Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (46 page)

It was suddenly so clear to her that neither one of them had any interest in salvaging it. It had been over for years.

Oh, God
, was her next single thought. She smiled at Elizabeth but did not even see her.

“Claire? I know you and David are struggling right now,” Elizabeth said kindly. “This might be good for you both.”

Claire was an expert at keeping her emotions reined in. She worked hard to keep a sunny façade in place. Perhaps she had learned to do so when her mother had died so suddenly,
leaving her, for all intents and purposes, alone. She had certainly felt alone when Cynthia passed away, because her father had felt like such a stranger. Or maybe her father had taught her by example how to remain calm and composed no matter what. How to shove any feelings of a personal or emotional nature far, far away. Now, Claire felt a sudden lump of grief rising up, hard and fast, impossibly potent. It was accompanied by a real and terrible fear.

“I’m sure it will,” Claire said automatically, not even aware of what she was saying.

“Everything will work out,” Elizabeth said softly. “I am sure of it.”

Claire knew she was wrong. “Yes, it will.” She had to hold it together, she had to keep it all in.
Divorce
. The word loomed now in her mind. It was engraved there.

Elizabeth squeezed her hand. Claire watched her rejoin William, and found herself facing her father. Claire felt uncomfortable, hoping he hadn’t overheard them, and then he said, “I heard you are short a few VIPs for Summer Rescue Kids.”

This was a welcome subject. “I am.”

“I think I can help. I have a client who’s new in town. I’ll feel him out for you.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Claire said, far too fervently.

He seemed to be looking right through her. No, he was looking past her. “And here’s your errant husband,” Jean-Leon added softly.

Claire’s gaze whipped to David, who was approaching, and then back to her father. What had that comment meant? But Jean-Leon only smiled at her and Claire turned her attention back to David.

He was more than handsome and self-assured in his dark gray suit, and the pale blue shirt and yellow tie did amazing things for his leading-man good looks. More than a few women were craning their necks to glimpse him more fully. As David paused to shake hands and accept congratulations, Claire stared. He was beaming as he accepted hearty back slaps from his male friends and soft kisses from their wives
and girlfriends. Finally, he seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself.

David reached her father. His smile never faltered, but Claire knew it was a pretense. She watched them shake hands. “Happy Birthday, David,” Jean-Leon said smoothly.

“Thank you.”

“I hope you like your birthday gift.”

David extracted his hand. “What can I say? That was so generous of you.”

“So you do like it?” Jean-Leon’s tone never changed, but he seemed to be pressing—and Claire suddenly tensed.

“It’s a masterpiece. Who wouldn’t like it?” David returned, his smile frozen.

Claire stepped to his side, glancing anxiously from one man to the other. Clearly there was a subtext to their exchange, but just what was it?

“Then I am very pleased. Where did you hang it?”

“In the bedroom,” David said.

“Hmm,” was Jean-Leon’s response. “A shame. A painting like that should be on public display.” He turned his stare on Claire. “You should hang it in the living room, Claire.”

Claire had the feeling that if she agreed with her father she would be disagreeing with David. And that was the last thing she wished to do just then. “How about a drink, Dad?”

“Fine.” Jean-Leon ambled away, moving into the crowd, greeting those he knew. David stared after him. So did Claire.

“Sometimes he really bugs me,” David said.

Claire jerked. “What is going on? How could you argue with him now?”

David just looked at her. “He can be a pompous ass.”

“That’s not fair,” she began.

“Oh, cut it out, Claire. You know that because he’s brilliant in the world of art, he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else—including you and me. But you know what? If it weren’t for your mother, he wouldn’t be where he is today.
Her money bought him his success. Her money made him what he is today.”

“David!” Claire was aghast. “He’s my father! How can you say such things?”

He gave her a look. “Let’s do what we have to do. Smile, Claire. This was
your
idea.” He walked away.

She stared after him, his last nasty comment making her as angry as she had been earlier in their bedroom upstairs. She did not deserve such barbs. And he had no right to talk about her father the way that he had. His accusations were hurting her now, even though they were partially true. It was no secret that Jean-Leon had started both his gallery and his art collection with her mother’s generous support. But wasn’t that what spouses did for one another?

Claire watched David greeting the Dukes. He seemed a bit curt with them, she thought, and then she turned away. The night had only just begun, but she needed a moment to herself. She had a massive headache, and she was beginning to feel ill in the pit of her stomach. She hurried down the hall and into the sanctuary of the den.

The doors were open. It was a big room with the same smooth, pale oak floors as the rest of the house, but unlike the rest of the house, most of the room was done entirely in soft, natural earth tones. Claire plopped down on a rust-colored leather ottoman, cradling her face in her hands. Her marriage was a charade. There was just no point in it anymore. It was really over.

And David wouldn’t care if she raised the subject of a divorce. Claire was certain. She refused to abandon him if he was in the kind of trouble he claimed to be, but they could separate until the crisis—whatever it was—passed.

Claire began to tremble. She stared down at her shaking knees and realized she was finally losing it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here,” a man’s voice said.

Claire leapt to her feet in surprise. A man had walked into the middle of the room and he was regarding her curiously.

Immediately Claire smiled, wishing he would turn around and leave. She vaguely recalled greeting him at the front door, but did not have a clue as to who he was. Somehow she managed to walk over as if nothing were wrong, hand outstretched. To her horror, her hand was shaking. She slid it into his anyway, praying he would not notice. “I’m certain we met. I’m your hostess, Claire Hayden.”

He shook her hand, the contact briefly and vaguely surprising her. But his gaze dipped to her trembling hand. “Yes, we did, Mrs. Hayden,” he said, no longer smiling. He was grave. “Ian Marshall. I’m a friend of your husband’s.”

Claire pulled her hand free, aware of flushing. But it was too warm in the den. “Claire.” She smiled automatically.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, Claire?” His gaze was searching.

Claire had the unwelcome notion that he knew she was crumbling bit by bit beneath her immaculate exterior. “I was going to make a phone call. I’m with the Humane Society, and I wanted to check on a stray we picked up that had been hit by a car,” Claire said lightly, hoping that he would take the hint and leave.

He did not.

In fact, he just stood there, regarding her. He was a tall man, six-foot or so, with dark hair that was neither too short nor too long. He was clad in an impeccable suit, as were most of the guests that evening. His shoulders were very broad and Claire knew the suit had to be custom-made. Claire realized she was staring, but then, so was he. She also realized that the room was too quiet. “Can I help you?” she tried.

“I think you don’t like parties, Claire,” he said.

Claire felt her eyes widen as their gazes locked. His kind tone was like a hair trigger, and she turned away, even more shaken. “Of course I like parties.” But he was right. Parties were a part of her work. Rarely were they social events, and a time to eat, drink, or be merry. Parties were an opportunity to raise badly needed funds for important causes, or to pay back or laud those who had helped her in the past. Claire
would never let anyone hold a party for her. Her last official birthday party had been when she was sixteen.

“Just not this one?” he prodded.

She whirled. “It’s my husband’s birthday,” she stressed. “It’s a wonderful evening for us both.” To her horror, her tone cracked on the last syllable.

“It’s okay. I know how tough these things can be.” His tone was kind, his gaze unwavering.

Claire felt her control disintegrate. Just like that, in an instant. To her horror, tears filled her eyes. She turned away before he could see.

“Hey. Don’t cry,” he said softly, from behind her.

Claire couldn’t answer. How could this be happening now? She fought to hold back a flood of tears.
If she divorced David, she would be alone again
.

But their marriage was over. She had seen it in his eyes, and she felt it, too.

She had been alone her entire life. When she had married, she had never wanted to be alone again
.

But she was different now. She was a strong and successful woman. She was not a frightened, bereaved child.

“Here.”

Claire saw a tissue being dangled over her right shoulder. She accepted it gratefully and while she was dabbing at her eyes, she heard him wander past her. He was giving her some space with which to compose herself, but he was not leaving her, either. Claire peeked at him out of the corner of her eye and saw him studying the seascape above the mantel. Her heart seemed to kick her in the chest.

It was the most shocking sensation.

Claire stared at him, stunned.

He faced her with a smile. “That’s better. Beautiful women crying make me all nervous and jittery. I have a whole bunch of sisters, and every single one of them loves to cry.”

She had to smile. “How many sisters do you have?”

“Four. All younger than me.” He grinned. His dimples
were charming—they made him look as if he smiled all the time.

“Growing up must have been chaotic.”

“It was hell. Pure and simple hell.” He smiled at her and winked. Then seriously, he said, “I’ve got big, broad shoulders. Feel free to use them any time.”

She felt herself beginning to blush. Worse, he seemed to mean it. “I’m fine now, Mr. Marshall. Truly, I am. I don’t know what happened. I never get so emotional.” She could not look away from his eyes. They were green.

“Ian, please. And all women are emotional. Trust me, I know.”

She smiled. “I’m not emotional.” She was firm.

“I doubt that.” He wasn’t smiling now. “Any woman who dedicates her life to bettering the worlds of kids and dogs has a huge and bleeding heart.”

She stared. “How do you know what I do?”

“I’m a friend of David’s,” he said. “Remember?”

Something had changed, and Claire didn’t know how or when it had happened. The room was still. Everything felt silent and unreal. Claire was very aware of the man standing just a few feet away from her; his presence seemed to charge the air around her.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked seriously. “Can I somehow make this a better evening?”

She was amazed. He really meant it. “No.” Her smile became wide and genuine. “Not unless you can make the clock strike midnight?”

He smiled in return. “Well, I could sneak around the house and change all the clocks.”

“But all the men are wearing wristwatches.”

“We could tell the bartender to pour triples.”

Her eyes widened. “Souse them all!” she cried.

“And no cake,” he added, dimples deepening.

“No cake. To hell with the birthday,” Claire agreed fervently.

“There’s always that yacht my friend has moored in the
Marina—we can probably see the Lady Anne from your terrace.” His gaze was penetrating.

Claire’s smile froze. Her heart lurched with an awareness she should not have. An image of her and this stranger jumping into a car, driving down the hill, and sneaking aboard his friend’s yacht, hand in hand and barefoot, filled her mind. She stared at him.

“I’m sorry.” His gaze was searching. “I was only joking.”

Had it been a joke? She hesitated. “I hate to say it, but the idea is tempting.”

He didn’t speak. He waited.

Claire realized that if she said, “Let’s go,” he would take her hand, and they would.
It was so tempting
.

They stared at one another. Claire could hear her own heart beating. She was actually considering leaving her own party and doing the unthinkable.

He looked past her, towards the door.

Claire didn’t have to look to know who was there, and she stiffened. Reality hit her like cold water splashing in her face. She turned.

David stood on the threshold of the room. “Claire!”

Claire’s shoulders stiffened as if someone had placed a heavy yoke on them; she faced her husband. “Yes?” She was going to ask for a divorce. Soon—not that night, because it was his birthday, but tomorrow, or the next day.

“Everyone’s asking for you,” David returned, glancing from her to Marshall and back again. The glance seemed hostile if not suspicious.

Claire hesitated, surprised. She looked from David to Ian again. Her husband hadn’t spoken to Ian, but he was regarding him coolly, and Claire knew jealousy had nothing to do with his coldness. David had never been jealous of her when it came to other men. He knew she would never betray him that way.

Ian smiled. “Hello, David,” he said. “Happy birthday. I brought you a little something I think you will appreciate. I left it in the hall.”

David’s nod was curt, his words tight and cut off. “Marshall. Thank you. Let’s go, Claire.”

Claire was bewildered. Clearly David did not like Ian Marshall. Had a deal gone bad? It wasn’t like him to be so rude. She walked over to her husband, but smiled at Ian Marshall. “Shall we join the others?” But what she really wanted to say was, thank you.

“Of course,” he said, with an answering smile. But his eyes were on David and they were filled with wariness.

Claire didn’t like it at all. The tension between the two men was unmistakable, and the only question was why.