“Sorry.” She tucked her blouse into her skirt, sniffled, and offered him a tenuous smile. “I guess I had some kind of orgasm-induced tear duct flush.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m flattered. I think—”
She held up a hand and cut him off with a soft, “We’re here.”
He jerked his head around and looked out the window. Sure enough, there sat his jet.
A moment later, the limo rolled to a stop. Soon the impact of the driver’s door closing buffeted the car.
“Good-bye,” she whispered.
Ron would be around to open the door in a few seconds. Say good-bye. Get out of the car. Instead, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her. Quick. Hard. Deep. And pulled away just seconds before the back door opened.
He stepped out of the limo without taking his eyes off her. Then three very strange, completely impulsive words crossed his lips. “I’ll call you.”
Where the fuck had that come from?
Chelsea sat motionless, looking up at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “No you won’t. No promises, remember?”
Shit.
Ron closed the door.
Rafe walked onto the plane.
It wasn’t until the jet cruised at thirty thousand feet that he shoved his hand in his pocket and touched something slippery. He pulled out a bundle of satin and stared at Chelsie’s panties. She’d left a pair for him when he’d arrived, and he’d taken a pair when he left. He was amassing quite a collection. A smile threatened, until his better judgment kicked in. Playtime’s over. She’s right. Don’t call her.
He shoved her underwear back into his pocket.
Chapter Eighteen
Chelsea watched Rafe’s plane lift off the runway, and tried to tell herself the sight didn’t put the hollow ache in her stomach. She shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Of course she’d skipped breakfast because the thought of saying good-bye to Rafe this morning had killed her appetite. Then she’d cried all over him, which only succeeded in making him so uncomfortable he’d resorted to platitudes they both knew weren’t true. Dismaying behavior, considering she was supposed to be evolving into the kind of woman who didn’t crave promises. She was guarding her heart, damn it, and letting Rafe slip past her newly erected defenses would be an exercise in self-sabotage. She’d already sabotaged herself enough for one lifetime.
The buzz of her phone interrupted her moment of self-discovery and personal growth, and she fished it out of her purse while ignoring the thirteen-year-old girl in her head who squealed, OMG! He really is calling.
She hit the talk button, and mentally braced herself for the sound of his voice. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this soon.”
“I’ll bet you weren’t. Listen to you, so sweet and innocent. Save it. I know what you really are.”
The cold, hard¸ undeniably female voice definitely did not belong to Rafe. But she recognized the icy tone. “Cindy?”
“You walk around with your guileless smile and nauseating, how-may-I-help-you attitude, but underneath the nice girl exterior, you’re a vindictive, home-wrecking bitch.”
If voices could cut, she’d be bleeding out right now. Even long distance, Cindy’s words brimmed with enough venom to have her hands shaking. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A lying, home-wrecking bitch. I know you’re after Paul, trying to win him back. I’m not about to let that happen. I don’t pretend to be a passive little good girl. You come after what’s mine, you’ll have a war on your hands.”
Mustering up her calmest voice, the one she used with unhappy guests or frustrated staff, she replied, “Cindy, I’m sorry you’re upset…”
Shit, Chelsea, you did not just apologize to the woman. Don’t default to customer service mode. Stick up for yourself! She certainly didn’t owe Cindy any apologies, or explanations, for that matter, but self-respect forbade her from meekly accepting accusations an
d threats. She’d taken the high road, for God’s sake.
“Perhaps nobody shared this with you, but I relocated to Maui last year. I haven’t seen or spoken with Paul since the holiday party, and I don’t wish to. I’ve moved on.”
The truth of the words settled on her as soon as they left her lips. Maybe she could still use some practice guarding her heart, but the wounds Paul had inflicted? Gone, and, in retrospect, completely superficial. Unfortunately, Cindy wasn’t so easily reassured.
“I don’t care where the hell you are. I know you’ve been communicating with him. He mentions you constantly. I’ve seen your number on his phone. If I see it again, or an email, a fucking text, you’re going to wish—”