Brave Enough(25)

“Michael, I . . . I’m sorry,” I offer. And I am. For all his similarities to my father, he really is a nice guy and I really do believe that he cares for me. As much as one can care for someone who is merely a business arrangement, a business arrangement that one happens to find physically attractive, that is. “I never meant to hurt you. I just . . . I always wanted to marry for me. Just for me. I needed time to figure things out.”

I’m sure he is under no delusions as to what I’m figuring out. He must know that my choice is between a man I (presumably) love and a man who is the better fit for my family. While in most of Western society the decision would be a no-brainer, in my privileged, cutthroat world, nothing is quite so simple.

Michael’s smile is polite and tolerant, much like a father who is struggling for patience in dealing with his willful daughter. And that’s what our dynamic would be—I’d be going from one controlling man who expects me to never buck my place in our world right into the arms of another who feels the same way. The expectations are the same for all the wives of men like this. It’s bred into us. And we are bred into this world.

“Fine, if that’s what you need to come to the right decision, you have it. If you’ll show me to a guest room, I’d like a shower to wash away the grime.” He makes a point of glancing at Tag, as if to say that he is the reason for the grime rather than his trip here from Atlanta.

“Of course,” I say, extricating myself from Tag’s hold. I hadn’t even realized he’d pressed up close to my side and slid his arm around my waist. I felt so comfortable there, it felt so natural there that I hadn’t even noticed. Which is odd because thus far I’ve been inordinately attuned to his every move. Maybe it’s because, at this moment, I needed comfort. And that’s what he was providing.

“I was just on my way upstairs to our room. I can show him on my way,” Tag offers with a pleasantly innocent smile.

I swallow hard at the “our room” part, but manage to keep a calm curve to my own lips. “Oh, well thank you.”

My last glance at Michael shows that he is in no way pleased by this turn of events, but he says nothing, merely picks up his bag and follows Tag up the stairs. Even now, it’s all about the show, the breeding.

I watch until the two men disappear. My unease worsens and I wish now that I’d at least offered to go along. Wondering about what’s being said up there is incredibly unnerving.

Ten minutes pass with excruciating sluggishness. When ten turn into fifteen, I start pacing. As I make my way to the kitchen and back again, my thoughts begin to slip automatically into hostess mode despite the “let it go” attitude I arrived with. I’m thinking of what refreshments to offer Michael and what to suggest for lunch. And dinner. And every meal on every day, all the way up until my father and his crony depart.

I’m just about to pick up the phone and dial for Stella when I remember her color and her failing health. I can’t very well ask her to tend to the house and the cooking and ask her to see to our guest when she’s all but dying.

I take out my cell phone and start trolling the Internet for a replacement service down in Enchantment. I’m just about to dial when a knock sounds at the back door. It’s odd for anyone who’s unfamiliar with Chiara to be going around back.

I find a pretty, petite redhead in neat black pants and a stiff, spotless white shirt standing on the steps. She’s clutching a clipboard to her chest.

“May I help you?” I ask, opening the screen door as well.

“I’m Cher Young. I’m from Concierge Services in Enchantment. Is Mr. Barton available?”

What in the world?

“Um, yes, of course. Please come in.” I step back into the kitchen as the woman enters. “Let me get Tag for you.”

“Get Tag for who?” Tag asks, strolling in just as I turn. He looks heart-stopping in a white button-up shirt, faded jeans and hair still wet from his shower. He smiles at Cher, rolling his sleeves up his tanned forearms as he approaches. “Tag Barton,” he explains, holding out his hand.

“Uh, Cher Young. Y-you called about some housekeeping and gourmet services, I believe.” I almost feel sorry for the young woman. She looks as though she’s having trouble thinking at the moment. She’s trying not to stare and failing miserably. Of course, I can’t really blame her. Tag is truly one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen. Ever.

“I did. Thank you for coming so quickly.” He turns his smile on me. My knees get weak accordingly. Damn the man! How does he do that? “This is Weatherly O’Neal. She’s the lady of the house. She’s had some unexpected guests. One is here now and more are on the way. She’ll be the one to give you instruction on what meals she wants prepared and what housekeeping services she’ll be in need of.”