He grabbed the doorknob, then stopped and turned. “This was always part of our deal. It’s not optional. It’s business.”
“But I don’t dance.”
“I don’t care,” he said heatedly.
“Why are you making such a big deal about it?”
“Because I can.” He yanked her close and crushed her lips with his. She moaned and he softened the kiss, sweeping his tongue over hers. When he finally let her go, her knees wobbled from the pleasure of his kiss. “Please, Maggie,” he said, touching his forehead to hers. “Please, I want you there with me.”
“Big bully,” she muttered, and touched her fingers to her lips to make sure that kiss hadn’t been a dream.
“Coward,” he whispered, then kissed her again, briefly and softly this time, and walked out, letting the door close behind him.
She absorbed the silence for a moment, then flopped onto the couch. “Now what?”
* * *
She wandered the convention floor all morning, listening to other speakers and catching up with some of the new acquaintances she’d made this week. She had lunch alone overlooking the marina, but instead of enjoying the view, she agonized over the gala. Connor simply didn’t understand. Why would he? It was no big deal. Except it was, to Maggie.
Staring out at the sparkling blue water, she sighed. The thought of attending the gala should’ve filled her with excitement, but Maggie was filled with dread instead. It sounded ridiculously melodramatic to say she might not survive the evening, but that was exactly what she was afraid of.
The last gala event she had attended was the Hospital Society’s Black & White Ball, back in Boston. Her ex-husband had been the chairman of the event and it was a huge success. He should have been flushed with happiness, but that was so not Alan. Maggie still wasn’t exactly sure what she had done to set him off. Had she been too effusive in congratulating him? Had she danced too close to one of his lackeys? Had she spilled something on her ball gown?
Whatever small offense she’d shown, Alan was apparently intent on making sure it didn’t go unnoticed, even if it meant exposing their unhappy relationship to the world.
Leaving her in the middle of the dance floor, Alan had approached the bandleader and ordered him to stop the music. He had an important announcement to make.
“My wife is a whore,” he had announced to the crème de la crème of Boston society. He didn’t stop there, but Maggie refused to play back the entire tawdry speech in her mind. And later that night in the foyer of their home, he struck her physically for the first time, smacking her face so hard that she fell and hit her head against the hard surface of a marble statue, and passed out.
Two days later, after her headache had subsided and she’d regained some strength, Maggie snuck out to a pay phone and called a lawyer to begin divorce proceedings. She knew it would be a vicious battle and she prayed she would survive it. Her prayers were answered when her surly mother-in-law died a few days later and Alan divorced her instead.
Maggie had never told another soul about Alan’s physical attack. How could she, when she could touch her cheek and still feel the physical blow he’d delivered? And if she closed her eyes, she could still experience the rush of utter mortification she’d felt on that dance floor as her husband destroyed her in front of everyone she knew.
She would never allow herself to be so humiliated again. Even if it meant she would never stand on another dance floor again.