He sat down in a ladder-back chair, his eyes roving hungrily over her face.
"I've been trying to call you since yesterday afternoon, Devon."
"I took my phone off the hook."
"I gathered that. Why?"
"After reading yesterday's newspaper, everybody in the world was trying to call me, it seemed."
Lucky frowned. "I hate like hell that the story came out. I wanted to keep you anonymous for as long as possible. Please believe that."
"I know you had nothing to do with it. Who do you think was responsible?"
He told her about Susan. "She looked guilty as hell when I confronted her. I'm convinced she made it her business to find out who you were and, out of spite, spilled the beans to a reporter."
"Well, it doesn't really matter now how the story got out. The damage is done."
He studied her a moment, noticing that her face was drawn and pale. The last twenty-four hours must have been pure hell for her. She was gripping the coffee mug as though it were a buoy in a turbulent lake.
"Do you really want that coffee?" he asked. Shaking her head, she passed the mug to him. He took it and set it on the desk, then turned back to her. The question uppermost in his mind couldn't be avoided any longer.
"How did things go with your husband yesterday?"
A small shudder went through her, though it was uncomfortably warm in the office. "By the time I arrived, Greg had read the story," she said softly. "He merely dropped the newspaper and walked out."
"Without a word?"
"Words would have been superfluous, wouldn't they?"
"I guess so," Lucky murmured.
He was thinking that if he had a wife whom he loved as much as any husband should love his wife, he would have given her the benefit of the doubt and asked a few questions. He wouldn't have reacted until she either denied or confirmed the newspaper story.
If she had denied it, he would have comforted her, then immediately set out to get a retraction. If she had confirmed it, he probably would have gone nuts and carried on something terrible.
A furious outburst, tears, anguish, teeth-gnashing, threats of retaliation. Those would be the expected jealous reactions. They denoted feeling, passion. Simply stalking out was an almost inhuman response that made Greg Shelby sound cold, unfeeling.
"What did you do?" Lucky wanted to know.
"I read the story through. At first I just sat there, stunned. My character suffered in the translation. Somehow, once they were written down, the facts sounded ugly and shameful. So tawdry." She shivered again.
Lucky reached beyond the back of his chair to take one of her hands. "It wasn't, Devon."
"Wasn't it?" she asked, her e
yes brimming.
"No."
The stare they exchanged then was so powerful, she prudently withdrew her hand and used her tears as the excuse. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes.
"I had the prison guard try to get Greg to see me again, but he refused. Once I returned to Dallas, I called the warden and got permission to speak to him by telephone. I wanted desperately to explain." She shook her head mournfully. "He wouldn't even accept my call."
Lucky mentally called Greg Shelby every dirty name he could think of. "So what now? Do you want me to go with you to see him?"
"No!" Leaving her chair, she began roaming the office restlessly. "I don't believe he'd be willing to see either of us right now. After thinking it over and discussing it with Greg's attorney—who isn't at all pleased with me either—I think it's best to leave him alone for several days. He needs time to cool off and clear his head, so that when we do see each other again, he'll be able to listen calmly to my explanation."
"I don't know, Devon," he said doubtfully. "Given time to think about it, I would just get madder."