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“I know the rules, but you needed to know about Rodarte.”
“I doubt it.”
“Look—”
“I don’t want to argue about it,” she snapped. Then she rubbed her forehead and sighed wearily. “I haven’t seen a man in a green car lurking about.”
“Good. Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know. Why didn’t you just say that and save us the argument?”
She looked ready to take issue, than changed her mind and started toward the bedroom.
“What was the model?”
“What?”
“The model. In the box I carried to your car.”
“It was an airplane model.”
“I figured that much. You were taking it home to show your husband. What for?”
“For a presentation.”
“Yeah? How’d it go?”
Avoiding eye contact, she combed her fingers through her hair. “It doesn’t matter now.” Before giving him an opportunity to say more about it, she walked down the hallway and disappeared into the bedroom.
Griff stood looking after her, wondering what had caused her to be in such a snit. A quarrel at home? Bad day at the office? Or just put out that she had to endure him again.
Screw it. Let her be snippy. Let her sulk. Whatever. He didn’t care. He only hoped to God it worked this time. He was ready to cash in and blow.
He tugged his shirttail from his waistband and pulled off his boots. He checked the wall thermostat and lowered it several degrees. He went into the kitchen and checked the fridge. Same bottled water, same six-pack of Diet Coke. He didn’t want either, but he unbuttoned his shirt and stood in the open door of the fridge, fanning the cold air onto his chest.
Back in the living room, he opened the armoire and scanned the titles of the videos. Maybe he should check one out, just for variety. Let’s see. Men with women. Women with women. A Tail of Two Cities. Hmm. Which two cities? he wondered. On one cover a chick wearing nothing but strips of black leather was straddling a motorcycle. Her snarl and sharp red fingernails turned him off, not on.
He closed the armoire doors, once again rejecting the videos and magazines in favor of his own imagination.
“Come in.”
He went into the bedroom and closed the door. Midway across the room, he stopped. She was lying as before, staring at the ceiling, covered to her waist by the sheet. Above it, she was fully dressed.
But this time there were tear tracks on her cheeks.
When he didn’t immediately move to the bed, she glanced at him, then back at the ceiling.
He walked to the foot of the bed. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been crying.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You cry when you’re tired?”
She looked at him and said testily, “Sometimes. Now, can we please just get this over with?”
Pissed off by her tone and the condescension behind it, he muttered, “At your service, ma’am,” and shoved down his jeans, actually hoping the sight of his tented boxers would offend her. It did. She turned her head aside.
