“Yeah, well. Unfortunately mental illness happens, whether you believe in it or not,” said Rebecca. “Having someone to talk to might help.”
“She has me to talk to,” said Jeff. Rebecca could hear the despair in his voice.
“Maybe there are things she can’t talk to you about.” Reaching across the table, she squeezed Jeff’s hand.
Rebecca Mortimer had tried not to feel attracted to Jeff Stevens. It was unprofessional. But after months of working in close proximity to his gorgeous gray eyes and jet-black curls, his easy manner and his warm, infectious laugh, she’d given up the effort. How awful it must be to be married to a withdrawn, depressed wife who resented your work and shut you out emotionally. If she, Rebecca, had a husband like Jeff, she’d treat him like a king.
Jeff glanced up, as if something had suddenly occurred to him. “You know what? Maybe she is seeing someone. Maybe she has a shrink and is embarrassed to tell me. That would explain a lot.”
“Explain a lot of what?” Rebecca asked.
“She’s been . . . I don’t know. Cagey, recently. Like she has these mysterious meetings and won’t tell me where she is. Or she comes home late and she seems kind of happier. Less stressed.”
Rebecca nodded silently. Inside she thought, Well, well, well. I wonder if the perfect Mrs. Stevens has a boyfriend on the side? It was typical of Jeff that such a thought had clearly never even crossed his mind. Jeff Stevens worshipped his wife. But perhaps the goddess Tracy was about to come crashing down off her pedestal.
Jeff had reached the park now. When the weather was fine he often walked all the way to work, but he was already late this morning, so he hopped on the number nineteen bus.
Rebecca greeted him when he came in. She and Jeff shared an office on the second floor of the museum. If you could call it an office. It was really more of a broom closet, with room for only one desk and two chairs wedged side by side.
“Hey.” Rebecca handed him a cup of coffee, strong and black the way he liked it.
“Hey.”
In a pair of tight black jeans and a bottle-green sleeveless top that contrasted strikingly with her titian hair, Jeff noticed she was looking particularly beautiful this morning. He also noticed that she seemed unhappy about something. She was biting her lower lip nervously and avoiding meeting his eye.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. I set up meetings with two different restorers for those Celtic manuscripts. I thought we could—”
“Celtic schmeltic,” said Jeff. “Don’t bullshit me. What’s on your mind?”
Rebecca closed the office door and leaned back against it. “I’m scared if I tell you, you’ll hate me.”
The surprise registered on Jeff’s face. “I won’t hate you. Why would I hate you?”
“I don’t know. People have been known to shoot the messenger. I don’t want you to think I’m a gossip. But I . . . I’m worried about you. I don’t like to see you being lied to.”
Jeff frowned and sat down. “Okay. So now you have to tell me. What’s this about?” Had someone in the museum been bad-mouthing him? Was someone after his job? It wouldn’t be unheard of. He was an amateur, after all, in a senior position. Perhaps one of his colleagues was—
“It’s Tracy.”
Jeff flinched as if he’d been stung.
“What about Tracy?”
“Last week, you told me she’d gone away to Yorkshire for the night. Some walking tour.”
“That’s right,” said Jeff.
“No. It isn’t.” Rebecca blushed scarlet. “I saw her.”
“What do you mean you saw her? Where?”
“In London. In Piccadilly, actually. It was the evening I left early to meet my mother, remember? I saw Tracy coming out of a restaurant. She was with a man and they were laughing and joking and—”
Jeff held up a hand. “You must be mistaken. It was probably someone who looked like her from a distance.”
“I wasn’t at a distance.” Rebecca spoke quietly, clearly terrified of provoking him. “I was right there. It was her, Jeff. She didn’t see me because she was too wrapped up in this guy she was with.”
Jeff stood up. “I appreciate you telling me,” he said with a stiff smile. “And I’m not angry because I know you meant well. But I assure you you’re mistaken. Tracy was in Yorkshire last week. Now, I’d better get down to the manuscript room. I’m twenty minutes late as it is.”
Rebecca stepped aside and he walked out, closing the door firmly behind him.
Damn it, thought Rebecca.
THE NEXT THREE WEEKS were torture for Jeff. He knew he ought to go home and confront Tracy after what Rebecca had told him. Not because he believed Rebecca. It was a mistake, it had to be. But so that Tracy could reassure him. Jeff needed that reassurance desperately, like a flower needs sunlight and water. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. Whenever he tried, all he could think about was Louise.
Louise Hollander, a stunning heiress whose father had owned half of Central America, had been Jeff Stevens’s first wife. She had taken the lead in their courtship, chasing him relentlessly until he had given in. Jeff had genuinely loved her, despite her money rather than because of it. When he first overheard gossip about Louise’s affairs, he’d dismissed it. Louise’s friends were spiteful snobs, who wanted their marriage to fail. But soon the rumors grew from whispers to a deafening roar and Jeff had no option but to face the truth.
Louise Hollander broke Jeff’s heart. He vowed never, ever to become emotionally vulnerable to a woman again. And then he met Tracy Whitney and realized he’d never really loved Louise after all. Tracy was Jeff’s world, the mother he lost, the lover he dreamed of, the sparring partner he’d never been able to find.
Tracy wouldn’t deceive me. She couldn’t.
Tracy loves me.
Rebecca must be wrong.
And yet, something was up with Tracy. Jeff had felt it before Rebecca even said anything. He’d felt it for months. The missed dinners, the trips, the unexplained meetings, the total and utter lack of interest in sex.
Two weeks after Rebecca’s bombshell Jeff finally found the courage to make an oblique reference to Tracy’s Yorkshire trip. They were in bed, reading, when he blurted it out.
“When you went away a couple of weeks ago by yourself, didn’t you feel lonely?”
“Lonely?” Tracy raised an eyebrow. “No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know.” Jeff moved in closer, wrapping his arms around her. “Maybe you missed me.”
“It was only one night, darling.”
“I missed you.” He ran a hand down her bare back before slipping it beneath the elastic of her Elle Macpherson panties. “I still miss you, Tracy.”
“What do you mean?” Tracy laughed, wriggling away from his hand. “You have me. I’m right here.”
Are you? thought Jeff.
Tracy turned out the light.
Whereas before, work had been a welcome respite from the emotional tension at home, now Jeff felt almost as ill at ease with Rebecca as he did with Tracy. He’d promised not to shoot the messenger. And yet on some, unconscious level, he realized he was angry with the beautiful young intern. Rebecca was wrong about Tracy. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet she’d sown a seed of doubt in Jeff’s heart that refused to die. Well meaning or not, in one fell swoop Rebecca had shattered his equilibrium, leaving him feeling awkward and out of place at the British Museum as well as at Eaton Square.
One rainy morning, Jeff arrived at their joint office dripping wet—he’d forgotten his umbrella and couldn’t face going back home to retrieve it—to find Rebecca packing up her things.
“What’s going on?”
Stuffing the last of her books into a cardboard box, Rebecca handed him a stiff white envelope. She forced herself to smile.
“No hard feelings, boss. I’ve had an incredible time working with you. But we both know we can’t go on like this.”
“Go on like what?” said Jeff. Irrationally, he found he felt even angrier than usual. “You’re resigning?”
“I’m leaving,” said Rebecca. “I believe it’s only called resigning if you get paid.”
“Because of me?” For the first time, Jeff felt a stab of guilt.
“I think you’re amazing,” said Rebecca. To Jeff’s astonishment, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him, just once, on the lips. The kiss wasn’t long but it was heartfelt. Jeff was embarrassed by how instantly aroused it made him.
“Look . . .” he began.
Rebecca shook her head. “Don’t. Please.” She handed him an unmarked disk. “Watch this, after I’m gone. If you ever want to talk, you have my numbers.”
Jeff took the disk and the letter, staring at them both dumbly. It was a lot to take in at nine o’clock in the morning. Before he’d recovered enough to say anything, Rebecca was gone.