Elena wanted to scream. Didn’t he know what he was doing to her? No, of course he didn’t. He thought he was giving her reassurance, and the way he was holding her was nothing but playing to the gallery.
Straightening out her brain, she made the introductions, noticed the way the two women—and every other woman in the room—ate him up with their eyes, and wondered again how he could ever believe he could come second-best to any man.
A lavish, pre-ceremony dinner was to be served in this glittering room, and the four of them were sharing a table. The food, so everyone said, was superb, and there seemed to be an endless supply of champagne. And Jed was being ultra-supportive, actin
g the part of the adoring husband, making her insides quiver with longing for the impossible, making it impossible for her to eat a thing.
‘I think, under the circumstances, one small glass of champagne would be permissible,’ he said softly, while their dinner companions had their heads together discussing publishing trends. He poured for her, and put the cool stern of the glass between her fingers.
She didn’t want it. She’d stuck to spring water all evening, and wasn’t in a champagne mood in any case. He probably thought she needed the Dutch courage, because all attention was beginning to turn to the small raised dais where the guest speaker was taking up his place to present the awards.
Elena didn’t listen to a word. At any other time during her writing career she would have been ecstatic to have had a work of hers short-listed for the prestigious Golden Gargoyle Award, given for the best horror novel published in the preceding year.
Now it seemed monumentally unimportant. She had only agreed to attend tonight because to have stayed away would have been a snub. In the future she would need her career. She was determined that her fatherless child would have every possible advantage.
Tumultuous applause forced her into an awareness that the evening was coming to its end, at least as far as the awards were concerned. And then Jed put his hands on either side of her waist and helped her to her feet. Smiling into her bemused eyes, he murmured, ‘Congratulations! Go get it, sweetheart. I hope you rehearsed your speech!’
Only then did it sink in that At the Rising of the Moon had won her the coveted award. Walking towards the dais, she wondered why she couldn’t feel even the tiniest flicker of elation, the smallest smidgen of professional pride. And then she told herself she knew damn well why she didn’t, and hoped to goodness the bleak knowledge didn’t show in her face. Professional achievement was nothing compared to Jed’s love.
She had one, but she had lost the other.
Somehow she managed to smile and say a few words. Weaving her way back through the body of the room, she was waylaid by people who wanted to congratulate her so often she was beginning to think she’d never make it back to their table before breakfast!
When she finally made it Jed was waiting, watching her with pride. She had to admit it looked genuine, but then he’d been putting on a remarkably polished performance all evening.
Trisha and Paula gave her enormous hugs, and Paula said, ‘Trish and I are now going to circulate—give you two some time on your own. You are still on your honeymoon, after all!’
They melted away, glasses firmly in hand, and Jed said tonelessly, ‘Shall we do the rounds? I’m sure there are still people who’d like to congratulate you.’
Mutely, Elena shook her head. She wanted out. Wanted the whole charade over and done with. Tears suddenly misted her eyes. She stared down at the glittering trophy clasped in her hands so that he wouldn’t see how emotional she had suddenly and infuriatingly become.
There had been times, just recently, when she’d believed she had come to terms with losing this man. This wasn’t one of them. The evening had taken its toll, and heaven only knew what would happen if they stayed on, proud, adoring husband, ecstatically happy wife, on display for public consumption. She’d probably go to pieces and make an utter fool of herself. She’d had as much of this cruel fantasy as she could take.
‘I’d rather go to bed,’ she confessed wearily, not meeting his eyes. ‘Pull the sheets over my head and wake up feeling halfway normal.’
‘Fine.’ He put a hand under her elbow and led her from the room. He’d sounded drained, too.
They rode the lift in silence, the tension almost strident as they entered the suite. The distance across the pale sage-green carpeting to her bedroom suddenly seemed immense. Elena didn’t know if her shaky legs would carry her that far. Lack of food, she supposed, and thrust her fingers through her hair.
The trophy fell to the floor and bounced on the carpet, and Jed turned, frowning darkly. ‘Are you all right?’
The last thing she wanted was him fussing over her, pretending to care. There’d been enough pretence this evening to last her several lifetimes.
She looked at him through tangled dark lashes, her lids too heavy to open wide, and tried to tell him she was fine. But she couldn’t get the words out. She swallowed hard, then moistened her glossy lips to see if that would help, and watched him watch the convulsive movement of her throat, then lift narrowed eyes to her mouth and fasten them on her own.
She saw the slow burn begin deep in the smoky irises and drew in her breath sharply, totally and stingingly aware of him, of this silent seclusion. He wanted her. It was there in his eyes, in the tightness of the line of his mouth. He wanted her and she needed him...
‘Get to bed,’ he said roughly. ‘You look done in.’ He turned, retrieved the trophy and put it down on a coffee table. Elena swayed on her feet.
The split second of danger was over. He’d successfully fought it off. But she could still feel the dark sting of it pulsing through her veins. All the wanting, all the need, had practically solidified into something she could reach out and touch. Emotion powered through her as she faced the acres of carpet, the bedroom door that seemed to shimmer and shift, recede even further into the distance.
She swayed dizzily, and strong hands grasped her shoulders, steadying her, holding her. ‘You’re ill?’ he demanded, using one hand to lift her chin and read the truth in her eyes.
‘No,’ she whispered threadily, deploring the weak rush of tears to her eyes, the way her lips parted helplessly as he gently brushed the moisture away with the ball of his thumb.
‘Don’t! I can’t bear to see you cry,’ he said rawly. ‘Tonight you looked so beautiful, so assured. I want you to stay that way. Believe it or not, I don’t want you to be unhappy.’ He folded his arms around her, holding her just a little away from him, as if he wanted to make sure that their bodies didn’t actually touch. ‘I thought I did, but now I know I can’t hate you that much.’
A primitive spurt of anger made her pull in a ragged breath. She felt humiliated. His emotions where she was concerned weren’t powerful enough to even let him hate her properly! Had his former so-called love for her been similarly lukewarm? Was that the reason he’d been able to shut her out of his heart so damned easily? Had refusing to believe the truth about her baby’s conception been the easy way out for him?