to mind. Then she remembered the hospital, thinking that she was pregnant. She remembered the doctor, the test, the tears—
Laura sucked back a quick breath then, blinking into her champagne flute, frowned.
There hadn’t been any tears. She’d been disappointed that the pregnancy test was negative, but also grateful she hadn’t risked a baby’s well-being when she’d taken her tumble. She remembered being so happy to see her husband and wondering at his odd behavior … that Bishop hadn’t come and embraced her straight away. It had taken a little while for him to thaw, even when they’d gotten home. But last night, he’d been as loving as ever.
So why this gnawing, niggling feeling at the back of her brain all of a sudden? A wavering sense that something, somewhere, between them was missing? Robert Harrington’s curious comment hadn’t helped.
Wasn’t that your wife’s name?
“Laura, are you okay?”
Bishop’s deep voice hauled her back. He was looking at her intently, his brows drawn. And the bell was ringing, calling them back to their seats. Feeling off balance, she slid her flute onto a nearby ledge.
Was she okay?
Willing the faint dizziness away, she pinned up her smile. “Absolutely fine. I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of the ballet.”
As they moved back through the crowd, the bell ringing low and persistent, Bishop threaded his jacketed arm through hers. She always felt so proud walking beside him. People noticed her husband—not only his movie star looks, but that unconscious quality that radiated off him like crackling heat off a fire … a vibrant warmth that was inviting and yet also potentially dangerous. Instinct told people you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Samuel Bishop. Not that they would ever be on opposing sides. Their difference of opinion on how to start a family didn’t count. As she’d told Grace, they’d work that out.
“You didn’t have much for dinner,” he said as they climbed the carpeted stairs behind the slow-shifting throng. “We’ll order some supper when we get in.”
One part of her wanted to go straight back to the apartment, make love and then order a cheese platter and a fruity wine to savor throughout the night. Another part wanted to eke out as much of this dazzling evening as she could. Bishop was right. They did need to get out more.
“Let’s walk back to the apartment,” she suggested as they arrived at their gate. “We can stop for a bite on the way.”
He flicked a suspect glance at her red high heels. “In those shoes?”
Teasing, she bumped her hip to his. “These shoes deserve to be shown off.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, the bell stopped ringing and the theater lights dimmed. “Then shown off they shall be.”
Laura didn’t want to tell Bishop she hadn’t remembered buying the shoes … like that handbag … like forgetting she’d slipped off her rings before Grace had driven her to hospital. In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have mentioned she thought she’d lost weight. But they were trivial bits and pieces that would filter back in time. And when they did, no doubt this annoying niggling—that there’s something missing feeling—would up and fly away.
After the curtain had dropped and thunderous applause faded, he and Laura left the theater to stroll down the many Opera House steps, then along the boardwalk.
The night was mild and still bubbling with life—buskers strumming, tourists milling, night owls taking advantage of the round-the-clock restaurants. Laura was praising the prima ballerina’s performance in the last act when Bishop’s step slowed out front of an open-air café. Cozy tables dotted a timber deck that overlooked dark harbor waters awash with milky ribbons of moonlight. The coffee smelled out-of-this-world good.
“How are the heels holding up?” he asked. “Your feet need a rest?”
“I vote chocolate cheesecake.”
His gaze flicked from the dessert display window to her knowing eyes, and he laughed softly. She was well aware of his sweet tooth and he was aware of hers.
“With two scoops of ice cream?” he suggested.
Her hand in his, she tugged him toward the tables. “Done.”
He pulled out a chair for her by a roped railing, and a waitress took their orders.
“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?” Laura asked casually as she skimmed the ballet’s keepsake program for the tenth time. But despite the casual tone, Bishop knew she was already wishing the morning away. He’d worked long hours when they’d been married. Still did. She’d always dreaded Monday mornings when he left her to travel to his office in the city.
“Actually, I’m having a couple of days off.”
Her eyes popped. “You never have time off.”
“I’m sure I had time off for our honeymoon.” A glorious week cruising the Greek islands. Santorini, Mykonos. The days had been brilliant. The nights were even better.
“Honeymoons are compulsory as far as vacations are concerned.” Her finger, trailing his left jacket sleeve, ended its journey by circling that shiny gold band. Her voice took on a note of doubt. “Are you sure the company’s not in any trouble?”
“If it were, I’d be chained to my desk.” He poured two glasses from the water carafe. “Trust me, Bishop Scaffolds is stronger than ever.”
The worry, pinching her brows, eased and she raised her water glass. “Well, then, here’s to a good long sleep in.”
While she sighed over how romantic the twinkling bridge looked with a full yellow moon crowning its arch, Bishop made a mental note to text Willis; the boss wouldn’t be in until at least Tuesday. From there he’d take each day as it came. Willis was more than competent to handle the day-to-day grind. As for the parties who were inquiring about purchasing the company …
Bishop flicked out his napkin as the cake arrived.
If the potential buyers were keen, they’d wait a few days.
They’d each enjoyed a first succulent taste of slow baked heaven when an elderly gentleman sporting an olive green beret presented himself with a flourishing bow at their table. He carried a battered easel. Two pencils sat balanced behind one ear.
“Would your wife care for a portrait?” the gentleman asked with a heavy French accent.
Bishop smiled dismissively. He liked his privacy.
“I don’t think—”
“She’d love one,” Laura piped up, before sucking chocolate sauce off her thumb and sitting straighter. “She’d love one of the both of us.”
Out the side of his mouth, Bishop countered, “Do you really feel like posing for half an hour?”
“No posing,” Frenchie said, flicking out his squeaky easel and wedging the legs into the planks. “Eat, talk. Reminisce. While I—” he whipped a pencil out
