Do Us Part (The Dumont Diaries (#4)) Page 4

  Thirty seconds later, I was introduced to the bank president, and assured that they would do everything but move mountains to make me happy. I walked out of the bank with a fifty thousand dollar daily limit, and promises that I would receive a new credit card within twenty-four hours. I was also printed several counter checks, and told to give those to the hospital.

  I pull into Crestridge, following the long, curved drive, my eyes picking up on all of the details that combine to create exorbitant billing. A huge gated estate with acres of gardens and rolling lawns, in an area known for high property values and ridiculous taxes, the security guard who waves me through with a familiar hand. The building, a complex that houses four floors of cutting-edge medical technology, a cafeteria that puts Ruth’s Chris to shame, and a patient-to-staff ratio that defies all financial logic.

  The money has brought me peace. Without it, today would be my father’s last day, and I’d be having a conversation with him that admits my failure. Instead, I am able to fix the issue, and take over his fate with one smooth swipe of my pen over the signature line of a check. I park in front of the building and reach for my purse.

  This trip to administration is infinitely less stressful, now that I know why I am going there. I am cheerfully greeted by a receptionist and ushered to Mr. Hinton’s office.

  He looks up with a smile, taking off his glasses and standing to shake my hand.

  “Mrs. Dumont, wonderful to see you again. I was so glad that this matter was resolved so quickly.”

  I pause, halfway to my seat. “Resolved?”

  He tilts his head, squinting at me slightly, the way a pigeon would when trying to determine if you are friend or foe. “Yes. I assumed you knew. Mr. Dumont called earlier. Made a payment on Mr. Tapers’s account.”

  Nathan called. Granting my father a little more time. What a prince. I settle into the seat. “Well, I would like to take over the payment arrangements from this point forward. I brought a voided check, my bank says you can draft future payments from there.”

  He shakes his head slightly. “There shouldn’t be any future payments. Mr. Dumont made a deposit that should cover at least three years worth of treatment.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Three years?”

  “Yes. It’s a little unorthodox, but should your father’s health improve to a level where he can leave, I assured him we would refund him the credit.”

  I hate him for this. I hate him for giving me another reason to love him. His financial abandonment had been proof of his unworthiness of my love. Now that that slight is restored, I have less to lean on, less to hold against him in the lonely night when my heart is weak.

  I push my checkbook back into my purse, zipping it closed and standing. I feel deflated — my independence at taking over my father’s care drained. Also circling the drain is my ruined justification for skimming funds from Jennifer’s account. Nathan has kept his promise. I should be happy. But I feel sick, disgusted with the weakness of my heart and the inability of my mind to think of anything but him.

  His mouth on mine.

  His body over me, hands upon me, the trail of his fingers as they strum my body to exquisite pleasure.

  His eyes when they soften and look at me like I am whole.

  His voice when it grows gruff and intimate, when it says words that make me swoon.

  I thank Mr. Hinton for his time, and stand, moving unsteadily down the hall toward the elevators.

  CHAPTER 11

  Divorce, as it turns out, is a nasty bitch. Even with two parties willing to part ways, the dog and pony show that you perform is ridiculous. Counseling has been the biggest joke. Nathan and I both had to attend private sessions, the courts determining that two hours in the presence of a psychiatrist is enough to convince someone to change the course of their marriage’s fate. I don’t need a psychiatrist to convince me that I belong with Nathan. That, unfortunately, has already been decided by my stubborn mind.

  Today is the group session — Dr. Bejanti, Nathan, and me. I’m sure Cecile wanted to attend, wanted to dig her manicured nails deep into Nathan’s arm and hiss possessively at me, pulling up her silicone-enhanced lips to reveal razor-sharp teeth.

  I have threatened, bribed, and begged my soul to not be excited, to not look forward to seeing Nathan. It is unhealthy for me to continue to want him, to continue to need his touch, his stare, that flare in his eyes that tells me he wants to fuck now. But my heart doesn’t listen. It is pattering, it is quivering, it is jumping up and down in my chest and screaming “YES” when a black Range Rover pulls up to the office and he steps out. He is effortlessly pulled together in a blue polo, worn jeans, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Casual Nathan. A side I haven’t often seen. A side that weighs down my pussy and causes a latent need inside of me to awaken. I look at the tinted passenger window, certain she is there, that she is the shadow moving behind the glass, and I am surprised she doesn’t come in, doesn’t stalk the waiting room and snatch him up the minute he steps out.

  His tan arms tug open the door, and suddenly he is before me, his mouth curving into a smile, his arms reaching out, pulling me to him for a hug. “Hey Candy,” he whispers, and I melt against him.

  It’s the smell that gets me — the scent of his cologne that takes me right back to every good memory I have. Standing there, my face buried in his shirt, his arm around my waist … I can close my eyes and be back as his wife. Which is humorous, considering we are stepping into divorce counseling. The thought jolts me back to the present and I step back. “Hello Nathan.”

  Oh my God, my voice actually behaved. Cool and confident, it doesn’t waver or squeak. I don’t sound like a besotted reject or a love-struck teen. I sound … casual. Unaffected. “Cecile’s not coming in?”

  He watches me closely, unmoving, his blue eyes on mine. “No,” he says finally. “She’s going to wait in the truck.”

  I nod and sit, glance at my watch, the Tag Heuer that I couldn’t stop myself from putting on this morning.

  He sits next to me, too close, the scent of him undoing me, causing my eyes to involuntarily close, my body to lean … I straighten, open my eyes, and reach for my phone, scrolling through it in an attempt to appear busy.

  “How are you?” He leans in, putting his arm around the back of my chair, his fingers running gently over my arm. I start at the contact, turning to look at his hand, the strong fingers of it playing gently with my soul.

  “What are you doing? Stop touching me,” I snap.

  He shoots me a wounded look, withdrawing his arm and checking his own watch. “Sorry,” he mutters. “You don’t have to act like it — ”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Dumont?” The man before us is Indian, short and round, with a face that beams, wire glasses tight against round cheeks.

  We stand in unison, Nathan gesturing for me to go ahead, and we follow the man to his office.

  It is a small office, probably designed to force the sparring couple closer, as if less space can overcome irrevocable differences. In my case, it works perfectly. Any proximity to Nathan causes me to swoon like some bad heroine in an 19th century romance novel.

  We sit, the doctor settles in, moves some papers, and then smiles at us. “I understand we are here to discuss your marriage, and some roadblocks it may have encountered. What are the main issues in your relationship?”

  Nathan casts a sidelong glance at me. “I don’t know that there were any issues, per se. We separated because my ex-girlfriend returned and agreed to give our relationship another shot.”

  The man squints, his cheerful beam gone. “Your ex-girlfriend?”

  “Well, ex-fiancée.”

  “And your wife presented a problem in that scenario.” His inquisitive look has turned into a hard stare, full of judgment. I want to kiss the man.

  “We have a marriage of convenience. Ca — … Jenny and I were not in love.”

  “Were not or are not?”

  Nathan stills. “What do you mean?”
>
  The doctor opens our file, pulling out photo upon photo and setting them on the desk before us.

  Us in Seafire, bent over lobster, my hand clasped in his.

  On the beach, his head bent to mine, our bodies molded as one.

  A close up of his face, beaming at me, wind whipping our hair.

  Paparazzi photos cut from some magazine. A coordinated image created by lies.

  “These photos indicate a couple very much in love.”

  “It was fake,” I interrupt whatever bullshit Nathan is about to say. “We pretended. In hopes that Nathan’s ex-fiancée would see.”

  “Hmm …” The man seems unconvinced, leaning back in his chair and staring at us. “Tell me more about this marriage of convenience. What was the point?”

  “My attorney has informed me that there is no legal standing that a couple must wed for reasons of love — ” Nathan’s curt sentence is ended by Dr. Bejanti’s irritable expression, waving his hand dismissively.

  “I don’t care about the law. I only care about the two of you. Why did you get married?”

  “For her.” Shit, there was some bitterness in my tone. They both notice it and look at me simultaneously.

  The doctor frowns. “It was all a ploy to entice jealousy? Marriage is a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

  Nathan shrugs. “I was a playboy in the earlier years after she left me. She … and the press … didn’t find that very exciting. Plus, Candace …” He looks over at me. “She understood. The limitations of our relationship.”

  I want to get the fuck out of here. Listening to him speak, listening to our fucked up marriage being analyzed … It makes me sound pathetic, reminds me of how our entire relationship was centered on her. I feel a wave of physical nausea, thinking of her in the car, Nathan and I doing a coordinated dance so that we can be divorced and she and him can be wed.

  “Are you engaged?” The question pops out of me suddenly and without warning. I am as taken aback as they are, the question out of place and off topic. Nathan’s eyes sharpen on me, a question in them.

  I straighten, find my backbone somewhere past the mush of my soul, and meet his eyes. “Are you? Are you planning to marry her?”

  “We haven’t discussed it,” he says slowly. “We’re still … working through a few things.”

  I nod, keeping my face passive. “Just wondering.”

  He tilts his head, frowning, light flickering in those baby blues. “Do you … I mean …” He stops, collecting his thoughts. “Would it bother you if we did marry?”

  I want to strangle the man. Reach out and wrap my small hands around his neck and squeeze some sense into him. “No,” I say softly, meeting his eyes. “I was just wondering.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment, his eyes asking questions and mine staring wordlessly back, my heart fighting a losing battle to stay composed. Then he leans forward swiftly, grabbing the back of my neck, and kisses me.

  CHAPTER 12

  Damn. I never could hide from his kiss. The communication line between us hasn’t lost any of its strength during our time apart. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask my permission before pressing his lips to mine, my mouth opening instantly, my hands reaching up and gripping his shirt, grabbing the fabric with need, my desire to touch any and every part of him overriding my attempt to be passive.

  Everything I feel, everything I miss, goes into that kiss. I tell my story of heartbreak and need and desire with my tongue, with my begging strokes and carnal swipes. And his mouth speaks, with possessive, aggressive movement, his breath ragged, his mouth taking mine in a nonstop exploration and reclaiming of what was once his.

  A woman’s desperation is most clearly spoken in a kiss. And I’m afraid, in this moment, that I bare my soul to him. Everything that I have contained, held back, lied to myself about, comes to the surface, all of my emotions revealed at once, both to me and to him.

  I can’t take it, can’t take the memory of his touch reawakening. I can’t take my feelings laid out, naked before this man. I push on his shirt, breaking the connection of our lips, pressing hard with my fists until we are fully separated, his eyes tight on mine, desperation in their midst.

  He stares at me, his chest moving beneath my hands, his eyes almost accusatory in their intensity and dismay. “Candy,” he whispers, sliding his hand around and cupping my neck. “I had no idea …”

  I push, ripping myself from the seat and the burn of his hands, grabbing my purse and running for the door, passing through hallways and lobbies. I don’t stop and compose myself, don’t listen when the receptionist calls out my name. I have one focus, and I zero in on it. Get the fuck out of here and into the safety of my car.

  Damn the payment for our session.

  Damn the blonde bitch in the Range Rover who will see my exit.

  Damn Nathan and his fucking kiss.

  Damn the doctor with his questions and how he will react to what just happened.

  I don’t stop until I am several miles away, jerking the wheel sideways and bringing the rental car to a quick, shuddering stop in an abandoned strip mall. There, I put the car in park, drop my head to the steering wheel, and cry.

  I can’t do it. I can’t sit across from him in a courtroom and listen to a judge dissolve our marriage. I can’t see the two of them together, can’t see the look on his face when he stares into her eyes. I will physically break in half if I see them kiss, or see her smile, or if they embrace once the verdict is rendered. This should have been easy: a sterile environment with a doctor, a few easy questions, and we part. How did something so simple turn into something so terrible?

  Now he knows. He knows how I feel. He knows that while he was acting, I was sincere. He knows that I am weak and vulnerable, and that he has hurt me. Everything I have fought so hard to project — my cool, confident demeanor — just crashed and burned in that cramped office. Now he knows the truth. And I look the fool.

  CHAPTER 13

  I don’t know that I will ever heal from Nathan. It has been three weeks since our kiss, and the cut is just as deep and fresh as it was that day. I have buried myself in activity, in an insane hope that I might escape his memory by spending money, doing crosswords, and shopping for a car.

  I rented an apartment a block from the beach, close enough that when I open my windows I can hear the faint sound of waves. I left my old life in storage, figuring that I can grab from there what I need, when and if I ever need it. I want to start fresh, to erase any memory of my Crystal Palace days, and any of my time with Nathan.

  His money makes that hard. I can’t help but be grateful every time I swipe my debit card, walk through my well-appointed apartment, or open the door to my barely used Jeep Grand Cherokee. I have dipped into my bursting-at-the-seams bank account, but just barely. I feel guilt when I look at the balance.

  Maybe I will get on my feet, get a job, and pay it all back. Send him a check for a cool four and a half million. Maybe. I’m not altruistic enough to commit to that just yet. There is the matter of my broken heart, and what that is worth in severance pay.

  I haven’t heard a word from Nathan since our appointment at Dr. Bejanti’s office. No letter from Drew, no call from his attorney. I’ve stopped looking at the gossip magazines, forbid myself to Google his name or scroll through the internet for pictures of them together. It is too painful to see them, too hurtful to know that they are happy and I am miserable.

  I half-expected another psychiatry session to be required, given the disastrous conclusion of our group session. But no one has called, and no letters have come. Something should come soon. Our marriage’s death is imminent.

  Dad is doing great. They have discovered his ailment, a rare blood disease that was killing his immune system and affecting his body’s ability to heal. There is a treatment, and he is in the second week of the new medication. Just this morning I reserved an apartment for him on the ground floor of my building. It seems a little premature, and I worry about ji
nxing his progress, but I want to be ready when he is released. I want to have a place that is set up for him to be independent, yet still close to me. Pam has already set me up with an at-home nurse, one who can help him once he leaves Crestridge.

  Today is a quiet day. Dad has slept most of the morning, and I have read. It’s lasagna day in the cafeteria, and I am watching the clock for 11:30 a.m., which is the earliest time I can get a slice of deliciousness.

  My head nods, the words on my book blurring, and I lean back in the chair, curling my legs underneath me, and close my eyes briefly. Just a quick nap, long enough to tide me the twenty-two minutes until lasagna time. Twenty-two …

  Peace.

  I drive home, noticing a Help Wanted sign in the window of a local bookstore. I will need, once Dad fully recovers, a job. Something to keep my mind off of dark blue eyes and soft lips. Maybe I’ll work there, or maybe the job market has opened up enough that I can put my event-planning degree to actual use.

  I take the long way home, driving along the ocean, rolling down the windows so that the smell of suntan and sand fills my car. Then I slow, turning onto the road that leads to my complex, coming to a sudden and sharp stop when I see the black Range Rover parked on the street, and the man that is leaning against its hood.

  I stare at him through the windshield, watching as he straightens, looking at me, our eyes catching over fifty feet of broken blacktop. My foot wavers on the brake, my brain arguing with my heart, arguing with my instinct, my foot caught in a tug-of-war between the two. I put it out of its misery and put the car into park, opening the door and getting out in the middle of the street.