the world.
“Impressive,” PJ said now. He balanced one ankle on the opposite knee.
“I worked hard,” she said firmly. “You knew I would. You saw that I had.” Five years ago, she meant.
“I did,” he agreed, lounging back in his chair, and regarding her intently as he drawled, “And you didn’t need any more favors from me.”
Ally stiffened. But she knew that from his perspective she was the one who had been out of line. “I was rude to you that night.”
It had been the last time—the only time—she had seen PJ since the day of their marriage.
She’d come back to Honolulu for her first local public art show. It had been in the heady scary early days of her career when she certainly hadn’t been a “household name” or anything close. In fact the show itself had doubtless been premature, but she’d wanted desperately to do it, to prove to her father that she was on her way to making something of herself, and—though she’d barely admitted to herself—she’d hoped to see PJ, too, to show him that his faith in her had not been misplaced. So she’d jumped at the chance to be part of the show when another artist backed out.
She’d sent her father an invitation to the opening and had waited with nervous pride and anticipation for his arrival.
He’d never come.
But PJ had.
Looking up all of a sudden to see him there across the room, big as life and twice as gorgeous as she remembered, had knocked Ally for a loop.
She hadn’t expected to see him at all.
When she’d known she was coming back, she’d casually asked a friend who had gone to the same beach with them about where PJ was now.
May had shaken her head. “PJ? No idea. Haven’t seen him in ages. But you know surfers—they never stay. They’re always following the waves.”
So the sight of him had been a shock. As had the sight of the woman on his arm.
She was, in a blonde bombshell way, every bit as gorgeous as PJ himself. With his dark hair and tan and her platinum tresses and fair skin, the contrast between the two was eye-catching and arresting. The artist in Ally had certainly appreciated that.
The woman in her didn’t appreciate him striding up to her, all smiles, hugging her and saying cheerfully, “Hey. Look at you! You look great. And your stuff—” he let go of her to wave an arm around the gallery “—looks great, too. Amazing. I brought you a reviewer.” He’d introduced the blonde then, took her arm and pulled her forward. “This is Annie Cannavaro. She writes art reviews for the Star.”
He had not said, “This is Ally, my wife.”
In fact, he hadn’t mentioned any relationship to her at all. Not that Ally had expected him to. She knew their marriage had been for her convenience, not a lifelong commitment. He’d done her a favor.
But standing there, being introduced to the Star’s art critic, made her realize that PJ thought she needed another favor now. The very thought had made her see red. She was not still the needy girl she’d been when he married her!
He’d been perplexed at her brusqueness. But Ally had been too insecure still to accept his freely offered help.
And—a truth she acknowledged to no one, barely even to herself—seeing PJ with another woman, a far more suitable woman for him than she was, had made it a thousand times worse.
She’d been stiff and tense and had determinedly feigned indifference all the time they were there. And she’d only breathed a sigh of relief when she’d seen them go out the door. Her relief, though, had been short-lived.
Right before closing, PJ had returned. Alone.
He’d cornered her in one of the gallery rooms, demanding, “What the hell is wrong with you?” His normally easygoing smile was nowhere to be found.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she’d replied frostily, trying to sidestep and get around him, but he moved to block her exit.
“You know damned well what I’m talking about. So you don’t want to know me, okay. Maybe you’re too much of a hotshot now. Fine, but that’s no reason to be rude to Annie.”
“I wasn’t! I’m not—a hotshot.” Her face had burned furiously. She’d been mortified at his accusation. “I just…I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t need your help. You don’t need to keep rescuing me!”
“I’m not bloody rescuing you,” he’d snapped. “I thought you’d like the exposure. But if that’s the way you see it, fine. I’ll tell her not to write anything!”
“You can tell her what to write?” So it was true!
He’d said a rude word. “Forget it. Sorry I bothered.” He spun away and started out of the room.
But she couldn’t let him go without calling after him, “Is that all?”
He looked over his shoulder. “All? What else could there be?”
Ally’s mouth was dry. She had to force the words out. “I thought…I thought you’d be bringing the divorce papers.” She’d feared there was a quaver in her voice, but she tried not to betray it.
PJ stared at her. She met his gaze even though it was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
“No,” he said at last, his voice flat. “I don’t have any divorce papers.”
“Oh.” And there was no accounting for the foolish shiver of relief she’d felt.
Still they’d stared at each other, and then she’d dragged in a breath and shrugged. “Fine. Well, I just thought…whenever you want one, just let me know.” She’d tried to sound blasé and indifferent.
“Yeah,” PJ said. “I’ll do that.” And he’d turned and walked away.
She hadn’t seen him again, hadn’t heard from him, hadn’t contacted him—until today.
Now she said carefully, “I apologize for that. I was still trying to find my own way. I’d depended on you enough. I didn’t want another handout.”
“Is that what it was?” There was a rough edge to his voice. The cool irony of his earlier words was past.
Their gazes locked—and held—and something seemed to arc between them like an electric current.
Or rather, Ally assured herself, more like a sparkler on the Fourth of July—bright and fizzing, ultimately insubstantial—and definitely best ignored.
Determinedly she gave her head a little shake. “I’m sure that’s what it was,” she said firmly. “I shouldn’t have done it, though. Anyway, I’ve found out who I am and what I can do. And I owe it to you. So I came to say thank you belatedly and—” she reached down and picked up the portfolio she had set by her chair and opened it just as she’d rehearsed doing “—to bring you
