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I scowled into the vanity mirror. Malachi wasn't the type of man to leave a note; I wasn't the type of woman ' who needed one.
Last night had been about sexual freedom. I'd taken I back my life. I'd done what I wanted to do with the man I'd wanted to do it with, and it had felt. . .
"Fantastic," I announced, my mood lightening at the memories.
If they'd even happened.
"Don't be ridiculous," I told the brand-new woman in the mirror. "You aren't insane. "
Isn't that what all insane people said? Especially when they talked to themselves in the mirror?
AN hour later I walked down Center Street, nodding to the people I met and wondering why everyone kept whispering. I found out soon enough.
I hadn't been at the office five minutes when Joyce barreled in. She saw me at my desk and tossed the Gazette in front of me with such force I had to slap my palms on top of the newspaper to keep it from tumbling off the other side.
"What are you thinking?"
"Not. . . much," I said slowly. "I haven't had my coffee. "
"You've had just about everything else. "
"Are you okay?"
"No. " She stabbed a finger at the paper.
I glanced down and choked. In the center of the front page was a photo of my house, with Malachi climbing out the window. In a smaller photo below, the photographer had zoomed in and caught the Gypsy leader's disheveled appearance: His shirt hung loose, framing his beautifully sculpted chest; his pants were zipped but not buttoned, and his hair looked as if someone had run her fingers through it in a fit of passion. I guess I hadn't dreamed last night after all.
"I'm going to kill him," I muttered.
"Doesn't seem like you want him dead, seems like you want him naked. "
"I didn't mean Mal. " Joyce's eyebrows went up at the familiar term of address. "I meant Balthazar. This is his idea, if not his direct handiwork. "
"Goes without saying," Joyce agreed. "But what in Sam Hill were you doing letting that guy in your bedroom?"
I hadn't let him in, but that was neither here nor there. "Did you take a look at him?"
"Pretty is as pretty does. "
"That's the truth. "
"You slept with him?"
"What do you think we did, Joyce, play Monopoly?"
"Ah, hell. " She put her fingers in her hair and tugged. "How am I going to spin this so you don't lose your job and ruin everything your father worked for?"
"My private life is private. "
Joyce snorted. She was right. I was a politician, or near enough. My private life would never be private.
"If you hadn't slept with him," she continued, "I might be able to make something up. "
"I can't think what. "
Joyce glanced at the picture again. "You're right. No fixing this. " Her eyes lit with an idea. "Gypsies'll be gone in a week. Maybe it'll blow over. As long as you stay away from him from now on. "
I went silent.
