The Way They Were (11 page)

Rourke shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered, “A mere ploy to
avoid
an engagement.”

“Sir?”

“I bought her a bracelet, not a ring. I never said a damn thing about a ring. Why would she think I wanted to marry her?” A trip to Switzerland was one thing, but marriage? Hardly. He hadn’t thought of marriage for years. Fourteen to be exact.

His ruminations were disturbed by the
clack-clacking
of stilettos and a loud, presumptuous, “Darling, where have you been?”

“Hello, Janice,” Rourke said, removing his hands from his pockets to greet her. She fell against him in a half-swoon, draped her arms around his neck, and sighed.

Janice was an actress. Small time stuff, a few hand commercials, a fill in on a bath soap, and a room deodorizer. She descended from a long line of blue bloods and had attended Vanderbilt for economics. A brilliant woman who preferred to play the ‘helpless female with two brain cells’ routine, even though her father had promised to pass along fifty-one percent controlling interest in his investment firm if she would give up acting and join the firm. Janice refused.

Rourke disengaged himself from her willowy frame and forced a smile. “We haven’t even known each other three years.”

She stuck out her Botox-injected lip and wrinkled her nose at him. “One year or three, when a person feels as though they’ve known someone a lifetime, what does it matter?”

Rourke worked a hand over his face and vowed to fire the whole damn temporary agency. But first he had to deal with Janice. “Maxine and I have been very busy. We really aren’t going to have time to socialize.”

“That’s perfectly fine.” She smiled up at him and
click-clacked
over to the side of Maxine’s desk, where she lifted a Louis Vuitton tote and said, “I’ve got loads of magazines to get through.”

Loads. Great.

“I’ll just sit right here,” she perched on the edge of one of his chairs, “and mind my own business.” She reached a slender hand inside the bag and retrieved a copy of
Mademoiselle
. “Hair, the perfect accessory. Hmmm.” She toyed with a straight lock of black hair.

Rourke rolled his eyes at Maxine and shook his head. Janice was beautiful and entertaining, and when she wasn’t putting on a show, a keen intelligence flowed from her that captivated him. And then there was the bedroom. And the living room. And the car. Front
and
back seat. She was a creative, enticing lover. But she was not Kate. The reality of this truth struck him. She was nothing like Kate. None of his women were. Perhaps that’s why he’d chosen them.

“Did you know they’re coming out with a lime and salsa conditioner?” Janice pointed a perfect red nail at the page. “Maybe they’ll make a cilantro shampoo to go with it.”

Rourke glanced at Maxine whose small lips puckered just enough to make him think she was imagining the lime between her lips. “How long are you staying?”

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until she looked up and cooed, “As long as you need me, Rourke.”

Just one time, he wished she’d lose the stage voice and say something real. But she wouldn’t, or maybe she couldn’t verbalize, unlike some people he knew who had no problem saying exactly what was on their mind. “I’ve got a lot going on, Janice, and I wouldn’t be able to spend any time with you.”

Damn that temporary agency for sending him a blabbermouth. Maybe he’d sue the agency for breach of confidentiality. What the hell was wrong with him? What man wouldn’t want Janice in his bed? The answer stung his brain—
he
didn’t want her in his bed. All because of Kate and this afternoon.

“…so we can grab dinner and once you put Annie to bed, you can come visit me.” She sat up straighter so her boobs pushed against her tight black knit sweater—for his express benefit since he was the only male in the room.

“Abbie,” he corrected. “Her name’s Abbie. Short for Abigail.”

“Oh, well, Abbie then. Put Abbie to bed,” she lowered her voice, fingered the opening of her sweater, “and then I’ll put you to bed.”

Chapter 13

“
The owner of the parent company is a celebrity of sorts; handsome, charismatic, well-connected, with a pristine record in the industry that has prospective partners begging him to do a deal.”—Edmund Dupree III

Sophie’s Diner boasted the best burgers and fries in Montpelier. It was the only reason Kate agreed to forgo the waffle and egg dinner she’d planned. At least that’s what Julia thought. The real reason had nothing to do with Sophie’s french fries. The real reason had to do with Rourke Flannigan.

What they’d done in her bedroom earlier had stolen Kate’s desire to cook, or eat, or do anything other than berate herself for such weakness. When she wasn’t remembering the feel of his arms around her, the thrust of his hips, the power of his—

“No, I’ll stick with my Diet Coke.” The same small earlobes, too. And of course, the same slate eyes. She was not going to lose Julia, no matter what she had to do.

“Hey, there’s Abbie and Maxine!” Julia waved to them as they waited for a booth. “Can they eat with us?”

Kate was surrounded by Rourke; his secretary, his niece…his daughter…his scent still clinging to her pores. “Sure,” she let out on a long sigh.

“Over here!” Julia waved her hand at Abbie. “Wanna join us?”

The secretary looked uncomfortable with the offer which made Kate wonder what she knew. Abbie ignored the woman and plopped down in the booth next to Julia, leaving Maxine no choice but to follow.

They’d barely had time to glance at their menus when Abbie burst out giggling. “You should see who’s come to visit Rourke. Her name is Janice. She’s a trip, isn’t she, Maxine?”

Janice?

“Abigail, Mr. Flannigan’s private business is not our concern.”

Abbie scrunched her nose. “Come on, Maxine, Janice is a piece of plastic wrapped in Versace. What’s he see in her anyway, other than the big boobs?”

“Abigail!”

Abbie ignored her. “She’s some kind of model or something,” she paused and her lips curved into a sly smile, “I think she’s his girlfriend.”

Girlfriend?

“Abigail!”

Abbie merely waved a hand at Maxine and continued, “She’s got some great clothes though. All designer stuff.”

Kate smoothed the wrinkles out of her khaki skirt.
Girlfriend?

The conversation shifted to Sophie’s burgers and fries. Kate tried to think of different ways to inch the subject back to Rourke and his girlfriend, but aside from asking outright, which would make her as transparent as cellophane, she could think of no other way.

No man with a girlfriend should have been doing what she and Rourke were a few hours ago. Kate pushed down a rush of nausea as she recalled exactly what they’d been doing. He ignited a burn in her that Clay had never been able to accomplish no matter the skill or technique and for that she despised Rourke, almost as much as she despised herself.

“…wants to marry him, don’t you think, Maxine? He won’t though, not unless he’s into self-torture.” Abbie leaned in, lowered her voice, “You should see the stuff women send him. Flowers, sweaters, ties,” she giggled, “underwear.”

“Abigail, that is absolutely enough.”

“What’s he do with it?” Julia’s voice quivered in anticipation.

Abbie shrugged. “Gives it to the cleaning lady for her kids and her husband. Not sure about the underwear though. They were those silky boxer kind.”

“Abigail—”

Julia giggled, before Maxine could finish. “I thought they were
women’s
underwear.”

“No, but I told you he has a drawer of those in his bedroom, remember? I think they’re
Janice’s
.”

“Abigail, if you do not cease this conversation this instant, I will call your uncle and insist he return you to the Manor.” Maxine’s thin nostrils flared in unison, her pale complexion flushed crimson as she added, “And see how you’ll explain
that
to him.”

Abbie rolled her eyes and made a face. “Fine. I’m done.”

When the food arrived, Kate picked at her fries and forced three bites of burger. There was no getting around it. She’d have to convince Rourke that Julia wasn’t his child and then she’d have to confront him about the other matter. What had happened between them this afternoon was a mistake that could
not
be repeated. And then there was the matter of protection. They hadn’t used any. But neither had she and Clay and other than one pregnancy that ended in a miscarriage, she’d never even missed a period. She nibbled on a fry. What were the chances she’d be pregnant with Rourke’s child again? Even God would not be that cruel. But what if she’d contracted an STD? Rourke had probably slept with dozens of women. The half-chewed fry threatened to explode in her stomach.
Damn
, she’d have to ask him about his sexual history.

“Hey!” Abbie stifled a squeal. “Look who just walked in!
It’s them!
”

Kate turned just as Rourke spotted her. Even in the dim glow of the diner’s lighting, she could see the dull red splashed across his cheeks. Her gaze flickered from his face to the woman clinging to his arm, a willowy brunette in three-inch heels and diamonds. Janice. The girlfriend.

Kate turned around and picked up a french fry.
That
was the woman he slept with on a regular basis.
In a bed.
She was the one who had Victoria’s Secret underwear stashed in Rourke’s bottom drawer.
She
sent him flowers and bought him ties, even if he did give them away.

“Here they come,” Julia whispered as though she were an announcer for
E!

“Watch the way she flips her hair over her shoulder when she talks,” Abbie said. “Just watch.”

Rourke’s voice covered Kate as he spoke to the hostess. Seconds later he was facing her with Janice still clutching his arm, her waist glued to his.
Rourke had a girlfriend and this afternoon had been nothing more than a diversion.

“Well, I see you’re all enjoying Montpelier’s finest cuisine.” He smiled at them but his tone sounded forced. “Janice, this is Kate Maden and her daughter, Julia. Kate, Julia, this is Janice Prentiss.”

Abbie had definitely made a major error in her description. Janice Prentiss was Hollywood beautiful with jet black hair, hazel eyes, and long, long legs. Whether she had the help of silicone or Botox, she was still beautiful. But then she would be, because
this
was the kind of woman a man like Rourke Flannigan would align himself with in life, not a woman in jeans and cotton with paint creased into her fingertips and stretch marks on her belly. Janice extended a hand and smiled. Perfect teeth, too.

“How wonderful to meet you, Kate.” She turned to Julia. The brilliant smile faltered a half second and then she recovered, clasping Julia’s hand. “And you, too, Julia.”

Maxine darted a glance at Kate, cleared her throat twice, and sipped her iced tea.

“Well, we won’t interrupt your dinner any longer,” Rourke said, his voice more forced than before. “Enjoy.”

“Yes, enjoy,” Janice echoed, her hazel eyes sweeping over Julia one last time before she smiled up at Rourke and they moved on toward their table in a dark corner of the diner.

Abbie pointed a french fry toward the booth in the corner where Janice sat cozied up to Rourke. “She’s trying. She’s even got a
Bride
magazine stuffed in her Louis Vuitton bag. Rourke would flip if he knew that.”

“Doesn’t he want to get married?” Julia snaked a quick glance in his direction. “He’s really pretty hot for an older guy. How old is he anyway?”

Three months shy of thirty-three.

Abbie shrugged. “At least thirty-eight. As for not wanting to get married, I haven’t been around long enough to investigate, but give me another month and I’ll be able to tell you.”