Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A manda climbed into Mark's side of the bed. She burrowed into the warm sheets and allowed the faint scent of his aftershave to evoke its memories. Snapshots flitted across the screen of her closed eyelids as she snuggled into his pillow—the Ferris wheel, their first date, their wedding day, and the births of their daughters. She could picture Mark as he sanded the warm wood of the bookshelves in her office, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, his muscles bulging with each stroke against the rough wood until it was as soft as their babies' tender skin.

For the first time in a long time, Amanda could picture a future with Mark. Not just as her girls' father, but as her husband. They could grow old together.

Amanda had never wanted anything else. She'd been in love with Mark since their first date. If he still loved her, too . . . ?

In a burst of emotion, she squeezed the blankets, longing for Mark's arms.

He'd finally said the words she'd longed to hear. He didn't blame her for what happened to her. He admitted he'd been angry, but not at her. He wasn't horrified at what she'd done. She was only a kid, he'd said. She'd been taken advantage of by an older man.

Had she really misread his feelings for two years?

How his words had filled her tonight. He said he loved her more after she'd told him about Sheppard. He admired her for what she'd overcome.

Would he have said that to get her to reconsider the divorce? No, Mark was sincere. The anger she'd seen in him after he read the pages of her manuscript—that was sincere. He didn't hide his emotions, and he didn't manipulate. How could she ever have thought of him as manipulative in the first place? If nothing else, she knew she could trust him. He would never lie to her.

Alan's face tried to intrude on her memories, and her stomach constricted with guilt. Regardless of what she'd told Mark—she was much less trustworthy than her husband—she had become too close to Alan. His touch had affected her. She'd shared things with him—intimate things. Thank God she hadn't allowed anything physical between them. Alan's kind words, his dimples, even the silly reaction she'd had to his touch—Alan Morass had nothing on Mark Johnson.

Mark would forgive her for her emotional affair. She remembered what they'd shared tonight and blushed. Apparently, he already had forgiven her. Amanda sighed, inhaled the scent of Mark's aftershave, and drifted off to sleep to dream about her husband.

Mark watched Annalise as her long legs carried her down the hallway in two long, bouncy steps. She threw her arms around his neck. "Finally, you're home! I've been waiting for hours! "

She snuggled her head between his neck and his shoulder and weaved one of her hands in his hair.

He stepped away. "What are you doing here?"

She took a step back, too, put her hands on her hips, and arranged her mouth in a perfect pout. Annalise Klugmann. Back in high school, she was Annie, the shy lanky girl with the funny accent. Times had changed. Today the world knew her only by her first name, Klugmann proving far too ugly for such a beautiful girl.

She carried herself like a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted. And in a world that equated beauty with character, Mark figured Annalise was rarely disappointed. Studying her now in the dim light of the narrow hallway, he couldn't help but be slightly shocked. Her natural blond hair, a little darker than it had been when he'd last seen her, fell in perfectly disheveled waves long past her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes flashed a strange mixture of irritation and invitation. You've offended me. Come, make me feel better . . . The slightest threat of a wrinkle appeared here and there on her thirty-six-year-old face, but none would dare to mar such perfection. And her lips. Not just red, cherry red. Bright strawberry Jujube red.

His marriage clung to life and here came Annalise, a stunning, designer stiletto prepared to strike the final blow.

"What a fine welcome that is." Her slight German accent was perceptible even after twenty years in America.

"Sorry. I'm surprised to see you."

She stepped forward, laid her hand on his chest and laughed. "Of course you're surprised. I wanted you to be surprised. But who knew you'd be out until all hours on a school night?" She tsk-tsked. "Naughty, naughty."

"What do you want, Annalise?"

Her lips twisted into a provocative smile. "Why don't you invite me in? I'll tell you all about it. "

Checking his watch, he blew out a very audible sigh. "It's late."

She batted her eyelashes. "One drink. Please?"

God, give me strength .

"I've been waiting for you for hours. It's the least you can do."

Reluctantly, he strode past her to his door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. Brushing against him as she passed—a move orchestrated to look accidental—she breezed into his apartment. He followed, flipped on first the living room's overhead light, then the kitchen's. She turned and stood in the center of the small space, stunning in the glare of the harsh lights, a precious jewel in the midst of his garage-sale junk.

He hated himself for the comparison. Amanda had stood in that very spot, and he'd never thought of her that way. Though his wife was stunning, she didn't wear all of her beauty on her skin the way Annalise did.

"You said you wanted something to drink?" He stepped into the kitchen and opened the small refrigerator door. He knew exactly what was in there. The move gave him something to look at other than her. "I have apple juice, orange juice, milk, and water."

"I was thinking of something stronger. A glass of wine, perhaps?"

He looked at her over the top of the refrigerator door. "No wine. Sorry."

"Beer?"

He stifled a grunt. "Nope. Nothing alcoholic."

Her eyebrows rose in perfect arches. "You're kidding. That's okay. I think I have a bottle?—"

"No. We're not going to sit here and drink together. Do you want anything or not? "

Her fa?ade faltered. She frowned and shrugged. "Water, I guess."

He grabbed two bottles out of the fridge and slammed the door closed with his foot. Indicating the small round table in his kitchen, he unscrewed the top of one bottle of water and handed it to her before opening his own.

He sat first, and Annalise slid into the chair beside his. Beneath the table, their long legs touched at the knees. He shifted his chair to put space between them.

She took a sip of the water and set it on the table. She drummed the side of the plastic bottle, the bright red fingernails tapping in the silence.

"Are you going to tell me why you're here?"

Shoulders slumped, Annalise sighed and offered him a nervous smile.

In an instant, he was transported back to high school. She was the tall beautiful new foreigner in school, he the short, dorky freshman. When their history teacher assigned them to work together on a project, Mark was both elated and terrified.

Over the next few weeks, he learned a lot about Annie. She didn't know a soul in America and after six months at school, didn't have a single friend. The girls decided she was a threat from the very first, barely acknowledging her, and the boys were too in awe to talk to her. Mark got to know her—and like her. By Christmas their sophomore year, Mark finally surpassed her in height and worked up the nerve to ask her out. By the end of the year, they were in love.

Supermodel Annalise, though obviously attractive, had nothing on the girl sitting next to him right now. Insecure and shy, this was his Annie, the girl who'd stolen his heart at fifteen.

Mark swallowed and sat back, aware of where his thoughts were taking him. Careful .

Annalise shifted forward in the chair. "I was visiting my parents a few months ago, and I ran into your mother at Market Basket.”

Mark squeezed his empty water bottle, which crinkled in the silence. Of course his mother had something to do with this.

She lifted her hair and twisted it to one side, a nervous gesture he recognized. He disregarded a twinge of pity. He hadn't invited her. He didn't owe her anything but the truth.

"Anyway," she continued, "she wanted my cell phone number, said she was thinking of visiting New York." Annalise half-smiled. "She never did, and I don't live there anymore, so I thought I'd never hear from her. That was okay. It wasn't her I wanted to hear from anyway." Her gaze flicked to his, dropped to the table again. "She called last week and told me you're getting a divorce."

Mark stiffened. "I'm not getting a divorce."

"Oh. Well, your mother said she'd talked to your wife, and?—"

"I'm not getting a divorce."

She pushed the water bottle out of the way, rested her elbow on the table, and dropped her chin into her palm. "You sound pretty confident for a guy living in an apartment, alone."

"This is temporary. We're getting back together. Soon. That's where I was tonight—with my wife, at my house."

"And yet," she scanned the room, "here you are."

Mark sat back and crossed his arms.

"I guess Amanda's loss is my gain."

"No. It's not."

Her Jujube lips lifted at the corners. "Do you remember what I said to you the day we talked on your front porch, the day you brought her home?"

How could he forget? "Her name is Amanda, and honestly, what I remember is worrying about what she was thinking."

Annalise's mouth opened in a shocked little O. "Well, in case you forgot, I told you that day that you were my first and only love."

"And like I said, you made your choice."

"No, I was stupid." She spat the word. "If I could go back and do it again, I would choose you."

"But you can't go back, Annalise. And neither can I. You wanted to be a model, and you went after your dreams. I never begrudged you that. And I wanted to go into the service, and I went after mine. You went to New York, I went to the Academy. I knew when we split that summer it was over, and I was right. Your career took off, and you forgot all about me."

"I'm sorry, Mark. I was so focused on my career, but now?—"

"Now it's too late. It's been too late for a long time. I'm sorry if you have feelings for me, but I don't return them."

"You do! Of course you do." She reached for his hand, but he slid it beneath the table. She left her arm stretched toward him. "You don't have to pretend with me. We both know who you turned to when you needed a shoulder to cry on. And it wasn't her."

"Don't."

"I was there for you, Mark. Your parents announced their divorce, and where was she? She couldn't be bothered to join you for your first Christmas home from the war. But I was there. I comforted you. I gave myself to you that night."

Mark pushed his chair back and stood. "I'm sorry. I should never have . . . It was wrong." He raked his fingers through his hair and paced. "I was so angry—with my stupid parents for announcing their divorce two days before Christmas, with Amanda for not being there. And you were there, and . . . I'm sorry. It didn't mean anything."

She turned in her chair toward him. He saw her tears hovering, threatening to spill over. "It meant something to me."

He took three long steps into his living room and collapsed on his sofa, burying his head in his hands. "I never meant to hurt you. But I can't give you what you want. I love my wife. I have since the moment I laid eyes on her." He forced himself to face the pain in her expression. "You don't even know me. Besides that one night, we haven't been together in almost twenty years."

She stood, scraping the chair against the floor. "So you used me, like every other man. I thought you were different." She swiped her tears. "What a fool I am."

Mark looked away. He couldn't be swayed by her emotions. "I wish I could go back and undo that night. I can't tell you how much I regret it."

"But not for my sake. For your precious little pixie—that's why you regret it."

Irritation prickled his skin like a thousand needles. A little pixie? How like Annalise to judge a woman based on nothing but her height. Unfortunately, everything else Annalise said was true. He'd hardly thought of Annalise's feelings after that terrible night. When he'd showed up at the house to find Amanda at his kitchen table with his mother, a desperate lie had flown out of his mouth. He'd been at his father's, that's what he told her. Later, he'd taken his cell phone into the bathroom to call his father and beg him to back up his story.

His father had counseled him to never tell Amanda the truth. "She'll never forgive you," he'd said. And he would know. His dad strayed once in his marriage, and Mark's mother never forgave him. After years of making him pay for his adultery, she'd squeezed every ounce of joy out of his life until he had nothing left, and then she'd divorced him.

Amanda could never know about his night with Annalise. It hadn't meant anything, and he refused to lose her over it.

Annalise grabbed her water off the table, took a long sip, and slammed it back down. "Well, what's done is done. We're neighbors now. "

Neighbors? The word hit him, the implications. The Porsche, the boxes—they belonged to Annalise? He jumped up from the seat. "No, you can't stay."

"I got a job in Boston, working for an agent, scouting young talent." Her voice was nonchalant. "I was living with a friend, but I wanted to get out of the city, and Norwell seems nice."

"Please, don't do this."

"It's too late, Mark. I've already moved in."

"I'll reimburse you whatever it costs. Why in the world would you move into this crappy building, anyway?"

She stared at the floor. "To be near you."

He squelched the wave of pity. Annalise made her own decisions. But what would Amanda do when she found out? This would push her away for good.

Amanda wanted him out of this place, and though he hoped to move home soon, he couldn't stay here with Annalise living across the hall, not even for a month. He'd look into the apartments Amanda suggested. Maybe he could take a short-term lease. Or maybe crash on Chris's couch.

"There's something else," Annalise whispered, breaking into his thoughts.

Her face had colored, and his heart hammered. "What?"

"When I talked to your mom last week . . . You have to understand, she said you were getting a divorce. I didn't know you were trying to work things out, or I wouldn't have, but . . ."

"But what?"

"I told her about that night. I told her you and I slept together. And, well, I guess, since she seemed happy about the divorce, I wonder if she'll tell your wife."