If I Were You(94)
At a quarter after eight, Mark appears in my doorway, his suit jacket gone, his top two buttons undone. Still, he manages to look every bit the corporate seduction king, the guy every lady wants and every man wants to be. Every lady but me, that is.
He leans on the jamb. “Isn’t it time to go home, Ms. McMillan?”
“For reasons I’d rather not discuss, I’m feeling extremely dedicated tonight.”
He ignores my reference to our earlier incident. “I don’t like leaving you here alone.”
“You have cameras.”
He laughs, a rare happening, and oddly considering my behavior, he seems more relaxed around me. “Good point,” he concedes and pushes away from the wall. “You are the witty one, Ms. McMillan, and I can see customers responding well to you. I’ll leave you to work, but why don’t you pull your car around front so you don’t have to walk to the parking lot alone?”
Cab rides for staff after tastings, worries over my safety, my being manipulated. Mark’s tough and demanding, but I begin to see him as a good boss, someone trying to help me get ahead in this world. “I moved my car out front before Amanda left an hour ago.” And because I knew that was where Chris would look for it.
“Well then, I guess I’ll depart. Remember though that once you exit the gallery, the security locks are automatic. You can’t get back in.”
“Yes. I know. I’ll be sure I’m ready to leave when I exit.”
“Good. Then you’re all set. You had excellent marks on your wine exams, by the way. I’m impressed.”
“I spent the weekend studying.” And falling hard for an artist who has my insides in knots.
“It shows.” He motions to the flowers, the only smirk I’ve ever seen on his face present. “At least he has good taste in flowers.” He doesn’t give me time to respond. “Good night, Ms. McMillan.”
“Good night, Mr. Compton.”
Unmoving, I listen to his footsteps fade, staring at the flowers that have teased my senses and reminded me of Chris all day. I reach for the card and pull my hand back. Romantic scribble on a plain white card doesn’t erase what he’s done. In fact, the weekend and the flowers seem more a mask for him to hide his motives. The voice of logic and the one of my heart begin battling it out in true gladiator style. But he let you into his world. He told you things he doesn’t tell other people. I grind my teeth and remind myself his disclosure was created by Mike taking him off guard. I was simply there at the right--or I suspect in Chris’s mind--the wrong time. But he took you to meet his godparents.
How long I sit there fighting with myself, I’m not sure, but I feel bloody and beaten, with ever nerve ending raw and exposed. Somehow, I shake myself and reach for the phone, trying to be productive. I dial Ricardo for about the tenth time, hoping the evening hour plays in my favor. I receive his machine again. Hmm. I wonder if he has caller ID. I reach for my cell phone and stare at the blank screen. I’ve burned to turn it on, to see if Chris has replied. Why do I care if he’s replied? He is playing with my life and my career. Logic raises her ugly, practical head again, and tells me I’ve been down this path. I can’t go down it again. I won’t go down it again.
Returning my phone to my purse, I gather several pieces of paper with notes I’ve made about Rebecca that I stuffed in a drawer earlier in the day. On one of them is a phone number for the manager of her apartment building. Or what I assume is her old apartment building.
I glance at the office phone and consider calling, but decide better. I’ve learned my camera lesson. Don’t forget Mark is the man in the journal. Don’t forget Rebecca is missing and turn him into a hero because Chris has hurt you. My Rebecca research really has to be done off site. The building in question isn’t far away and I’ll go by at lunch tomorrow.
Still not ready to head home to my empty apartment and tormented thoughts, I review a stack of files I was given earlier in the day, containing information on people who have bought from the gallery in the past year. Thirty minutes later, I’ve filed them in order of the best prospects and made notes on each.
When nine o’clock arrives I can no longer put off the inevitable walk to my car and entry to my empty apartment filled with memories of Chris. With my purse and briefcase on my shoulder, and wearing the leather jacket Chris gave me, I pause inside at the front door of the gallery. Squeezing my eyes shut, I am uncertain if I am more worried about Chris being outside, or not being outside. Maybe he didn’t do this to me on purpose. Maybe I’ve jumped to conclusions. I roll my eyes at myself, disgusted at my thoughts. I am so weak where that man is concerned.