"I guess it doesn't." I want to be satisfied with his answer, but I can't deny that I crave the words--the reassurance that he doesn't judge us harshly. I want that, and at the same time I hate how insecure that need makes me feel.
"Jane," he says gently, "I saw the connection between you two more than twenty years ago. I'm not upset at you, but for you. You have a hard road, but you can make it. You're strong," he says. "You were forged in fire ... You're a fighter."
And he's right. Dallas and I both are.
But the problem with a fight is that there's always the chance you'll lose.
The Other Man
Dallas paused outside the den, his hands on the polished brass knobs of the massive double doors. He didn't know why the hell he was hesitating. It's not like William Martin intimidated him. And if Bill had come to arrest him, there'd be a shit load of Virginia farm boys dancing all over the mansion's front lawn.
Except, of course that was bullshit.
Not the part about the FBI, but about not knowing why he was hesitating.
He knew.
He was still standing out here in the hall because he simply didn't want to see the man whose ring used to be on Jane's finger. The man who'd laughed with her, lived with her. Made love to her.
Intimidated? Not even close.
On the contrary, he was seething with jealousy, and he hated himself for it.
With one final breath to steel himself, he pushed open the door, then extended his hand to the man rising from one of the leather armchairs.
"Bill, good to see you again. It's been too long."
"It has." Bill met him midway across the room and took his hand in a firm shake that only irritated Dallas more. In his mind, William Martin was a skinny, quiet pansy who had never deserved a woman as vibrant as Jane.
In real life, Bill was not only a brilliant and respected attorney, he was a decent-looking guy with ginger hair and the all-American features that had certainly helped him climb the government ranks. Not only that, Dallas happened to know that the man could hold his own on a basketball court.
Were Jane not in the picture, Dallas would probably like him.
As it was, he barely tolerated him.
Right now, he was doing his best to not flat-out ask the man what the hell he was doing in Southampton. In Dallas's house in Southampton, to be more specific.
"You're probably wondering why I'm here," Bill said, and Dallas had to laugh.
"To be honest, I was. Not that I don't welcome a drop-in from you at seven in the morning ..."
Bill had the good grace to look sheepish. "I need to get back to DC for a lunch meeting, but I wanted to talk to you. This was the first and only chance I've had. Frankly, I considered myself lucky you were here. But I guess you had a party
last night?"
Dallas flashed his most charming smile. "If I'd known you were in New York, I would have invited you. There were quite a few single women who I'm sure would have been very interested in meeting a well-placed attorney." He studied Bill's face. "Or are you seeing someone."
"No," Bill said. "No one special." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Is Jane?" As soon as he said the words, it was obvious he regretted them. He waved his hand, as if trying to call them back. "Sorry. That's not why I came. Besides, I know you two don't talk much. I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject for either of us."
"Not a problem," Dallas said. He turned away, then went to the sideboard and began to pour himself a glass of juice. "I don't think she's seeing anyone in particular," he said, hating every word. "But I thought you two kept in touch. Wouldn't she have told you?"
He turned back in time to see Bill's bemused expression. "Strangely enough, ex-wives tend not to discuss their dating lives with their former husbands. Continuing friendship not withstanding."
"I suppose not," Dallas agreed. "Did you come here to talk about my sister?"
"No. No, of course not." He gestured to the juice. "Do you mind?"
Dallas poured Bill a glass then passed it to him before taking a seat on the small divan across from the armchair that Bill had returned to.