’s number three times, each time hanging up before he answered. What would I tell him when I myself didn’t have a definitive answer yet? Five minutes after returning to my room, I grabbed my purse, slipped out again, and went down to the front desk to ask for directions to the nearest pharmacy. Thankfully, since we were in downtown Atlanta there was one a short walk away.

I brought two tests back to the room with me just to be sure. I peed on one, intending to use the second tomorrow morning. But as I squatted over the toilet, taking careful aim at the white stick, I realized I already knew the chorus to this age-old song.

Sure enough, without even having to wait the full two minutes, the pink plus sign appeared in that tiny window, telling me that the improbable had happened. I held that stick in my hand and one by one wrapped my fingers around it, unable to think past the swell of emotions inside.

This was a sick joke by the universe, something more to mess with my already confused mind. It wasn’t enough that I’d been told I wouldn’t be able to conceive, that my relationship with Henry was on a fast-moving pendulum; now I was pregnant too.

I didn’t need a baby right now. I needed one minute of peace to wrap my mind around my spiraling life. What I needed was a fucking break from the angst and worry of being married to a police officer, to a man who was starting to close himself off once again.

No, what I needed was one night of
not
thinking.

I threw the stick away, burying it at the very bottom of the trash can, and washed myself clean of anything to do with babies. Then I exited the bathroom and went directly to the door, without a clue of where I would go. Once in the hallway, I started toward the elevator, intending to just walk the streets and allow the night to swallow me whole, when I decided I needed to tell someone where I was heading first. I turned on a heel and, without really thinking of the repercussions, knocked on Conor’s door.

He answered without a shirt, revealing a lithe but muscular torso. “Sherman,” he said, more pleased than a boss ought to be upon seeing an employee.

“I just want to tell you—” But whatever it was I was trying to say kept getting stuck in my throat at the sight of my shirtless boss.

“Come in, please,” he said, moving aside just enough so that I could feel the heat from his body as I edged past.

I stood in the middle of the room, which was identical to mine, and looked at anything but Conor.

“Were you heading somewhere?” he asked, pointing to my purse.

“I was coming here to . . .” I stopped, unable to remember what had brought me here.

He came toward me, full of self-assured purpose, and stopped just short of touching me. My heart was pounding in my ears as he bent his head and smelled me, his face so close to mine that I could feel his warm, whiskey-tinged breath on my cheek. “I know why you’re here,” he whispered.

I should have stopped him, should have stepped back and kept it professional, but I was rooted to the spot. I felt like I was underwater, my limbs sluggish, my brain too clogged to make a rational decision.

Conor’s stubble prickled my neck as he moved ever closer. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time now, Sherman.”

Time seemed to slow as he leaned forward, his intentions clear. I felt as if I were standing on a great precipice, knowing that if I took one step closer, I would be lost to Henry. It would be so easy to just say “Fuck it” and jump over the cliff, but I had no way of knowing if I could ever make it back.

I flattened my palms against his chest and held him off. “Conor, don’t.”

Conor looked down, at the places where our bare skin connected. “Isn’t this what you want?”

I ripped my hands away, mortified. “No.”

His chest flushed red, the color quickly rising to his cheeks. “Then what the hell are you doing knocking on my door at ten o’clock at night?”

“I’m pregnant,” I blurted out, not knowing what else to say.

Conor blinked a few times, the burn of my rejection giving way to a new emotion. He locked his hands behind his neck and turned away. “You’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“And again I ask: What the hell are you doing here?”

“I didn’t come here for you.” I motioned to his naked torso. “For this.”

He turned back to me, his face a mask of hurt and anger. “So why?”

“I don’t know,” I shouted, his anger rousing my temper. I started pacing the room, twisting the handle of my purse over and over. “I feel like Henry has closed me off, like he’s sealing his feelings shut like before and that he’ll break again. And we’re always fighting even though . . .”

“Stop for one second.” He held me by the shoulders to keep me from moving then let his hands slide down and away from my arms. “I’ll be frank with you: I like you, Elsie. Beyond platonic.”

“I know,” I said, looking away.

“But you don’t feel the same,” he said with a flat voice.

“I’m married, Conor.”

“Do you want to stay married?”

My eyes flicked up, and for once, I had a definite answer. “Of course.”

“Then why are you talking to me about this?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be talking to your husband instead?”

“Because . . .” I began but couldn’t decide on an ending.

Because I was afraid we’d only argue, like always.

Because I didn’t want to get his hopes up only to break his heart a
gain.

Because I didn’t think our marriage could survive another loss.

All of the above.

Conor sat on the edge of the bed, his breath sighing out of him. “Go home, Elsie. Fix your marriage,” he said, waving me off. “I’ll do the pitch tomorrow.”

I considered it for a moment, seizing the opportunity to fly home right that second and tell Henry about the baby, but for better or worse, I’d come to Atlanta to do a job. “No. I’m staying. We’re getting the Lombart account.”

Conor looked at me for the longest, most painfully silent length of time. Finally, he said, “Fine. Do what you want. But I don’t want to be in the middle of your war.”

My cell phone began to buzz in my purse and, seeing the caller ID, I turned away from Conor to answer it. “Henry?”

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, trying to hide the tremble in my voice.

“You called me three times in a row . . .”

“I needed to talk to you about something.”

“I called your room. You weren’t there.”

My silence was as telling as a gunshot. I looked over my shoulder and glanced at Conor, who was busying himself putting on a shirt.

“You’re with him, aren’t you?” Henry asked, the acidic accusation hitting the mark.