Put a Ring On It (17 page)

“E
xcuse me, I'll be back in one moment.” Brighton kept her tone and her smile fixed as she opened the door and stepped into the house. She suppressed the urge to slam the door behind her and race down the hall. Until she found Jake and figured out what the hell was going on, she would show no weakness. She would show no fear.

“Jake?” She checked the kitchen, the living room, the massive study on the first floor. No sign of her husband.

“Jake?” Her pace quickened as she climbed the steps to the second story. By the time she started down the hall to the master suite, she was sprinting.

The bedroom was empty.

Panting a bit from the exertion, she braced herself against the doorjamb and dialed her cell phone with a mounting sense of dread.

I knew this was too good to last.

“Hey.” Jake sounded so relaxed, so confident. Part of her—the part that wasn't whipped into a frenzy—couldn't help responding to the deep, strong timbre of his voice.

“Hey.” She tried and failed to match his casual tone. “Where are you right now?”

“Working.”

“At your office?” She had no idea where that was.

“I'm in the guesthouse.”

“Okay, well, can I come out to the guesthouse for a second?”

“Absolutely.” His voice dropped even lower. “Bring some Gatorade.”

“Yeah, no. This isn't about that.”

He finally picked up on the undercurrent of tension in her tone. “What's it about?”

She said a quick good-bye and hung up. No way was she going to give him a heads-up; she wanted to watch his face and his eyes when she broke the news.

Plus, she didn't want to get dumped over the phone—again. Losing her boyfriend of two years over a staticky cell conversation had been bad, but losing her husband of two weeks would be worse.

•   •   •

Brighton darted out of the mansion via the back porch to avoid Genevieve on her way to the guesthouse. When she reached the tiny cottage, she debated knocking but opted to barge right in. Which proved impossible to do—the second she set foot inside, Rory greeted her with a leap of joy that knocked her to the floor.

“Oof!” Before Brighton could get to her feet, the massive brown beast draped himself across her lap and rested his giant, drooled-drenched jowls on her black pants.

Jake, who was sprawled out on an oversize couch with a laptop,
sat up and snapped his fingers. Rory reluctantly got up, but not before licking Brighton's cheek.

Under other circumstances, Brighton would have demanded a grand tour of the tiny cottage where Jake actually spent most of his working hours: a modest, sparsely furnished little bungalow barely big enough for a sofa, a dog bed, and a whole lot of tech gear to Skype with Saudi Arabia. Right now, she had more pressing concerns than decor.

She did, however, notice the honey-hued rectangular coffee table by the sofa. “Hey. Is that from IKEA?”

He nodded. “How'd you know?”

“Because I have the exact same one in my condo.” She'd bought in on sale and spent an entire Sunday swearing and sweating while trying to assemble it. “Why do you have furniture from IKEA?”

“I like IKEA. It's fun putting everything together. They give you those little Allen wrenches . . .” He trailed off when he saw her expression.

“You're sick and depraved.” She narrowed her eyes as she glimpsed a few images on his laptop screen. “Hang on. Are you looking at the stock market?”

He shut the laptop as if he had been caught perusing the filthiest pornography. “No.”

“Stop lying. Your secret's out,” she informed him. “Deep in your soul, you're a die-hard workaholic, just like me. Speaking of which . . .” She stepped closer. “There's someone at the door for you. Someone named Genevieve.”

His expression flickered. Just for a fraction of a second. He tried to hide it, but she saw it.

She saw it, and she knew.

•   •   •

“Brighton, wait.” Jake put aside his laptop and stood up.

She remained perfectly still, trying to prepare herself for whatever he was going to say next.

“Okay. I'm waiting,” she said. “And so is she. She says she's
your
Genevieve.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but his gaze wasn't focused on her. He was looking toward the main house.

Suddenly, Brighton realized where she'd seen the beautiful blonde before, why she looked so familiar. Pull that hair back into an updo, put on some red lipstick and a black ball gown and some fancy jewelry . . .

“She's the woman I met at the charity ball, isn't she?”

“She's still here?” he asked.

Rory glanced from Brighton to Jake and started whining.

“As far as I know.” She couldn't hide the hurt in her voice. Because Jake had looked at her with desire and passion, but he'd never looked at her the way he was looking at the door right now.

All traces of charm and charisma had vanished. He looked determined and intense and . . . vulnerable?

Brighton didn't know any of the history between Jake and “his” Genevieve, but she understood that she would never inspire this depth of emotion in him. She would never strip away all his defenses like this.

She turned on her heel and strode out to the sand.

When he called her name, she didn't turn around. She heard the tread of his footsteps on the gravel, heading away from her. Heading toward the main house.

Toward the woman he'd sworn meant nothing to him.

“T
hank God you picked up,” Brighton whispered into her phone. “I was terrified you'd screen me.”

“I'd never screen you. Why are we whispering?” Kira whispered.

Brighton tried to figure out how to explain. She felt so overwhelmed with panic and suspicion and anticipation and, underneath all of that, a stubborn sense of hope that this would turn out to be some crazy misunderstanding. “It's Genevieve.”

Kira gasped. “Colin's Genevieve?”

“No. Jake has a Genevieve, too.” Brighton sagged against the side of the house as she summarized the porch ambush. “What should I do?”

“Come over,” Kira instructed. “Right now.”

“I can't.” Brighton rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “She's still here.”

“Can you see her? I thought you said you were hiding out.”

“I am, but I would have heard her car on the gravel if she'd left.” Brighton's breath came in quick, shallows gulps. “Kira, you should have seen his face.” A sharp physical pain shot through her at the memory. “He looked . . . I can't even explain it. He looked
hurt
.” She inched closer to the corner of the house, straining to hear anything over the pounding of the surf. “I can't even eavesdrop because this house is too gigantic and the ocean is too loud.” She startled as she heard heavy panting behind her. “And the dog just busted me.”

“What dog?” Kira asked.

“Jake's illegitimate dog. I'll explain later.” Brighton paused, trying to catch any sound beyond the steady pull of the tide and the canine panting. “I'm going to try to get closer. Call you back in a few.”

“Try to be optimistic,” Kira said. “Maybe it's nothing. Maybe she's just an old friend.”

Brighton wanted so badly to believe this. “Men aren't just friends with women who look like that.” She squared her shoulders and prepared to face reality. “I better go.”

“Good luck. I hope it turns out the way you want.”

“Thanks.” She considered going into stealth mode, but it was impossible to go into stealth mode while being trailed by a pony-size dog who sounded like a bulldozer when he breathed. So she strode back around the house and prepared to join the conversation.

Genevieve had her back to Brighton, so she couldn't see the woman's face, but she could see Jake's, and he no longer looked hurt or vulnerable.

He looked angry.

She marched up the steps with her head held high.

“Brighton.” The blonde offered her a warm smile this time. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Go inside,” Jake said to Brighton. He rested one hand on the doorknob and the other on Brighton's back.

Genevieve watched this with what appeared to be genuine sympathy. She regarded Jake with reproach in her big blue eyes. “You didn't tell her yet, did you?”

“Go inside,” Jake repeated. It was an order, an employer addressing his subordinate.

Brighton shook off his hand and stared back at Genevieve. “Tell me what?”

Genevieve backed off, retreating to the edge of the steps. “I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come—I thought you knew.”

Brighton could sense the power dynamics shifting, and she didn't want to give up any advantage, so she remained silent.

Genevieve's voice was soft. “There's no easy way to say this. I'm his first wife.”

Brighton turned to Jake. “I thought you said you'd never been married before.”

His expression had gone neutral, his eyes flat and cold.

“Jake? What's going on?”

He opened the door, guided her inside, and stepped back out to the porch.

“One minute,” he said. “I will handle this.”

“But—”

He closed the door and went back to his wife.

B
righton stood in the foyer, arms crossed tightly over her chest, and waited for what felt like an eternity.

When Jake entered, he looked grim and detached. “Let's talk.”

She looked out at the blurred blue line where the ocean and the sky came together. “Let's.”

“But first, let's have a drink.” He led the way to the living room and pulled two highball glasses out of the cabinet by the wet bar. “Scotch?”

“You know my feelings about scotch.” Brighton sat down on the couch, then stood up again. “Am I going to need it for the conversation we're about to have?”

“You should probably have a double.” He poured amber liquid into her glass. She took care not to brush her fingers against his when she accepted the glass.

“Is she gone?” Brighton asked. She couldn't bring herself to say Genevieve's name aloud.

He took a sip of his scotch. “For now.”

“What does that mean?”

“She'll be back.” Jake tilted his chin toward her glass. “Drink.”

She did, expecting to retch at the taste of the smoky liquid. But the dark burning gave way to a hint of sweetness as she swallowed. “Was she telling the truth when she said she used to be your wife?”

He sat down on the sleek black sofa that offered a floor-to-ceiling view of the sea. Whitecaps were rolling in, crashing on the sand, but the insulation in this house was excellent; Brighton couldn't hear anything from outside. All she could hear was her own breathing and the clink of the ice cubes against glass.

“Depends on your definition of ‘wife,'” he said.

Brighton put her drink down on the gleaming wood side table with no coaster. “This is not a difficult question. Did you get married or not?”

“We signed a marriage license. Fourth of July weekend. I was twenty-one; she was nineteen.”

“But you told me you'd never been married before.” She racked her brain, trying to remember the details of that flight to Vegas. “Didn't you?”

“The marriage was annulled by Halloween. From a legal standpoint, it never happened.”

She picked up her drink again. “It doesn't matter what the legalities are,” she said softly. “That was a real marriage, wasn't it? You were in love.”

“I was twenty-one.” His expression hardened. “I was an idiot.”

Not a denial.
“Where did you meet her?”

“How is that relevant?”

“Jake.”

He gazed out at the horizon. “We met at the beach. The private beach by one of her family's hotels. I was working there for the summer.”

Brighton looked at him. He looked back at her.

“And?” she finally prompted.

“And there was a marriage, an annulment, and a whole bunch of adolescent drama. The end.”

She forced down another sip of scotch. “You skipped a few details. What does she mean to you? Why is she showing up at your door introducing herself as ‘Jake's Genevieve'?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “She was married to me, but she was never mine.”

“You still love her,” Brighton breathed.

“No.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

“Here's the short version: When we met, I was poor; she was not. Her last name is Van Petten.” He looked at her expectantly.

“Genevieve Van Petten,” Brighton marveled. “Sounds like a character from
Melrose Place
. Not that I have any room to talk, but still.”

“Her family is like the Kennedys of Delaware.”

“Why did you decide to get married?”

“Why do twenty-one-year-olds do anything?” he countered. “She did it to piss off her parents. Mission accomplished.”

“Why didn't her parents want her marrying you?”

“I was dirt poor, Brighton. I didn't have any of this.” He gestured to the house, the ocean, the art and antiques. Then he gestured to his face and his body. “All I had was this. I was a novelty for her. She had a huge fight with her parents one day and we ran down to the courthouse to get married.”

Genevieve married him for spite,
Brighton realized.
Just like I did.

“When she moved into my apartment, she said it was like camping.”

Brighton blinked. “Camping?”

“I was renting a room right by the highway with no kitchen and iffy plumbing. After a few weeks, she got tired of eating cold SpaghettiOs for every meal and her parents threatened to cut off her trust fund if she didn't go back to college.” He looked pointedly at Brighton. “She had to get back to her real life.”

Before Brighton could reply, he continued. “She moved out and petitioned for an annulment.”

“On what grounds?” Her actuary brain kicked in. “Isn't it pretty difficult to be granted an annulment?”

“Not if you're the Kennedys of Delaware. Her father made one phone call to a judge and it was like the whole thing never happened.”

“And now you still have that.” She indicated his body and face. “Plus you have this.” She indicated the luxury goods. “I bet she's kicking herself for letting you go.”

He shook his head and swirled the scotch in his glass. “No.”

Brighton raised her eyebrow and waited him out.

“I saw her again when I'd just made my first million. I thought I was hot shit. I thought I had everything she wanted.”

Brighton cringed. “I'm guessing this story doesn't end well.”

He refused to reveal anything more. He refused to even look at her.

“She must be amazing,” Brighton went on. “To be worth that kind of devotion. To be worth making a million dollars for.”

His smile was sardonic. “I'm guessing you've never been a smoker.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “You guess correctly.”

“I used to smoke.”

“You did?” She sat down on the far edge of the sofa. “I can't see it.”

“I started right after the annulment.” He scrubbed the side of his face with his palm. “Smoked for a year and a half.”

“But not anymore.” She'd kissed him enough to say this with certainty.

“One day I woke up, decided I was sick of my taste buds not working, and quit.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. I had half a pack left, but I tossed it.” He draped one arm along the back of the sofa. “Never had another cigarette.”

“That's amazing,” Brighton said. “The odds were very much against you. Did you know that only twenty percent of smokers who attempt to quit will be successful over the course of their lifetimes?”

He regarded her with a trace of a smile. “Do you memorize these stats just to impress me?”

“Maybe.”

“I'm impressed.” His eyes warmed, and just for a moment, she wished she hadn't left work early and met Genevieve on the porch. She wished she didn't have to find out how very flawed and damaged and human he was beneath the fantasy she'd projected onto him. “And I'm surprised that it's twenty percent. That seems high.”

“Twenty percent lifetime success rate seems high to you?”

“Clearly, you've never tried to quit smoking. The withdrawal was hell. It's been fifteen years and I still crave cigarettes sometimes.” He turned away from her again. “As hard as it was to quit smoking, it was easy compared to quitting Genevieve.”

She waited for him to follow this up with a quip or a qualifier, but he had gone still. He was sitting with her, but his mind was with a woman who'd left him long ago. He'd forgotten to keep his
guard up, and she finally glimpsed what was underneath all that captivating charm and wit and physical beauty.

Regret. Doubt. Loneliness.

“Have you ever wanted somebody like that?” he asked her. Even his voice sounded distant. “Like a drug? Like you'd do anything for one last hit?”

She blinked. “Well, actually . . .”

He straightened up, his vulnerability vanishing. “Of course you haven't. You're too smart for that. You'd never fall in love with someone who's the equivalent of an addictive carcinogen.”

Brighton didn't trust herself to say anything.

“And now she's back,” he concluded. “The timing is interesting. I hadn't heard from her in years, then she made contact last week.”

Brighton froze. “Before or after you met me?”

His gaze shuttered. “What?”

“Before or after I met you at the Whinery?”

He put down his drink. “It was that day. A few hours before we met.”

“I knew it.” Brighton got to her feet. “I knew there had to be a reason. I knew a man like you would never marry a woman like me unless . . .”

“Stop.” He sounded tired and defensive.

“You used me.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “You heard she was back and you used me as a human shield to protect yourself.”

“You used me to get back at your boyfriend,” he pointed out.

“I was completely honest with you from the first moment we met! I told you who I was, what I was doing, and why. And you . . . did not.”

“It wouldn't have made any difference,” he said flatly.

“How can you say that?” she exclaimed.

“What would you have said if I had told you about Genevieve the night we met? Would you have called it off?”

“It wouldn't have made any difference,” she had to concede. “On the night we met.”

“Then why does it make a difference now? You can use me as a human shield, but I can't use you?”

She knew he was right. He'd done nothing to her that she hadn't done to him. Both of them had gotten onto that plane to Vegas with selfish, misguided motives. Both of them had been completely focused on themselves. Both of them had been running away from mistakes that they knew would catch up with them eventually.

The only difference was, he had played the game better. He had followed the ground rules they established.

And she hadn't.

“Brighton.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry.” The words were so simple; his voice was so stark. He got to his feet and offered her his hand. “Tell me what you want.”

She had no idea—what to do, what to say.

“Anything.” A deeper note of regret crept into his voice. “You deserve better than this.”

And in that moment, she realized she might as well be in this big, fancy house alone, because he was gone. Whatever tenuous connection they'd shared had been severed.

He would do whatever she asked because he wanted her to feel a certain way, while he felt nothing at all. He would give her anything she wanted, but he would never want her the way she wanted him.

He would never want her the way he wanted Genevieve.

“I want a divorce,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Done.”