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“For everything,” she said again, in a bright, cheerful tone. “It was—it was great.”
“Great,” Jake repeated, his voice low, his features taut, his fingers almost crushing hers.
Why did he have to look at her that way? As if she were hurting him when, dammit, she was the one who was in pain.
“We’re finished?” he said. “That’s it?”
“Yes. I mean, I really appreciate all you did, Jake—”
“Stop making it sound like an act of charity, goddamn it! I didn’t make love to you because it was the right thing to do.”
All at once, Emily felt revolted by the part she’d been playing. She was weary, and sick to the depths of her soul. Sick of Jake, of herself, of what had happened.
“Actually,” she said shakily, as she pulled her hand free of his, “you didn’t make love to me at all.”
“Dammit, Emily!”
“Dammit, Jake! Isn’t that what you wanted to hear? That what we did this weekend, what you want to keep doing until it gets boring, has nothing to do with making love?”
He glared at her. She was right but hell, there was no reason to lay it out like that. To make things sound so coldblooded.
Emily shot to her feet. “Don’t look so wounded. I know you think every woman over the age of consent is out to put a wedding ring through your nose. Well, I resent you thinking I’m one of them.”
Jake stood up, took out his wallet and dropped a handful of bills on the table. Emily had already grabbed her coat and tossed it on; now, she was striding through the place with the other diners in the restaurant doing their best to pretend they weren’t watching.
Well, so what? He’d take his time. He’d never run after a woman in his life, especially a crazy one, and he sure wasn’t going to start now but, dammit, she was already going to the reservation desk near the door, motioning to the man behind it...
“Emily,” Jake shouted, and ran after her. He caught her arm, swung her towards him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m getting a taxi,” she said calmly. “This gentleman is—”
“The lady doesn’t need a taxi,” Jake snarled.
“Don’t listen to him.” Emily looked at the manager, who was doing his best to become invisible. “I need a ride back to New York.”
“Where do you think you are, Em? The Bronx? You can’t get a taxi to Manhattan from here.”
“I’m afraid the gentleman is right,” the manager said nervously. “You can’t—”
“You want to go home?” Jake closed his hand around her wrist. “I’ll take you home.”
“There’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own.”
“I brought you here. I’ll take you back.”
He was right. He’d brought her here; he could take her back. Emily nodded stiffly.
“Very well.”
Jake marched her out the door, into the parking lot and to his car. She got inside, winced when he slammed the door, and stared straight ahead. The engine roared, the tires slewed sideways on a patch of ice, then squealed as they gained purchase and the car shot out of the parking lot onto the dark road.
Emily looked at the road, then at Jake.
“I don’t want to go back to your house. I thought you understood that.”
“Neither do I,” he said coldly. “But your stuff is there.”
“There’s nothing of mine at your house.”
“Listen,” Jake said, his voice humming with tightly repressed fury, “you want to be stupid about us? Okay. Okay, be stupid. But what am I supposed to do with all that clothing, huh? Give it away?”
“There is no ‘us.’ As for the clothes ... save them, for the next woman who walks into your life.”
Jake banged his fist on the steering wheel.
“I don’t believe this! We spent a weekend together. One weekend, and now you’re jealous of somebody who doesn’t even exist!”
“But she will!” Emily swung towards him. “She’ll exist, and there’ll be another one after her and one after that and another and another and another. And you know what? I don’t care.” Her voice broke, and she took a deep, deep breath. “If you’d only asked me, if you’d said, ‘Emily, how do you feel about forever after?’ I’d have told you I think it’s all hogwash. I’d have said, any woman who thinks love lasts longer than a roller-coaster ride ought to have her head examined. What happens in bed isn’t love. People tell themselves it is, well, women do, because they need to make sex sound like—like Mozart.”
