|
HONEYMOON FOR ONE
By
Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
© June 2006 Stephanie Bedwell-Grime
Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright June 2006
ISBN 1-58608-913-7
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
CHAPTER ONE
"It's so beautiful!"
Abby threw open the drapes and gazed out at the lush gardens below. A carpet of deep green grass, flanked on either side by fuchsia flowers, led to the turquoise ocean. She sighed again in utter contentment and turned to her husband. "The perfect location for renewing our vows and finally having that honeymoon."
Her proclamation drew only a grunt from her Greg, who was staring out the window, presumably admiring the same view as Abby, yet he stared off into space visibly lost in thought. Oh well, Abby reflected. Preoccupied by the demands of a thriving business, Greg was often lost in thought. She refused to let Greg's absent-mindedness interfere with this once-in-a-lifetime vacation.
Carefully packed in her luggage lay a strapless wedding gown. The designer silk creation fit her perfectly. When they'd said their vows the first time, the best she could afford was a navy suit. Formal wear came in dark colors, her mother-in-law had insisted. The short dress of white eyelet she'd intended to wear simply wouldn't do. According to Greg's mother, it looked like a sundress. Abby couldn't see what difference it would have made to their informal civil ceremony. No bridesmaids, no flower girls. Greg's parents were their only witnesses. She refused to count Greg's best friend Dorian as a witness, especially after he'd arrived drunk. Abby thought of her new silk wedding gown and smiled. This time things would be different.
The door to their suite banged open. Abby jumped. A tiny shriek escaped her lips. Not the door to their room, she realized, gathering her wits, but the door to the adjoining suite. And standing in the doorway was Greg's best friend, Dorian, a beer already in hand.
"What's he doing here?" she hissed at Greg, who finally tore his attention from his woolgathering.
"Oh," he said absent-mindedly. "I invited him."
"You invited him!" Her voice rose louder than she intended. She grabbed Greg by the sleeve of his silk t-shirt. "What do you mean you invited him?"
"I figured since he was our best man the first time round, he should do the honors on the second."
"Honors! He got falling down drunk!"
Greg's eyes narrowed as if he really didn't understand why she might be upset. Instead of arguing with her, he merely shrugged. Greg never argued. He simply did what he wanted.
Seemingly oblivious to their discussion, Dorian turned his attention to his beer. With some distaste he extracted the slice of lime stuffed into the neck of the bottle and tossed it in the garbage can. Their garbage can. Where the ants--
Abby dragged her mind back to the present, determined not to let Dorian spoil her last chance at a perfect wedding. Rooms could be rearranged. As soon as she'd gotten rid of Dorian, she'd have a talk with Greg and get Dorian moved to the other side of the resort. Or, if circumstances permitted, the other side of the island. "I see you've found the bar," she sniped.
Dorian pretended not to notice. "Pretty swanky place, huh?"
She studied her husband's friend. Greg's polar opposite, she never could understand what the studious Greg saw in the boisterous Dorian. Greg had spent the past twenty-five years working round the clock to build up his business. Dorian floated from job to job working as everything from a carpenter to a skiing instructor, to his current incarnation as a web developer. Still, at forty-seven, that lifestyle had to be losing its appeal. She glanced at Dorian's nonchalant demeanor. Apparently not.
"What you need is a beer," Dorian said, turning his attention to Greg. Dorian captured his attention easily enough, she thought with a pang of anger. Or perhaps it was the beer. "Sure," Greg said. Grabbing his room key, he followed Dorian to the door. "Back in an hour honey," he said, almost as an after thought.
"Don't be late. We have a meeting with the wedding planner at five," she reminded him.
From the doorway, Greg turned back. "It's not a wedding, honey. We're already married. You really don't need to get so bent out of shape." The door swung closed on whatever she would have said.
"Yes it is," Abby told herself. The wedding she'd never had. The one they'd never been able to afford. This time she'd have the flowers, the cake, the wedding video and the designer silk dress. This time she'd have it all. She stared out the window at the sculpted gardens and the blue sea. In her suitcase was the bikini she'd dieted for six months to fit into. Well, two could play at this game she thought and went to change.
The white bikini looked striking against her suntanned skin. Even though she'd sworn never to set foot in a tanning salon, she'd broken down and got a base tan. She'd had her hair streaked to give her a sun-bleached look. All in all, she looked pretty good for forty-five. Tossing a plush hotel towel over her shoulder, she headed for the beach.
She found a hammock tied beneath two palm trees. Gentle waves lapped at the shore beneath her. Abby found the sound soothing. Lulled by the rush of the sea, she drifted off to sleep.
A prickling feeling woke her a couple of hours later. Abby lifted her head. The tide had drifted inland and warm water now lapped around her buttocks through the hammock's netting. She looked down at her body and groaned. Where a couple of hours before, she'd been a golden brown, now her torso had turned a color only a lobster could be proud of.
Flinging herself out of the hammock, she jumped down into the water and waded back toward the hotel. "Don't panic," she muttered to herself. "Make-up can cover sunburn." Hopefully the hotel gift shop sold aloe vera.
The hotel gift shop, it turned out, didn't sell aloe vera. When she arrived back at her suite hoping to slink into the shower unnoticed, she found Greg and Dorian sitting on the balcony. Beer bottles littered every table on the patio. She turned to hide in the bathroom, but Dorian caught sight of her and burst out laughing.
Abby opened her mouth, her temper rising and intent on tossing Dorian bodily from their room, when she caught sight of the clock. "Five to five!"
At the sound of her voice, Greg turned. "There you are. I wondered where you'd gone."
Dorian gave her an appreciative once-over and then went back to his beer.
"We have five minutes before we have to meet with the wedding coordinator." Her voice sounded shrill even to her own ears.
"Ready when you are," Greg said.
Annoyed and not sure why, Abby darted into the bathroom. No time to cover her burns with makeup. No time for anything. She brushed her wind-swept hair and pulled on a white sundress, wincing as she did up the straps. She left her bikini bottoms on.
"Wow, you're really burned," Greg said as she emerged. No wow, you look wonderful or I'm really glad to be marrying you again.
"Let's go," she said tersely and headed out to the hotel offices.
* * * *
"We have a lovely gazebo, right on the water."
The wedding planner led the way through the gardens. Flowers overflowed the path in a riot of color. Fuchsia battled with vibrant yellow and deep purples. Abby wanted to stop and gaze at them all, but she had a wedding to plan. One that was taking place tomorrow.
"We can do the ceremony at sunset, if you like."
Abby looked at Greg who was staring out to sea again lost in thought. "What do you think, sweetheart?"
He blinked, then turned to look at her. "Whatever you want, honey. It's your big day."
She smiled. That was Greg. Most of the time she had to repeat every thing she said to him. He worked long hours and often came home exhausted. She had supported his career, working in his business, giving up on her dream of having a family until it was too late. But Greg's business flourished. They had a beautiful home full of pretty things. Fancy things she'd always thought she wanted. That made it easy to overlook the lack of attention except on those nights when Greg worked late and she slept in their king-sized bed all alone.
Then, on rare occasions he surprised her, suddenly becoming sweet and attentive. Like now. Knowing how important this second wedding was to her, he smothered his own desires and allowed her to have everything she wanted.
She roused herself to find both Greg and the wedding planner waiting for her answer. "Sunset would be beautiful," she agreed.
"Okay then." The wedding planner made some notes. Turning she made her way back through the gardens. "We have you scheduled for a massage at noon tomorrow, followed by hair appointment at two. Come back to the office and we'll talk about the video and the flowers."
Surprised, Abby turned to Greg. "Only the best for you, honey," he said.
Her heart melted. He'd even arranged for a massage!
He put his mouth close to her ear. "Let's get your flowers arranged and then let's have a romantic dinner at the waterfront restaurant. We have a reservation."
She couldn't help asking, "Dinner? Without Dorian?"
Greg smiled. "Dorian has other plans."
Abby could well imagine. Women seemed to flow through Dorian's life like water. All of them tall. All of them blond.
"Good."
Greg winked at her. "But I'm going to bunk with him tonight." She opened her mouth to protest, but he said, "You know it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride on the morning of the wedding."
"Just don't drink too much," she warned. The night before their wedding Dorian had taken Greg out for an impromptu bachelor party. From what she'd been able to pry out of Greg over the years, it was lucky either of them had made it home alive.
Greg grinned at her. Tiny lines creased the corners of his eyes and his blond hair was sprinkled with gray, but otherwise, he was the man she'd married ... twenty-five years ago tomorrow.
* * * *
Abby stood in the center of the gazebo and gazed out at the water. The sun hovered on the horizon, dyeing the waves crimson. Her sunburn had faded overnight, and she'd been able to cover what remained with makeup. In her form-fitting silk gown, she looked like a bronzed goddess. She carried a spray of flowers fresh from the garden. The bright blossoms set off her white dress perfectly. In a minute, the sun would set, casting rays of purple across the sky. She twisted the platinum ring she'd bought for Greg and cast a backward glance down the path to the hotel. The minister cleared his throat.
Greg was late.
With a sigh she watched the sun sink below the horizon. Rays of maroon and indigo streamed across the sky. The pictures would still be stunning, she thought. If Greg would just hurry up. Maybe they could do the photos first and the ceremony afterward.
The minister lit the candles on the altar. Abby strained her eyes to see through the shadows that now marked the gardens.
Lights flickered to life on the pathway. And there, emerging from the hotel she caught a glimpse of a figure in a white tuxedo. The figure hurried toward them. Her heart sank.
Dorian.
In his right hand he carried a letter. In the dim light she watched the minister's grim smile tighten. Putting her bouquet down on the altar, she hurried down the steps.
The designer gown made it hard to run. She heard a loud rip, then running became easier. Dorian would pay, Abby thought, as her meticulously arranged up-do shredded in the wind. He'd pay to have her dress repaired and her hair redone. He'd pay for whatever he'd done to delay Greg.
"Where's Greg?" she demanded when she reached him.
His tuxedo hung in creases, as if he'd been wearing it all day. Wind ruffled his already messy, dark hair, and the orchid in his lapel had long wilted. He stared down at her, remorse creasing his expression. "I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
Rather than his normal, cocky self, Dorian looked crestfallen. Dark circles ringed his eyes. "When I woke up, he was gone."
"Gone?" she repeated stupidly. The information rattled around in her brain, refusing to make sense. Then it began to form a sinister picture. The night before their wedding twenty-five years ago, Dorian had taken Greg out for drinks. They'd barely made it to the ceremony. Dorian had been drunk. Now, twenty-five years later, on the one day that was supposed to make up for it all, the day she'd planned the wedding she'd never had, Dorian had ruined it once again. "What time did you wake up?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.
"A few hours ago. And when I woke up Greg was nowhere to be found." He looked down at the crumpled letter in a hotel envelope in his hand. "At first I just thought he'd gone to get his hair cut or something. But when he didn't come back, I got worried. I looked all over for him."
"Obviously, you didn't look hard enough," she snapped. "Are you certain he even made it back to the room with you?"
He gave her a guilty look full of remorse. "Well, no. We went to the bar. I don't remember how I got back to the room."
"Great." Abby stamped the heel of her silk shoe into the soft grass. She'd likely put a stain on the four hundred dollar sandals, but she didn't care.
"Greg must have come back to the room at some point, though," Dorian said. He held up the wrinkled envelope. "Because he left this for you on the bureau."
While they'd been talking, the sun had set completely, leaving only a magenta streak across the sky as evidence it had been there. A scattering of stars appeared above them. A warm ocean breeze stirred her hair, freeing another tendril from her heavily sprayed up-do. It promised to be a spectacular night full of sultry promise.
Yet an icy shiver of dread ran down her spine as she took the envelope from Dorian's sweaty hands. She ran a fingernail under the flap, chipping her French manicure. Inside lay a meticulously folded piece of hotel stationery. The shiver turned into a full-body tremor as she unfolded the paper. Three lines in Greg's handwriting stared back at her.
Forgive me, but I just can't do this anymore.
Enjoy your holiday.
We'll talk when you get back home.
Greg
Abby stared at the writing. She read it twice, and still the simple sentences wouldn't make sense. She felt the warmth from Dorian's body as he peered over her shoulder. Walking away, he stared to curse softly under his breath.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the minister approach. Dorian intercepted him. For a moment they spoke in whispers. Then, with a pity-filled look in her direction, the minister departed. The photographer went with him.
"Abby!" Dorian had been calling her, she realized suddenly.
She looked up, becoming aware that tears were running down her face and splashing on the paper, smearing the ink and ruining her make-up.
Dorian took her gently by the arm. "Let's get you back to the hotel room."
She let him pull her toward the path leading to the hotel--to the Honeymoon Suite they'd booked. Then reality hit like a ton of bricks.
Abby dug her four hundred dollar heels into the grass. 'You knew about this, didn't you?"
"No!"
By the shocked and hurt look on his face, she almost believed him. But Dorian went through women faster than most men changed their shirts. Hell, he'd probably encouraged Greg to do it.
"I'm as shocked as you are," Dorian insisted. "I had no idea."
"Well, I don't believe you!" She turned away from him, catching sight of herself reflected in a decorative pool lit by torches.
Her streaked-blond hair hung in tendrils, curling in the humidity, her up-do a complete ruin. Somehow in the past few moments, she'd managed to get dirt stains on her silk wedding gown. Tears had reduced her make-up to random streaks of color, some of which had splashed down on her dress. She took another long look. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. The day to make up for twenty-five years of neglect and indifference. Instead, it was turning into the worst day of her life. That bedraggled reflection in the water couldn't possibly be her.
Whirling away from her reflection, she hiked up her dress. Ignoring the dew and the possibility of getting grass stains on her expensive shoes, she raced across the grass toward her hotel room.
Behind her she heard Dorian yelling her name but she ran like a woman possessed. It was only when she reached her hotel room that she realized she had no key.
Dorian's shoes clattered on the pavement as he caught up with her. "Here," he said, taking his own key from his jacket pocket. He shoved it into the lock and opened the door to his room. "Come on in. I'll call the front desk and get them to send someone up to open the door."
The last thing she wanted was to wait in Dorian's room but the fewer people who saw her in her present state the better. She hoped the minister hadn't told anyone. They were expected shortly for dinner in main dining room. A flower-decked table awaited them along with a wedding cake and well-wishers. She groaned aloud.
"Have a seat," Dorian said, reaching for the phone. Obviously, he meant that figuratively, Abby mused, looking around the room. Clothes covered every inch of furniture. The loud shirt he'd been wearing yesterday lay bunched in the chair beside the window. He seemed to have emptied his suitcase on the unmade bed. A pair of pants hung on the back of the only other chair. She noted a pair of briefs on the bureau. Following the path of her gaze, Dorian nonchalantly reached for them and tucked them into a drawer. Empty beer bottles overflowed the wastebasket. He'd obviously taken advantage of the all-inclusive bar.
Abby couldn't see any sign of Greg anywhere. Meticulous Greg had taken his suitcase and all its contents and left.
With half her attention, she heard Dorian on the phone to the hotel desk, explaining that while rushing for the ceremony, Abby had forgotten her hotel room key and now needed to be let in. He sounded so matter-of-fact, but she appreciated that. The last thing she wanted was anyone else witnessing her heartache.
An unopened beer sat on the bureau next to where Dorian's underwear had been tossed, as if he'd debated having one last brew before packing it in. She wondered idly if Greg had talked him out of it, then decided that it didn't matter. She picked it up and held it up for Dorian to see. He nodded.
She wandered into his bathroom. Obviously, the maid hadn't been in yet because wet towels covered the floor. She tip-toed through them and used the opener attached to the wall. As a rule she never drank beer. Today she'd make an exception. Tipping her head back, she took a long deep swallow. It poured down her throat in a frothy wave. She swallowed, burped loudly. Through the open doorway, she saw Dorian look up at the sound, but he said nothing.
Appalled, she glanced away, coming face to face with her reflection in the mirror. Who was that woman with disheveled hair in a creased dress slugging back a beer of all things?
Who was that man that she'd shared a life and a bed with for twenty-five years? The one who'd left her at the altar. In that moment she realized she hadn't known Greg at all. Even more disturbing was that she hardly recognized herself.
"The desk says they'll send someone up right away," Dorian said, walking to the doorway.
She nodded and took another long pull on the beer.
Wordlessly, he put his arm around her and drew her out of the bathroom. Plucking his shirt off the chair, he offered her a seat. It wasn't like Dorian to be gallant, she thought, sitting down. Maybe he just felt sorry for her.
He perched on the side of the bed. "Look, Abby, I really had no idea. I woke up this morning fully expecting to stand up for you and Greg while you renewed your vows."
She heard the words, but she couldn't seem to think past the static in her brain. One thought kept repeating itself like a distress signal. Greg left me. Greg left me. Greg left me. Greg left...
"This morning?" she asked dully.
"Okay, this afternoon. We had a few drinks last night."
"Just like before our wedding," Abby snapped. Another thought added to the repeating distress signal. Greg left me. Dorian's a jerk.
"Believe me, it wasn't my idea. We went to the bar. Greg kept ordering more drinks. Beers, margaritas and those fruity things with umbrellas. After a few...well, I stopped protesting."
"Sure," she said, finishing the last of his beer. She burped again and didn't care.
A rap on the door interrupted the loop in her mind. Dorian rose to answer it.
The bellman gave the room a distasteful once over. His gaze lingered on the disheveled bride sitting with the best man, but he made no comment. He nodded to Abby. "I'll open the honeymoon suite now for you, Ma'am."
Putting down the beer, she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress and tried to look dignified. "Thank you."
She followed the bellman next door. To her dismay, Dorian came with them.
Her dismay grew when she stepped into her room. Flowers adorned everything. They ran in a riot of color along the back of the bureau. They sat in vases on both bedside tables. They formed a rainbow over the headboard. Sitting on a room service table in the center of room was an ice bucket complete with a chilled bottle of champagne and a silver balloon that said congratulations.
A sob worked its way up her throat, the first emotion she'd felt since she'd read Greg's letter.
"Thank you." Dorian tipped the bellman and plucked the key from his hand. Giving Dorian one last, amused look, he left.
"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Dorian asked. He looked ready to bolt himself.
"Do I have a choice?"
Her question stopped Dorian. He turned back toward her. "Of course you have a choice, Abby. You always have a choice. Even," he said softly, "if you don't think you do."
His answer surprised her. It was far deeper than she would have given Dorian credit for. She pondered his words for a moment, pulling the champagne from its bucket and examining the label.
"Well, Greg had taste if nothing else," she muttered. She held it up for his perusal. "Want some champagne?"
He looked at her like he wasn't certain she was serious. She held up a glass as well. "Sure," he said cautiously. He reached for the bottle. "Why don't you go change into something else while I open this?"
Abby glanced down at the soiled wedding dress. She couldn't remember where she'd tossed the bouquet. She stood before the closet where she'd meticulously hung all the sexy clothes she'd brought with her. White satin negligees, lacy white sundresses. Clothes designed to be provocative, meant to rekindle the magic that had long since gone out of their marriage. If it had ever been there in the first place, said voice in the back of her mind.
Everything in the closet was white to offset her tan. White to make her look like a bride. She wasn't a bride, she thought with a sick pang in her stomach. She was a middle-aged woman who'd lost a few pounds and invested in a few minor cosmetic procedures. She was a middle-aged woman who'd fallen asleep in a hammock yesterday and gotten a wicked burn. A middle-aged woman who had been dumped by her husband.
With a sigh, she pulled a white sundress from the closet and disappeared into the bathroom. As the door closed, she heard the cork pop and the fizz of champagne being poured into glasses. This wasn't how she'd intended to spend the evening. She'd imagined Greg, dashing in his white tux, reciting vows he'd written himself, as the sun set. She'd envisioned what lovely wedding photos they'd take and the romantic dinner they'd have afterward. Late into the evening, when the buzz from the champagne had worn off, she fantasized about great sex in the king-sized, four-poster bed. Not that she and Greg had ever had great sex. But hey, a woman could dream, couldn't she?
Shutting the door on her dreams, Abby faced her reflection. Undoing the pins that held what remained of her up-do in place, she brushed the spray from her hair. It hung to her shoulders, the ends gently curling from the humidity. The streaks she'd had done a week ago had lightened from the dose of sun she'd given them yesterday. Now they looked garishly yellow against her dark hair.
She washed the heavy make-up from her face. The burn she'd gotten yesterday still stung a little, but the bright red hue had faded to a golden brown. It made her blue eyes look brighter. She couldn't bear slathering anything else onto her skin, so she left it bare, adding only a bit of gloss to her lips.
She stepped out of the strapless gown, letting the silk puddle around her feet. Beneath she wore a white lace bustier and garters. She stripped those off as well and kicked aside her expensive shoes. The bustier had left welts along her ribs. She stepped into the sundress, braless.
The chambermaid had even decorated the bathroom with flowers. Plucking one from the arrangement, Abby stuck it behind her ear.
In the other room, the phone rang. She heard Dorian talking in low tones and hoped it wasn't Greg. One last look at her reflection made her groan. She still looked like a bride.
Well, damn it all, she was a bride. Whether she had a groom or not. With that thought in mind, she swung the door open.
She found Dorian on the balcony, staring out into the ocean. He turned as she approached. One eyebrow rose. His dark eyes glinted in the light from the room. "Wow, you look…good."
"Thanks." From Dorian that counted as a compliment. He liked women who looked like fashion models. Then again, she thought, he could just be humoring her.
He held out a champagne flute. Golden liquid bubbled inside. "Here."
The beer she'd slugged back started to slosh around in her stomach. She realized it had been a long time since she'd last eaten. Nevertheless, champagne offered one thing food didn't … the dulling of her pain. She swallowed a healthy mouthful. It bubbled on her tongue.
"Who was on the phone?"
"The hotel restaurant. They're holding your table."
She said, "Oh."
"Do you want me to tell them to cancel? They could probably send the dinner to your room."
She really wanted to say yes. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, sans the sexy negligee and pull the covers up over her head. She wondered briefly if the hotel kitchen made comfort food like mashed potatoes with gravy or macaroni and cheese. Then she thought about the amount of money the dinner had to be costing Greg. She glanced at Dorian looking mussed and disheveled in a way she'd never found appealing before. It might have been shock, or the effects of a beer on an empty stomach, she thought shaking her head to clear it. "Hungry?" she asked.
He stopped, the champagne glass half way to his mouth. "Yeah, I could eat something."
She wandered back inside the honeymoon suite, filled her champagne glass up to the brim and promptly drained it. "Let's go then."
An arch of flowers was set up over their table, along with more silver balloons. So much for keeping it anonymous. By the time the food had arrived the waiters' smiles had begun to grate on her nerves. They didn't know, she thought. They assumed the wedding had gone off as planned and Dorian was the groom.
For his part, Dorian seemed uncharacteristically subdued tonight. He accepted the flood of congratulations with a smile, graciously diverting the attention of other hotel guests who came up to offer their congratulations.
Food arrived: succulent chicken on a bed of vegetables and more champagne. More flowers had been artfully arranged on the plate. She wanted to scream but her stomach caught the aroma of food and growled loudly. She laid into her plate with a gusto she didn't know she possessed. Greg, being a prominent executive, liked his wife fashionably thin. He said a slender wife made him look successful. With those second wedding photos in mind, she'd lost a lot of weight. Now the dream of the second wedding had vanished along with the photos. Except for the still photos the photographer had taken of her in the garden before the ceremony, no record existed. Finally, she could eat what she wanted.
Dorian looked up appreciatively as she dug into her chicken. He'd probably never seen a woman eat before, Abby thought. None of those skinny blondes he'd dated looked like they'd ever had a decent meal. Not that she cared.
When they'd finished the chicken, the waiter brought a tiny white wedding cake, decorated with yet more fuchsia flowers. Brandishing her butter knife, Abby bisected the unsuspecting dessert and dumped half of it on Dorian's plate.
He grabbed her hand. With strong fingers, he gently pried the knife from her hand. "Abby, it's going to be okay."
"Is it?" Her voice rose. Guests glanced in her direction. "Did Greg tell you that, too?"
"Greg didn't tell me anything," he said, putting the knife down out of reach. "I feel as badly about this as you do."
"Well, I doubt that," she snapped.
He looked at her, eyes full of sorrow. "You have to believe me, Abby. I really didn't know."
She didn't believe him. Not for one moment. The man was a half-decent actor, she'd give him that much.
"What are you going to do?" he asked when she'd fumed for a few moments in silence.
Do? The question stopped her cold. "I have no idea," she whispered.
Dorian glanced around, shaming the guests who'd looked in their direction into turning their attention back to their meals. "I think you should stay."
Stay? Here in paradise where every gust of warm wind and sea air reminded her of the ruin of her life? The man was insane. "Why?"
He looked around again. Leaning toward her, he lowered his voice. "Because Greg has paid for you to be here. And he'll be counting on you being shaken and upset."
"I am shaken and upset." She poured more champagne into her goblet and drank.
Dorian took the glass from her hand and put it back down on the table. "I know," he said gently. "So take some time. Rest, relax. Get your head together. I guarantee you, he wouldn't be expecting that."
A few more days in paradise, Abby thought. She could do that. Before she had to go home and unravel twenty-five years of their life together.
|
