Sold to the Highest Bidder (3 page)

And for a long moment she stood with her hand on the door handle, wondering how many women he’d been with since she’d walked out on their marriage. She was fully aware that she had no right to ask. But the thought of him with another woman was like acid to her insides. It shouldn’t be. She’d given up her rights to him years ago, practically if not legally.

“Ell, you want a beer?”

She inhaled sharply and stepped inside.

It was sparse but neat, and exactly the same as it had been when he’d carried her over the threshold. Cupboards to the right, fridge on the left, situated between what would have been termed the living room and kitchen area. Her heart gave a little lurch as she remembered that day. Why now, after years of putting them aside, did the memories seem idyllic, uncomplicated? Those times had been anything but. Yet inside, a tiny corner of her remembered how it felt to belong to him, to have that bit of hope and feeling like he would make everything all right as they began their lives together. That night, on their wedding night, he’d made love to her for the first time.

She heard the sound of him popping the top off a bottle of beer, the creak of couch springs as he sat, his back resting on a homemade afghan crocheted for their wedding by his grandmother. She pulled herself out of the memory. That wasn’t what was real. She’d realized it soon enough. What was real was her job and her life back in Denver. Her nostrils flared as she heard the old springs twang as he shifted his weight, reaching for a remote control. She was so beyond this.

He turned on the television—it was the bottom of the ninth of the game that had been on at Ruby’s. She stared at his profile and didn’t miss the miniscule quirk to his mouth. He was playing with her, she was sure. Acting like there was nothing more important at stake than one out and runners on first and third. Trying to get on her nerves. Two could play at that game.

She ran her finger along a scarred end table, rubbing her thumb against the dust there. Maybe a small part of her had hoped he’d done something more with his life. That he wouldn’t be stuck in the same pattern like everyone else in this backwoods town. But maybe that was asking too much.

“Take a load off, honey.”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“You could sign the papers and be rid of me.”

He didn’t answer, just leaned back into the cushions of the sofa. After several long moments she started to feel like an idiot, standing in the near silence while he tipped back his beer and pretended to watch the game. Finally she went to the battered stuffed chair and sat on the arm rest. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She had been right, and everything she’d seen and heard this evening seemed to bear witness to that. So why couldn’t she hate him? She needed to hate him. And somehow she couldn’t. Somehow, just being with him for this short amount of time made her feel like she’d never been away. She remembered the first time he’d kissed her, right here on this porch. She remembered the fire that always seemed to erupt between them. The first time he’d said he loved her, his voice hadn’t quite decided what pitch it wanted to be. The last time, on the morning she’d driven away, his voice had been deep and sure and gritty with sleep. She didn’t want to remember. It hurt way too much.

The game finished and he half-turned, sitting sideways on the couch and looking up at her. He took a long drink of Coors, licked his lips. She stared at the path his tongue made.

“Ell.”

“Don’t,” she whispered, hating the indulgent tone. She made a point of staring, unseeing, at the television that was now playing commercials. The picture blurred through the sheen of moisture in her eyes. She hated herself for that little bit of weakness. She would
not
cry.

“Ell,” he said, stronger.

She tore her eyes away and looked down at him, feeling like utter and absolute hell. This was supposed to be easy. She didn’t love him anymore. She’d moved on, built her own life. So why was it so painful simply seeing him, hearing his voice say her name?

Because up until October—almost exactly twelve years ago—hearing her name on his lips had been all she’d ever wanted. Because since they were kids, even before puberty, they had always been there for each other. As their voices and bodies changed, so had their awareness. But it hadn’t changed the other closeness, the friendship. And hearing him say “Ell,” in just that way, just now, brought it all flooding back. She’d never had to feel completely alone because Devin was there. It made her want him again, almost desperately, and she hated that he could accomplish all of that just by saying her name.

His brows relaxed slightly and he attempted a smile, as if he could sense the path of her thoughts. “Silver Bullet cures all ills.” He held up his bottle.

“Not tonight, Dev.” It came out all husky and thick and she cleared her throat. Tonight, she realized, they were finally saying goodbye to their marriage. It suddenly took on an importance far bigger than she’d anticipated.

“Come on, a divorce is what you want, right? This marriage has been over for a long time. Maybe we should celebrate with a few cold ones.”

Celebrate was exactly what she’d intended to do—back in Denver. She and Amy were planning to hit the clubs and dance until they closed down—rejoicing in what was to be Ella’s newfound freedom and fresh start. But the
idea
of Dev was somehow a very different thing from being faced with his devilish eyes and sexy body. It reminded her of things. Things she needed to forget. She wanted a marriage based on love, independence, respect. Common ambition, if it came down to it. Saying goodbye shouldn’t be hard. But it was, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with it.

Maybe they could forge a truce over a couple of drinks, have a little honesty about their marriage—or lack of it—without all the pretense. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. If they did that, maybe she wouldn’t have to wait the whole weekend for him to sign. She knew he was doing it to be difficult, and on one hand she knew she deserved it. She’d been the one to walk away, after all. On the other hand, she just wanted to find the quickest, least painful way of getting it over with. She met his eyes, a deep, honest blue that took her breath away.

“Tonight I think you’d better break out the bourbon,” she whispered, hoping the fortification would see her through.

Wordlessly, he rose, went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam. He sat it on the table and took two shot glasses from another cupboard beside the sink. Finally, he got a beer from the fridge, flipped off the top and put it beside her shot glass.

“Shots with a chaser,” he said, and sat. “Just like old times.”

She watched him as he unscrewed the cap and poured two shots of amber liquid.

Then he lifted his eyes to hers…captured her with his gaze as surely as if he’d bound her to the chair.

“To August twenty-second.” He lifted his glass. Waited.

He was toasting their wedding date, looking as sober as a man could possibly look when facing his wife of twelve years—especially since he hadn’t seen her in eleven years and as many months. In a split second images raced through her brain of that day, of her cheap dress and the courthouse and a handful of witnesses. And with the images, the sensations, feelings. No, no, no. She had to stop this right now. This wasn’t supposed to be memory lane.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the glass, but she couldn’t speak. She saluted, and tossed the liquor back.

“Whuaaaa!” She gasped as it burned a path straight to her belly. She grabbed the beer and took a long swig, trying to douse the flames licking their way down her throat.

“Atta girl.”

He poured another, nodded at her. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“I made the first toast…”

What could she possibly say? He’d toasted their anniversary, for God’s sake. She knew it had been a deliberate jab. She knew this was the time for her to rebut. A couple of shots she could handle. A couple of shots would take the quiver out of her hands and alleviate the nerves jumping around in her stomach. She’d keep her head and accomplish her goal that much faster. She thought for a moment, then smiled sweetly. “To September thirteenth.”

His brow wrinkled in the middle. “That’s today.”

“Yup. And it’s the day we undo August twenty-second.”

She held up her glass, daring him. Would he drink to it? Their marriage had been over for years. “Well?”

“I haven’t signed anything yet.”

She paused for a moment. Was that a veiled threat that he wouldn’t? She ignored the sly smile flirting with his lips. No, this wasn’t the time to back off. This time she’d one-up him and get her way.

“Come on, McQuade. Swallow your pride and the shot. At this point it’s just a formality, and you know it.”

His hand was steady. “You know how much I stand on formality.”

She very coolly cocked one eyebrow at him. Challenging back.

He swore, but he drank.

The fire of the alcohol sent a languid warmth through her and she smiled. A few drinks and a signature, and they could both move on with their lives. They already had been. Well, mostly. She’d made a good life for herself, in a profession she loved. Good friends. A nice apartment. But she hadn’t been completely happy in Denver. And she knew a lot of it had to do with tying up loose ends. She looked at Dev, with his tousled hair and almost invisible freckles under his deep tan. Yep. Definitely a loose end. Always keeping her tied to a past she was desperate to forget. Looking over her shoulder.

He poured a third shot as she lowered the Coors to the table. She watched as he lifted the glass, turned it in his fingers, staring at the dark liquid like it held a secret. A smile curled along the edges of his mouth and she bit down on her lip. She stared at his fingers, his long, very capable fingers, and her pulse skipped a beat. Maybe the shots weren’t such a good idea because she was starting to think less about the objective and more about Devin. She crossed her legs under the table. He would not get to her. He wouldn’t.

“To your virginity.”

Oh, sweet mother. Her cheeks flamed red instantly, the heat scorching, curling around her ears. She coughed and lifted her glass as he said the last words…

“And to mine.”

She gulped down the bourbon and slammed the shot glass down on the table. “You’re not playing fair, McQuade.”

“You wanted me to play fair?” His eyes widened with feigned innocence. “What’s the fun in that?”

“When did you turn so sentimental? Anniversaries and first times? Come on.” She snorted to hide how much his toast had touched her heart and chased the shot with a quick gulp of cold beer. She still held a certain amount of misplaced pride that she’d also been his first. They’d learned together. Had wanted to learn together and she’d been so afraid of getting pregnant he’d done the honorable thing and married her first. It was her stupid, fairy-tale mistake that she’d said yes. They should have just bought a pack of condoms and gotten it out of their system. If they had they wouldn’t be here right now.

“And you’ve really been around to see whether I was sentimental or not, I suppose.” His words hit the mark and he sat back in his chair, glared at her.

“I get that you’re angry that I left.”

“Angry?” Truth was coming out as the bourbon was going in. His voice had raised and he took a breath and let it out again. He picked up his beer bottle. “Angry didn’t quite cover how I felt. Or how I feel about you, Ella McQuade.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Her shout echoed through the tiny house.

“Your turn,” he said quietly.

Ella had always been able to handle her liquor, but three shots in twice as many minutes, on the back of the awful wine she’d had at the bar, made the edges suddenly blur. It was as if someone had warmed the air, making it fuzzy, and yet it had an angry edge, like something in the shadows waiting to strike. She concentrated on pouring from the bottle as he watched her closely. She’d just ignore the fact that he was hovering. Or that he’d just said that he felt something for her after all.

She slowly pulled his shot glass over. “I don’t know why you’re fighting me on this, Dev. We both know it was over long ago. It doesn’t make sense to hang on any longer.”

“Maybe I need you to understand some things first.”

She put the bottle down carefully, deliberately. Slid his glass back across the table. “Things like what?”

His grin was fast and devastating. “If I told you, it would be me telling you rather than you understanding.”

She forgot about the toast and merely tossed back the shot, needing to regain the upper hand. “Go away for a decade or so and I come back to find you’re a woman, getting all philosophical. When did you become all in touch with your feelings, Dev? You’ve been reading those self-help magazines, haven’t you? Or maybe watching too much Oprah in your spare time?”

He matched her shot. His arm seemed to move slower than before as she watched him drink and lick his lips. She needed to slow down. Someone had to stop pouring.

“Tell yourself what you want, Ella. You’re two thirds of the way drunk and the rest of the way deluded.”

The edges blurred further. She should have eaten earlier instead of driving straight through. Or she should have stuck with having a beer rather than suggesting bourbon.
Idiot.
Either way, he was right. At least about the first two thirds. And he was apparently as sober as a judge. Bastard.