three of him towering over the huge thorny stems and hacking away without a qualm. Once heâd made love to Mickey on a bed of rose petals. Theyâd gathered them in secret and arranged them with conspiratorial giggles. Then heâd undressed her ceremonially and placed her among them. The combination of the look in her eyes, her pliant body, and the heady scent of the petals had been so overwhelming, heâd thought his desire would drive him insane. Afterward the fragile petals had been bruised and crushed, but Mickey had gathered them up tenderly and placed them one by one in a jar. At the time heâd thought it the most wonderful thing in the world.
Suddenly a thorn penetrated his glove and pierced his finger, but he barely felt it. Absently he removed the glove and sucked at the blood trickling from the minute wound. Was that jar still on the bedroom mantel in the château, he wondered. And Mickeyâwhere was she? Was she safe? Did she get out in time? Jesus, heâd give anything to know.
How many times heâd wanted to go back, actually booked passage, only to cancel at the last minute. She didnât want him, and he couldnât force himself on her. Maybe he should have gone. Maybe he should have listened to her tell him coldly, finally, that she didnât want him. Perhaps that would have freed him. Pride, the deadliest sin of all. And fear of rejection, the second deadly sin.
Reuben brushed the sweat from his brow. Guilty on both counts! Almost desperately he hacked at a bush full of delicate, almond-colored blooms, stepping on buds that would have bloomed in another day, crushing them to a messy pulp. It must be something in him that destroyed the things he loved and things he didnât care to love. Like Bebe, his wife. He should have divorced her years before, but something in him wouldnât allow that final action. On more than one occasion Daniel had told him Bebe was his link to Mickey in a sick kind of way. He hadnât listened, or heâd pretended not to. Nowâ¦now he had to make a decision, not this second, but in the coming weeks. His need to be free was strangling him. None of them needed him, and he doubted seriously that either his wife or his children loved him. Simon and Dillon were his, flesh of his flesh. Heâd tried to love them, but in his heart he knew that if he never saw any of them again, he wouldnât care. Christ! What kind of a man was he? It was Mickey, her rejection of him, that had killed his capacity to love. It always came back to Mickey.
How in the hell had he gotten this far into his life without feeling love again, the kind of love heâd had for Mickey? Was it true that some people were capable of loving only once?
Reuben tossed the cutting shears onto the glass-topped patio table and frowned when he saw a crack spread out from where they landed. Who the hell cared? He certainly didnât. It would simply be replaced, like magic. He removed the gloves and placed them over the shears.
Right now, this second, he could walk out the door and never come back. He provided for his familyâprovided handsomely. Daniel handled the trusts and the accounts. His family would never want for a thing. Why not sell his 49 percent of Fairmont Studio stock to Philippe Bouchet? For a priceâ¦a price that would set him up somewhere far away from this place.
Hands in his pockets, Reuben tramped through his manicured grounds. He listened a moment to a chorus of sounds overhead. When was the last time heâd actually stopped to appreciate the music of the birds? He couldnât remember. Could he give it up, the studio and his family, and walk away? Why not? After all, what exactly was he giving up? If Bebe and the children no longer needed him, why was he still here? Because you want to be here wallowing in self-pity. If you wanted out, you would have gotten out a long time ago, an inner voice replied.
Reuben rubbed his temples
Suddenly a thorn penetrated his glove and pierced his finger, but he barely felt it. Absently he removed the glove and sucked at the blood trickling from the minute wound. Was that jar still on the bedroom mantel in the château, he wondered. And Mickeyâwhere was she? Was she safe? Did she get out in time? Jesus, heâd give anything to know.
How many times heâd wanted to go back, actually booked passage, only to cancel at the last minute. She didnât want him, and he couldnât force himself on her. Maybe he should have gone. Maybe he should have listened to her tell him coldly, finally, that she didnât want him. Perhaps that would have freed him. Pride, the deadliest sin of all. And fear of rejection, the second deadly sin.
Reuben brushed the sweat from his brow. Guilty on both counts! Almost desperately he hacked at a bush full of delicate, almond-colored blooms, stepping on buds that would have bloomed in another day, crushing them to a messy pulp. It must be something in him that destroyed the things he loved and things he didnât care to love. Like Bebe, his wife. He should have divorced her years before, but something in him wouldnât allow that final action. On more than one occasion Daniel had told him Bebe was his link to Mickey in a sick kind of way. He hadnât listened, or heâd pretended not to. Nowâ¦now he had to make a decision, not this second, but in the coming weeks. His need to be free was strangling him. None of them needed him, and he doubted seriously that either his wife or his children loved him. Simon and Dillon were his, flesh of his flesh. Heâd tried to love them, but in his heart he knew that if he never saw any of them again, he wouldnât care. Christ! What kind of a man was he? It was Mickey, her rejection of him, that had killed his capacity to love. It always came back to Mickey.
How in the hell had he gotten this far into his life without feeling love again, the kind of love heâd had for Mickey? Was it true that some people were capable of loving only once?
Reuben tossed the cutting shears onto the glass-topped patio table and frowned when he saw a crack spread out from where they landed. Who the hell cared? He certainly didnât. It would simply be replaced, like magic. He removed the gloves and placed them over the shears.
Right now, this second, he could walk out the door and never come back. He provided for his familyâprovided handsomely. Daniel handled the trusts and the accounts. His family would never want for a thing. Why not sell his 49 percent of Fairmont Studio stock to Philippe Bouchet? For a priceâ¦a price that would set him up somewhere far away from this place.
Hands in his pockets, Reuben tramped through his manicured grounds. He listened a moment to a chorus of sounds overhead. When was the last time heâd actually stopped to appreciate the music of the birds? He couldnât remember. Could he give it up, the studio and his family, and walk away? Why not? After all, what exactly was he giving up? If Bebe and the children no longer needed him, why was he still here? Because you want to be here wallowing in self-pity. If you wanted out, you would have gotten out a long time ago, an inner voice replied.
Reuben rubbed his temples
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