Broken Heart

  BROKEN HEART

  LAURA BROWNING

  LYRICAL PRESS

  http://lyricalpress.com/

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

  To Stacey, for finally finding your own voice. I’m glad I could give you a happily ever after.

  Chapter 1

  Avoiding him was nearly impossible. Wherever Stacey looked, Mason Hatch was in her line of sight. Since she was attending her brother Brandon’s wedding, she couldn’t leave, but she sure wished Jace would stick by her side this once. She scanned the room, but her husband was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hubby MIA again?” Mason’s voice was as smooth as silk in her ear. The fact he simply echoed her thoughts didn’t make his intrusion into them any more palatable. “I could tell you where to look, but I don’t think you’d like what you’d find.”

  “Stop it!” Stacey hissed between clenched teeth. Every time she encountered Mason, he made some cryptic remark about her husband. Stacey was tired of it, in part because she had enough doubts concerning her marriage. But not today. She refused to have them today. Today was supposed to be perfect. Jason had made love to her last night, had tried once again to talk her into starting a family. She wanted children. She did, but something always held her back. She couldn’t stall too much longer, doing so wasn’t fair to either of them, yet the mere thought of a divorce in her oh-so-Catholic family made her shudder. God, was she really contemplating divorce? Her mother would flip.

  “Just trying to make conversation among these Virginia purebreds,” Mason purred, once again barging into her brain. Why was there always a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he were actually laughing at her? Yes, she had been unfair to him, but had his contempt been there all along? Had he always regarded her with a smirk?

  She sneaked a glance, finding her heels brought her nearly eye-to-eye with him. He was not short by any means, she’d simply inherited every bit of the Barlow-Barrett height and her mother’s slenderness to boot. How often she had wished for even a touch of her younger sister Preston’s curviness and her infinitely more diminutive height.

  “Why can’t you single out someone else to talk to?” she demanded, knowing she sounded as petulant as she felt. “Don’t you have a date?”

  He arched one dark brow, his eyes glittering like obsidian. “Perhaps I’m conducting a scientific experiment.”

  “Oh? And what would your experiment be?” She didn’t want to continue this conversation, but she had no defense against his goading, had never been able to resist it, and that was what had gotten them in trouble to begin with. He was the match. She was the kindling.

  “To see if there’s actually a living, breathing woman still left under your high-class brittleness, or has the rarified air of your married life already drained it away?”

  It shouldn’t hurt. Not anymore, but it seemed she could still bleed if pricked. And Mason was stabbing deep with his verbal needling. She stared into his still cynically amused expression. “Fuck you,” she whispered, her lips barely moving because she felt so frozen.

  “The F-bomb, baby? In public?” He laughed, letting his gaze drop along her body. “Been there, done that.”

  Before she could think of any response, he had walked away, leaving behind only the deep contempt with which he’d stared at her. Stacey stood at the edge of the laughter and the crowd, feeling more isolated than if she’d been standing alone on the deck of her sailboat somewhere in the middle of the ocean. She swallowed and stuck her chin up.

  A Barlow-Barrett must always stand straight and hold her head high. It had been one of the hardest of her mother’s lessons for Stacey to learn as a gawky teenager. Taller than her peers, what she’d wanted to do was slump. As she did now, right before she slunk away into some dark corner where she could lick her wounds in private. But there was never any privacy in her family. They were in the spotlight whether they liked it or not.

  Stacey needed to move. If she continued to stand here on her own, she would draw attention, something her mother would never forgive. Feeling some disgust at how tied she still was to pleasing her parents, Stacey moved back among the guests. No one would be able to fault her for not circulating, not making people feel welcome. The entire time she nodded, smiled and made appropriate comments, one part of her brain was detached. Nearly a half hour passed before she saw Jason return to the ballroom in the company of a man she had seen once or twice at various functions she’d attended recently with her husband. They were both tall, attractive men–perfect foils for one another. Jace’s dark hair appeared slightly ruffled, but his companion’s short blond locks were in perfect order. Even as she looked at them, she saw the two men laugh before they gripped hands and parted company. Her husband looked more relaxed than he ever seemed to be with her.

  Jace headed her way, a smile curving his generous mouth as he saw her. Cupping her elbow a moment later, he leaned in and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You look lovely, Stacey, as always.” His compliment sounded impersonal as his gaze skated over the gathering. “Everything going all right? No outbreak of pole dancing by the bride or her guests?”

  “Jason!” Stacey admonished. “Lucy is a wonderful person. You know the dancing was only to support herself until her art career got going.”

  He grimaced. “Still, darling, a stripper, no matter how noble the cause, is not exactly our kind of people.”

  “You pay too much attention to what other people think,” she shot back, then realized the same applied to her.

  Stacey remembered the day she and Brandon had plucked Lucy from the bay after her dinghy capsized. She’d been prepared to think badly of the woman until then, but after meeting her and getting to know her, Stacey had realized how lucky Brandon was. She opened her mouth to defend her brother’s bride, then shut it. She didn’t want to create any dissension with her husband, not when it seemed things might be going better between the two of them. Besides, her defense would do nothing to change what was so ingrained as to be second nature to him. Anything or anyone different was hushed, hidden or looked down upon.

  “People like us have to, darling. Have you thought any more about what we discussed last night?” Jason’s hand rubbed the small of her back, his head bent solicitously to her.

  Her stomach fluttered with nerves rather than desire. “I don’t know, Jace. I… Can you give me a little more time?”

  Displeasure flitted across his aristocratic features before he once again assumed the urbane smile he wore at all social functions. “We’re Catholic, darling. Babies are expected. You’ll turn thirty next month, so you’re not getting any younger.”

  She wasn’t getting any younger? As if her eggs were any older than his sperm? But Stacey didn’t say anything. Once again she heard her mother’s voice, like a metronome of patrician aphorisms. As a Barlow-Barrett, you must support your husband. Lord, she was trying, but it seemed more and more that she was the only one in this marriage with a legitimate career, and getting damn little support of her own.

  “I’ll think it over,” she finally muttered. It would be an easier decision if you’d ever give me an orgasm or even look me in the eye while we make love. It might be on the tip of her tongue to tell him so, but it would never actually leave her mouth. She wouldn’t dare. Not with Jace. Not like she had with Mason. She’d been able to say anything to him. She glanced nervously again and found the man in her thoughts still watched her, this time from across the room, and he still wore an expression of cynical amusement.

  Tilting her chin, she pasted a smile on her face and turned to her husband. “I don’t know why I said that, darling. Of course I want to have children. I had just thought we could wait until the excitement of the wedding was over with. You
know, so it would be easier to change my lifestyle–more exercise, less alcohol, maybe cutting back on my client list.”

  Jason was smiling again. This time he leaned down to kiss her lingeringly on the lips. Sometimes he seemed more demonstrative in public than he was at home. Stacey relaxed a bit, noticing for the first time the tanginess of his aftershave. She sniffed. “Is that a new cologne?”

  Her husband laughed. “Mmm. Yes. Do you like it?”

  She shrugged. “It just seems different.”

  He glanced around the room once more, almost as though he were searching for someone. “I hope a lot of things will be different, Stacey, better.”

  She looked at him in some confusion, but the approach of an old friend of the family prevented her from questioning what he meant.

  * * * *

  Mason ground his teeth as he watched Winchester laughing with his wife. If what he suspected was true, Stacey Barlow-Barrett–oops, Winchester–was in for some serious disillusionment, but he wouldn’t be the one to burst her bubble of domestic bliss. In fact, he’d already dropped too many hints over the last couple months on those occasions when running into her at the gallery had been unavoidable. It would be better all the way around if he put her where she belonged–in the past–and moved on with his life. So why was it so damn hard to do?

  When his date, an aide for a senator he counted among his clients, stepped off the dance floor, he handed her a fresh glass of champagne and set his arm around her waist. If the gesture was more intimate than their first date called for, he wasn’t ready to apologize for it now. That could come later when he dropped her safe and sound at her door with a peck on the cheek and returned to his penthouse alone.

  There was only one woman in this room he’d had the urge to make a commitment to, and she was taken. Mason sneaked one last look at Stacey. How many people were truly aware what passion lurked beneath her cool, blond exterior? He seriously doubted her husband was one of them.

  Mason turned his gaze to the bride. Lucy Cameron danced, a bit stiffly, in the arms of her father-in-law, Alexander Barlow-Barrett. Only the elder Barrett could make a professional dancer appear ill at ease. The guy was the poster child for puritanical American capitalistic dynasties. It amazed Mason that already three of Barrett’s children had found their own ways to rebel. Brandon had just married Lucy, a former exotic dancer. The eldest Barlow-Barrett, Seth, had quit the family’s newspaper empire to run his own small town paper on the Delaware coast, and the sister, a couple years younger than Stacey, had beaten them all–bearing a child out of wedlock, becoming a veterinarian and finally settling down with a horse-trainer husband. Mason discounted the two youngest siblings. Phillip was too focused on his legal career and the girl apparently wasn’t old enough to instigate her own rebellions yet, so only Stacey remained–the dutiful daughter. God damn her.

  Mason could still feel her hips arching against his and hear her crying out in passion. Fuck. He set his drink aside and nabbed his date’s, setting it aside too. “Let’s dance,” he growled. It was a fast number, which suited the hell out of him. Maybe if he worked up a sweat, he could work out the lust he still felt for the eldest Barlow-Barrett daughter, lust he no longer had a right to feel.

  “Are you having a good time?” he asked his date.

  She nodded, her glance darting around the room. “This is like being at a who’s-who of Washington powerbrokers. God, Mason, how did you get to be friends with people like the Barlow-Barretts?”

  Mason laughed. “Trust me. I’m no friend of theirs. Lucy Cameron, the bride, is one of the artists my gallery represents. Most of the time her husband is torn between punching me in the face or thanking heaven for me.”

  His date’s only reaction was a slightly puzzled smile. Just as well. He didn’t want to go into explanations of his not-so-willing role as cupid. He still kicked himself for that, but then anyone could look at Lucy and Brandon and see there would never be anyone else for either of them. When the song ended, another male guest claimed his date. He glanced around the dance floor and saw Winchester escort his wife onto the floor. Mason felt only relief, but when he saw Winchester’s friend take over on the next song, a slow number, the only thing he could think was fuck no.

  * * * *

  Stacey had hoped to dance the slow song with Jace. She needed to feel him next to her, needed reassurance that everything was all right with their world. Now she was in the arms of Justin Worthington, one of Jace’s closest friends. She hadn’t realized who it was when she’d seen them together earlier. Jace had mentioned Justin a lot, but it had always seemed to her there was an edge of tension to him when he did and, until today, she had never met him.

  “I’m so happy to meet you,” Justin told her now. “Jace talks of you constantly.”

  Stacey gave him a look she was sure must be slightly puzzled. “Really? He’s mentioned you too. I can’t believe we haven’t met before now.”

  His grip on her hand tightened slightly. “I’ve been working out of the country until recently.”

  She nodded. “I hate you missed our wedding. I know Jace wanted you there. It must have been a disappointment not to be able to share the celebration.”

  Justin smiled, his green eyes twinkling. “Now I’m in the area, maybe we’ll be able to remedy that.”

  Was it her imagination, or had he pulled her slightly closer? As he turned her in time with the music, his thigh brushed against hers. Now she was uncomfortable. By no means did she consider herself a prude, but she could have sworn more than his thigh had touched her. Just about to open her mouth to ask him to hold her less closely, the sight of Mason tapping her partner on the shoulder had her clamping her mouth shut. She wouldn’t mind a rescue, but exchanging Justin for Mason was like jumping from a campfire into a forest fire.

  “May I cut in?”

  Justin smiled graciously, but something in the way the two men eyed one another made Stacey catch her breath for an instant.

  “Certainly.” Justin smiled at her and said, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, Stacey.”

  It was only when Mason spun her back into the crowd on the dance floor, and she caught a whiff of the spicy bite of Justin’s cologne, that she realized Justin wore the same scent her husband did. Stacey shook her head slightly. Maybe that was how Jace had discovered it. After all, it was obvious the two men had re-established their long-standing friendship.

  “Are you all right?” Mason’s rumbled inquiry caught her off guard so she nearly stumbled. He caught her, his hand on her hip where, to her chagrin, he left it. The tingling it sent along her nerve endings filled her with guilt.

  “Yes. Get your hand off my ass.”

  He moved it to the small of her back, his thumb stroking her spine through the silk of her evening dress. “So exactly why I love you. You appear to be such a lady, but you have a mouth like a sailor.”

  “Mason,” she muttered. “Please don’t. This one night, can’t we have a ceasefire?”

  “I didn’t start this war, Blondie, but I’m willing to negotiate terms.” His expression was inscrutable.

  “There are no terms, Mason. I’m married. I won’t be unfaithful to my husband.”

  “How old-fashioned of you. I hope your spouse is equally reciprocative.”

  “Stop it.” Stacey felt as though he took her heart and twisted it in his grasp. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out between us.”

  Mason put his mouth next to her ear. “Don’t be sorry, baby. You were one of the best fucks I’ve ever had…and had…and had.”

  She couldn’t control the gasp, the hurt stabbing through her, nor could she control the way she jerked away from him. Aware their sudden cessation of dancing would attract attention, Stacey put a hand to her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said loud enough so the other couples dancing could hear. “I feel ill.”

  Without giving him a chance to grab hold of her again, she rushed from the dance floor and out of the ballroom in search of
the sanctuary of the women’s lounge. She longed to simply break down, but she knew her mother, knew her family. Someone would be in here in a moment, and she needed to have a believable story to cover behavior that had drawn unwanted attention. Rushing into one of the stalls, she slammed the door behind her, stared at the toilet and let out a defeated sigh. From years of practice, she leaned over, stuck a finger down her throat and gagged before she brought up the contents of her stomach.

  “Stacey, darling?” It was her mother’s voice. “Are you ill?”

  She leaned one hand against the marble wall then grabbed a wad of tissue. “It’s nothing, Mother.”

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  There was such a wealth of hope in her mother’s voice, but all Stacey felt were manacles tightening another notch around her wrists and throat.

  * * * *

  Mason had endured all he could. Even for Brandon and Lucy’s sake, he couldn’t stay here any longer. He was making himself miserable, and he’d made Stacey quite literally sick. He watched the doorway through which she’d fled, had seen her mother follow her, and waited now to see them return. As much as he wanted to get the hell out of there, he wouldn’t until he was sure she would be fine.

  What the fuck had he been thinking? How could he have said that to her? It would be better all the way around if he made sure to avoid any contact with her. She had made her bed the moment she’d accepted Jason Winchester’s engagement ring. If her marriage now turned out to be something other than what she’d hoped, it was none of his concern. As soon as he saw her return to the ballroom with her mother, he located his date, making the excuse he had plans to sail early the next morning.

  After dropping off the senator’s aide, Mason drove past the house where he and Stacey had met. It was nearly two years ago now. And how pathetic was that? He was still lusting after a woman who’d dumped him so long ago. As the Porsche idled outside the brownstone, Mason remembered seeing her for the first time. Tall and willowy, dressed in a conservative suit with her hair pulled back into a neat bun, she’d turned her Barlow-Barrett haughtiness on him, thinking he was nothing more than a delivery boy. He’d set her straight in pretty short order, right before he’d eased her tight skirt up, shoved her lacy underwear to one side and taken her on the dining room table. Even remembering it now, so long after the fact, his cock swelled and his balls throbbed.