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My Favorite Mistake
Stephanie Bond
I, Denise Cooke, take thee, Redford DeMoss, to be my lawful husband…No, wait…I did that already–three years ago in a Vegas chapel after one too many Long Island Iced Teas. I married a hunky U.S. Marine I'd met only hours before. (The uniform did it.) The wedding night–week–was spectacular. Then Redford went back to the Gulf. And I went back to my real life as a New York City financial planner…and filed for an annulment.I'm dating Barry the TV producer these days, but I think about Redford…a lot. And now, thanks to an upcoming IRS audit, I'm about to see ex-husband again. So why am I flustered? He's probably married, and I have–um, what's his name. It's not as if Redford plans to take me back…or take me–gulp–to bed. Besides, I'd never make the same mistake twice. Not even my favorite one…




“Denise, I’m tired of beating around the bush here,” Redford said
“I want you in my bed tonight, but the choice is entirely yours.”
Desire flooded my body, rushing through my veins, awakening every nerve ending. The silence stretched between us for long seconds while my mind raced with uncertainty. “I…” I swallowed and tried again, not entirely sure what words might tumble out of my mouth. “I…excuse me.”
I escaped to the bathroom, closed the door behind me and leaned against it. I stared at myself in the mirror, touched my skin, my hair, concrete things that defined me. But what about the things I couldn’t see…those deep, dark desires that lurked in my heart? Those things defined me, too, whether I liked it or not.
I didn’t like it, knowing that my body could override my reason. But I couldn’t help but acknowledge how much I wanted Redford, how much I wanted to share his bed tonight. Worse, how much I needed to share his bed.
So with shaking hands I slipped my engagement ring from my finger and set it on the vanity. Then I opened the door, inhaled deeply and walked out into the bedroom…to my husband.


Dear Reader,
We all slip up sometime—we stumble, then recover and, hopefully, learn something in the process. But what if you can’t get over the biggest mistake of your life?
Denise Cooke married U.S. Marine Redford DeMoss three years ago in a quickie Vegas wedding after a whirlwind courtship. Their honeymoon was mind-boggling, but when Redford returned to his overseas duty and Denise returned to NYC, reality set in, and she had the marriage annulled. Except now she’s being reunited with her biggest mistake to resolve a tax issue and Redford looks better than ever…can she keep from making the same mistake twice?
Continuing with the characters I first introduced in “The Truth about Shoes and Men” on www.eHarlequin.com and in the Harlequin Temptation novel Cover Me, My Favorite Mistakeis a sexy romp about two mismatched lovers who begin to suspect that that the only thing worse than living with each other is living without each other. I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing it! Visit me at my Web site, www.stephaniebond.com. And please tell your friends about the wonderful love stories within the pages of Harlequin romance novels!
Much love and laughter,
Stephanie Bond

Stephanie Bond
My Favorite Mistake


Dear Reader,
An Evening To Remember… Those words evoke all kinds of emotions and memories. How do you plan a romantic evening with your guy that will help you get in touch with each other on every level?
Start with a great dinner that you cook together. Be sure to light several candles and put fresh flowers on the table. Enjoy a few glasses of wine and pick out your favorite music to set the mood. After dinner take the time to really talk to each other. Hold hands and snuggle on the sofa in front of the fireplace. And maybe take a few minutes to read aloud selected sexy scenes from your favorite Harlequin Blaze novel. After that, anything can happen….
That’s just one way to have an evening to remember. There are so many more. Write and tell us how you keep the spark in your relationship. And don’t forget to check out our Web site at www.eHarlequin.com.
Sincerely,
Birgit Davis-Todd
Executive Editor
This book is dedicated to the memory of
Cheryl Anne Porter, a sister Harlequin writer
who could light up a room with her smile
and leave your ribs aching from laughing.
You will be missed, Cheryl.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue

1
“THIS IS A MISTAKE,” I said, suddenly panicked by the horde of women pushing at me from all sides. In the minutes just prior to Filene’s Basement “running of the brides,” the crowd was getting hostile, all elbows and bared teeth.
Next to me, my friend Cindy turned her head and scowled. “Denise Cooke, you can’t back out now—I’m counting on you!” The normally demure Cindy Hamilton shoved a woman standing next to her to make room to reach into her shoulder bag. “Here, put on this headband so we can spot each other once we get in there.”
I sighed and reached for the neon pink headband. It wasn’t as if I could look more ridiculous—I was already freezing and humiliated standing there in my yoga leotard (the Web-site-recommended uniform for trying on bridal gowns in the aisles). February in New York did not lend itself to leotards—I was numb from my V-neck down. “This is a lot of trouble for a discounted wedding gown when you’re not even engaged,” I grumbled.
“This was your idea, Miss Penny Pincher,” Cindy reminded me.
That was true. I was helping Cindy with her Positive Thinking 101 class, and her assignment was to prepare for an event with the idea being that it would then become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Since Cindy wanted to be married more than anything else in the world, she’d decided to buy a wedding gown. Cheapskate that I am (an investment broker-slash-financial planner, actually), I had suggested Filene’s biannual bridal event for a good deal.
So here we were at seven-thirty on a cold Saturday morning, poised with oh, about eight or nine hundred other freezing leotard-clad women, waiting for the doors of Filene’s to be hurled open. There were a few identifiable teams with members wearing identical hats or T-shirts. Like me, they were friends who had been commandeered to grab as many dresses as possible from the clearance racks, thereby increasing the odds of the bride-to-be getting a gown she wanted.
“Remember,” Cindy said, her eyes as serious as an NFL coach dispensing plays, “strapless or spaghetti straps, with a princess waistline—white is my first choice, but I’m willing to go as far left as light taupe. I need a size ten, but I can work with a twelve.”
I nodded curtly. “Got it.”
“If you find a gown that might work, put it on so no one can grab it out of your hands.”
I swallowed and nodded again, suddenly apprehensive.
“And who knows,” Cindy added with a grin. “You might find a dress that you’ll want to keep for yourself.”
I frowned. “Barry and I haven’t even talked about getting married.”
“Good grief, you’ve been dating for two years—he’s going to propose someday, and then you’ll already have a dress. It’s practical.”
I started to say it was presumptuous, then remembered why Cindy was there and clamped my mouth shut. Barry was…great, but I couldn’t see myself getting married…again.
Like every time I remembered my last-minute and short-lived Las Vegas marriage to Sergeant Redford DeMoss, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. My first marriage was one of those events in my life that I wanted to expunge from my memory, like a stupid teenage stunt…except I hadn’t been a stupid teenager—I had been a stupid adult. In the three years since my marriage to and subsequent annulment from Redford, I had managed to block the incident from my mind for the most part. But since two of my best friends, Jacki and Kenzie, had recently gotten married and my last single friend, Cindy, seemed hell-bent on doing the same, the memories of my incredible wedding night had been popping into my head at the strangest moments—I couldn’t seem to outrun them.
Someone behind me stepped on my heel, scraping it raw. I winced, not sure how I was going to outrun this dogged bunch, either.
“They’re opening the doors,” Cindy announced excitedly.
A cheer rose from the crowd and everyone lurched forward collectively. The two security guards unlocking the doors looked as frightened as I felt. When the doors were flung open, self-preservation kicked in—I had to match the pace of the crowd or be trampled. I squeezed through the double doors and ran for the escalator, my heart pounding in my chest. The escalator was instantly jammed, and everyone still clambered upward, some screaming as if we were all vying for front row seats at a rock concert. At the top of the escalator, we spilled onto the second floor where several freestanding racks bulged with pouf dresses. I had no idea where Cindy was and I hesitated, not sure where to begin.
Women stampeded by me in a blur and began yanking dresses by the armfuls from the rack. It was a locust swarm. I realized I was going to miss out if I didn’t move quickly. Cindy’s order of “strapless or spaghetti straps” vanished in the wake of the disappearing gowns. I grabbed whatever I could get my hands on, draping the gowns over my shoulders until I could barely see or hear past the mounds of rustling fabric.
Within one minute, the racks had been picked clean. As if on cue, everyone began trying on dresses where they stood, stripping to their underwear and in some cases, even further, heedless of the male salesclerks and security guards milling about. Keeping an eye out for a neon pink headband, I sorted through my spoils like a lion protecting its kill.
I had managed to snare a white satin gown with cap sleeves, size fourteen; an off-white long-sleeved lacy number with a straight skirt, size twenty; a pinkish Gibson-girl design with bishop sleeves, size twelve; a dark beige high-neck gown with an embroidered bodice, size four; and a creamy halter-style gown with a pearl-studded skirt, size ten. My shoulders fell in disappointment—I had struck out for Cindy.
Although…the halter-style gown was actually quite nice. I peered at the designer label and my eyebrows shot up—really nice. Then I peered at the price tag and my eyebrows practically flew off my head—a $2000 gown reduced to $249? Cindy would be crazy not to buy this dress, even if it wasn’t exactly what she was looking for. While juggling the other gowns, I stepped into the halter dress and twisted to zip it up in the back, then smoothed a hand over the skirt, reveling in the nubby texture of the seed pearls. Longing welled in my heart, surprising me, because I was the most no-nonsense person I knew—a dress couldn’t possibly have any power over me.
“That’s perfect on you,” said a salesclerk next to me.
“Oh, I’m helping a friend of mine,” I replied quickly.
“Pity,” the woman said, nodding toward a mirrored column a few feet away.
I glanced around, looking for Cindy in the frenzied mob, then reasoned I might as well walk past the mirror on my way to find her. I moseyed over and stopped dead in my tracks.
Even over the leotard the dress was dazzling, and for a few seconds, I felt dazzling—my makeup-free face and dark blond, disheveled ponytail notwithstanding. For my quickie Vegas wedding, I’d worn a “What Happens Here, Stays Here” T-shirt, which in hindsight, had been a big red flag to my state of mind. I’d told myself a hundred times that it wouldn’t have mattered if Redford and I had been married in a lavish church ceremony with all the trimmings; but now, looking at myself in the mirror wearing this glorious gown, I had to admit that the right wardrobe would have lent a touch of sophistication to the surreal occasion.
If I ever married again, I would wear this dress…or something like it.
“Do you have any size sixteens?” a girl yelled in my face. “I need a size sixteen!”
I shook my head, then realized that all around me, women were bartering unwanted gowns, some hoisting signs heralding their size. I relinquished the size four to a peanut-sized woman, and during the hand-off, the rest of my bounty was ripped from my arms by circling gown-vultures. I was still reeling when Cindy skidded to a stop in front of me.
“There you are!” she shrieked over the melee. “I found my dress!”
Indeed, over her leotard she wore a sweet, strapless white satin gown with a princess waistline. Laughing like a child, she twirled, sending the full skirt billowing around her.
“It’s perfect,” I agreed. The dress was perfect for Cindy’s cherubic beauty, but I felt a pang of sadness as I glanced down at the halter dress I wore…it would have to be sacrificed to the vortex of bargain-hunting brides, which had, if anything, increased in intensity as latecomers descended on the leftovers and another round of frantic stealing and swapping ensued.
Cindy stopped twirling and stared at me. “Wow, that dress looks awesome on you.”
I flushed. “I was just trying it on…for you. It was the closest thing I could find.”
Cindy’s blue eyes bugged. “You should keep it, Denise. If Barry got a look at you in that dress, he’d fall on his knees and beg you to marry him.”
I laughed. “Right.” Barry had never been on his knees in my presence—to propose or do anything else—but I had to admit, I was tempted.
A flushed, middle-aged woman stopped and looked me up and down. “Are you going to keep that dress?” Without waiting for an answer, she proceeded to pick up the fabric of the skirt to scrutinize the pearls.
A proprietary feeling came over and I firmly removed her hand from my—er, the dress. “I haven’t decided.”
The woman glared at my bare left hand. “My daughter Sylvie already has a wedding date.”
I frowned. “So?”
“So,” the woman snapped, “what good will that dress do you hanging in your closet?”
She was testy, but she had a very good point, especially considering the fact that I’d been lamenting only yesterday how small my closet was. Still, what business was it of hers if the dress hung in my cramped closet until it dry-rotted? (A distinct possibility.)
Cindy stepped up and crossed her arms. “My friend is going to get married again someday.” Cindy still harbored lingering guilt over my impromptu marriage—she blamed herself for getting the flu and leaving me to spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas by myself. Otherwise, I might not have fallen under Redford’s illicit spell.
“Again? Someday?” The lady snorted and her body language clearly said that women who didn’t get it right the first time around didn’t deserve a production the second time around. Another good point. I had blown it the first time I’d walked down the aisle—well, okay, to be morbidly honest I hadn’t “walked down the aisle.” I was married in a chapel drive-through, which, in my defense, had seemed the most economical route at the time.
My groom, who I barely knew, was a gorgeous officer on leave. And the spontaneous marriage had been prompted by intense physical chemistry (Redford was rather spectacularly endowed), and perhaps a bit of misplaced patriotism that I had mistaken for love. It was one of the oldest clichés in the book—an observation which, I realized ruefully, was also a cliché. The biggest mistake of my life was redundant. Ridiculously, tears pooled in my eyes.
Cindy gaped at me. I never cried…ever.
“There, there,” the older woman said, and actually patted my arm. “You’ll feel better once you take off that dress.”
Cindy drew herself up. “Keep moving, lady—the dress is ours.”
The woman huffed and stalked away, head pivoting, presumably looking for other women she could provoke to tears.
Mortified, I blinked like mad to rid my eyes of the moisture. “I don’t know…what happened.”
“Never mind,” Cindy said in her best-friend voice. “Let’s go pay for our dresses.”
I shook my head. “I can’t buy a wedding dress, Cindy.”
“Of course you can…everyone knows you have a fortune squirreled away from clipped coupons and rebates.”
I had a reputation among my friends for being, shall I say, “thrifty.” “I don’t mean I can’t afford it. I mean I…I don’t think I’ll ever get married…again.” But if that were true, why hadn’t I simply handed over the dress to the pushy woman?
Cindy shrugged. “Fine. If you still feel that way in six months, sell the dress on eBay. Knowing you, you’ll probably make money on it.”
I bit my lower lip. Cindy was right—even if I took the dress home, no one was going to stick a gun to my head and make me get married. Barry seemed to be as leery of walking down the aisle as I was. Although if one day Barry got the urge…
I almost laughed out loud—Barry wasn’t the “urge getting” kind of guy. He was just as methodical and nonsensical as I was, which explained how we had contentedly dated off and on for the past two years without the drama that most couples endure. I was lucky. Luck-eee.
“It’s a great deal,” Cindy urged in a singsongy voice.
I looked at the price tag and wavered at the sight of the red slash through the original price of $2000 and replaced with the hastily-scrawled $249. I loved red slashes. It’s a great deal. And I probably could turn around and sell the dress on eBay for a profit. In fact, I might make enough to surprise Barry with plane tickets for a vacation. He’d been wanting to go to Vegas, and I’d been resistant, for reasons that now seem childish…
As childish as me standing here obsessing about buying a gown simply because it resurrected too many memories…? Memories a wedding dress might exorcise…?
“Okay,” I said impulsively. “I’ll take it.”
Cindy clapped her hands, then stopped, as if she were afraid that her celebrating would change my mind, and herded me toward the checkout counter.
Only later, when a gushing salesclerk handed me the gown, bagged and paid for, was I seized by a sudden, unnerving thought:
What if Cindy’s “self-fulfilling prophecy” experiment rubbed off on me?

2
THE WHOLE “self-fulfilling prophecy” thing was still nagging at me when I got home and I realized I would have to get rid of something in order to make room for my impulsive purchase. Buyer’s remorse struck me hard and I cursed my weakness for a good buy. To punish myself, I laid out the brown suede fringed coat I had splurged on last spring but rarely wore, plus a pair of rivet-studded jeans and a white embroidered shirt that had seemed exotic in the store, but smacked of a costume when I stood before the full-length mirror in my bathroom. I had never worked up the nerve to wear the outfit. As much as I loved the pieces, it seemed unlikely that the urban Western look was going to come back in style anytime soon, and if it did, I obviously couldn’t carry it off. But my friend Kenzie could, and since she now lived part-time on a farm in upstate New York, she would probably find a way to wear them and look smashing.
Looking for other things that Kenzie might wear, I unearthed a sweater with running horses on it that Redford had given me and, after a moment of sentimental indecision, added it to the giveaway bag, as well. Then I hung the wedding gown in the front of the closet because it was the only place the skirt could hang unimpeded by bulging shoe racks.
The phone rang, and I snatched up the handset, wondering who it could be on Saturday afternoon. (I was too cheap to pay for caller ID on my landline phone.) “Hello.”
“Hey,” Barry said, his voice low and casual. “What are you doing?”
I dropped onto my queen-size bed whose headboard still smelled faintly of woodsmoke two years after the fire sale at which I’d bought it. “Just cleaning out my closet.”
“I have good news,” he said in a way that made me think that if I’d said, “I just bought a wedding gown,” he wouldn’t even have noticed.
I worked my mouth from side to side. “What?”
“I just passed Ellen in the hall—you really bowled her over at lunch yesterday.”
I sat up, interested. Barry was a producer for one of New York City’s local TV stations, and Ellen Brant was the station manager. Barry had referred her to me for financial advice on her divorce. Over lunch I had listened while she had told me the entire sordid story about her cheating husband, while she downed four eighteen-dollar martinis. “But he was a rich son of a-bitch,” she’d slurred. “And now I have an effing—” (I’m paraphrasing) “—boatload of money to invest.”
When she’d told me the amount of money she was talking about, it was more like an effing yacht- load (although at the end of the evening she hadn’t made a move to pay the slightly obscene bar bill). Grey Goose vodka had bowled her over. I honestly didn’t think she’d remember my name…or even my sex, for that matter.
I wet my lips carefully, trying to keep my excitement at bay. “Do you think she’ll open an account at Trayser Brothers?”
“I’m almost sure of it. You’re still coming to the honors dinner tonight, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss seeing you get your award.”
“I might not win,” he chided.
I pshawed, supportive girlfriend that I was.
“Ellen will be there. I’ll try to pull her aside and feel her out,” he promised.
I was flattered—Barry had never been keenly interested in my profession, but then most people were vaguely suspicious of investment-types, as if we hoarded all the moneymaking secrets for ourselves, while collectively laughing at everyone who trusted us. (Not true—I was currently poor and working toward precisely what I advised all my clients to do: buy your apartment sooner rather than later.) But, Ellen’s boatload of money notwithstanding, I felt obligated to point out the potential pitfalls of advising my boyfriend’s boss on financial matters. “Barry, you know I appreciate the referral, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, Ellen is your boss. I don’t want this to be a conflict of interest for you.”
He gave a little laugh. “Gee, Denise, it’s not as if you and I are married.”
Ouch. I glanced at the wedding gown, barely contained by the closet, and my face flamed. “I know, but we’re…involved.”
“Trust me—it won’t be an issue. In fact, Ellen will be indebted to me for introducing her to you. This could turn out great for both of us.”
“Okay,” I said cheerfully, pushing aside my reservations.
So help me, dollar signs were dancing behind my eyelids. I could picture the look on old Mr. Trayser’s face when I announced in the Monday morning staff meeting that I’d just landed an eight-figure account. “Partner” didn’t seem as far-fetched as it had last week…or at least an office with a window.
“What’s the dress code for this evening?”
He made a rueful noise. “Dressy. And Ellen is a bit of a clotheshorse. I’m not saying it’ll make a difference…”
“But it might,” I finished, my cheeks warming when I remembered the woman’s critical glance over my aged navy suit and serviceable pumps yesterday. I wasn’t exactly famous for my style—my most trendy clothes were season-old steals from designer outlets. I was more of an off-the-rack kind of girl, and I didn’t relish running up my credit card for a one-night outfit. But drastic times called for plastic measures. “I’ll find something nice,” I promised.
“I know you’ll make me look good.”
I blinked—Barry considered me a reflection on him? That was serious couple-stuff…wasn’t it? I straightened with pride at his compliment.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Great,” I said. “Oh, and thanks…Barry…for the recommendation.” We had never quite graduated to pet names and as tempted as I was to say “sweetie” or “hon,” I decided that while he was hooking me up with a revenue stream with his boss, this might not be the best time to start getting gushy.
“Anything for you,” he said, then hung up.
I smiled, but when I disconnected the phone, panic immediately set in—I had two pimples from last week’s peanut M&M’s binge, and my nails were a wreck. It would be next to impossible to get a manicure at the last minute on Saturday.
I jumped up and whirled into action. After a shower, I dialed the cell phone of my friend Kenzie Mansfield Long, who was the most stylish person I knew; although I wasn’t sure if she’d have service in the rural area of the state where she lived on weekends.
“Hello?” she sang into the receiver.
“Hi, it’s Denise. I was taking a chance on reaching you—you have service now?”
“A tower just went up on the next ridge. Jar Hollow officially has cellular service.”
“Did Sam arrange that just for you?” I asked with a laugh. Her doting veterinarian husband was doing everything in his power to make country living more bearable for his city-bred wife, à la Lisa in Green Acres.
“The service isn’t just for me,” Kenzie protested. “It’s for the entire town. And it helps me and Sam to stay in touch when we’re apart during the week.”
At the mischievous note in my friend’s voice, I had the feeling that phone sex supplemented the couple’s seemingly insatiable lust for each other. Kenzie’s—or should I say Sam’s—homemade dildo cast from the real, um, thing was infamous among our circle of friends. After seeing it, I could barely make eye contact with the man. In fact, it was that darn dildo that had resurrected my fantasies of Redford. He had been an amazing specimen of virility and, um…dimension.
Okay, the man was hung like a stallion…not that I’d ever seen a stallion’s penis, but word on the street was that the equine species was gifted in that department. The fact that Redford’s family in Kentucky was in the horse business had burned the association even deeper into my depraved brain.
No, I wasn’t jealous of Kenzie’s relationship with Sam…most of the time. I had known great, mind-blowing lust with Redford, but our relationship had burned out as quickly as a cheap candle. Barry, on the other hand, was no dynamo in bed, but he had staying power in other areas.
His IRA account was a whopper.
“How was the ‘running of the brides’?” Kenzie asked, breaking into my strange musings. “Did Cindy find a gown?”
“Yes,” I said, then decided to ’fess up before Cindy told on me. “And I, um, bought a gown, too.”
There was silence on the other end, then, “Barry proposed?”
“No,” I said quickly, feeling like an idiot. “But I thought, you know, if ever….well…the dress was dirt cheap,” I finished lamely.
“Ah,” Kenzie said. “A bargain—now I understand. Well, one of these days, Barry is bound to come around. Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, you know.”
“Subject change. I called because I have a style emergency.” I explained about the honors dinner and my desire to wow Ellen Brant and her pocketbook with my stunning sense of fashion. “Any suggestions?”
“You could wear your wedding gown,” Kenzie said, then cracked up laughing.
“I’m hanging up.”
“I’m kidding. Gee, lighten up.” Then she snapped her fingers. “I saw the cutest striped dress in the window of Benderlee’s, and I remember thinking it would look smashing on you.”
“Will it smash the credit line on my VISA card?”
“Probably, but think of it as an investment.” She laughed. “Knowing you, you’ll think of a way to write the dress off on your taxes as a business expense.”
“Ha, ha.”
“I’m not kidding—I can’t believe how much Sam and I are getting back on our taxes this year, thanks to you. If you ever decide to go into tax preparation, I want to invest.”
I laughed. “Thanks.”
“And go to Nordstrom’s for shoes. Ask for Lito, tell him I sent you.”
My shoulders fell. “Okay.”
“And tell me you’re not going to wear your hair in a ponytail.”
I squinted. “I’m not going to wear my hair in a ponytail?”
“For goodness’ sake, Denise, loosen up. Your ponytail is so tight, it’s a wonder you don’t have an aneurysm.”
My friends were good at reminding me that I was a tight ass. And a tightwad. “I’m loose,” I argued, rolling my shoulders in my best imitation of a “groove”—until my neck popped painfully. I grimaced—was it possible to break your own neck?
“Wear your hair down and buy a pair of chandelier earrings.”
“You think?”
“I was under the impression that you called for my advice.”
“I did.”
“You want this woman’s business, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you gotta do what you gotta do.”
I sighed. “You’re right.”
“So…Barry set you up to do business with his boss,” she said in a singsongy tone. “Maybe it’s a good thing you bought that wedding gown. It sounds like he’s thinking long-term.”
I glanced at the dress I had so foolishly purchased and gave a nervous little laugh. “Or maybe he’s trying to suck up to his boss.”
“Hmm. Sounds like someone needs to take a lesson from Cindy in positive thinking.”
I thanked Kenzie for her help, then hung up with a cleansing exhale. Kenzie was right—I should be grateful for the opportunity that Barry had made for me, instead of questioning his motives. I was letting my frustration with our lackluster sex life color other aspects of our relationship. It was embarrassing, really—I was an intelligent woman. I had proof that elements other than sex were more important to a successful long-term, um…association. Financial compatibility, for instance. Sex waned over time. But dividend reinvestment stock plans were forever.
A sudden thought prompted me to pick up the phone and order two plane tickets to Las Vegas for a long weekend as a Valentine’s Day surprise for Barry. When I hung up, I heaved a sigh, feeling much better. Then I slanted a frown toward my bedroom.
I was suffering from a bad case of the all-overs, and the culprit was taking up too much room in my closet. I was already letting that ridiculous wedding gown interfere with our relationship, and for no good reason. Barry needn’t ever know what I’d done. Tomorrow I’d put that sucker on eBay and be rid of it for good.
Er—the dress, not Barry.

3
KENZIE WAS RIGHT—the dress in Benderlee’s window looked better on me than the average frock, so I bought it despite the breathtaking price. And Lito at Nordstrom’s had hooked me up with a pair of shoes with an equally stunning price tag. If I wore them every day for the rest of my life, I might get my money’s worth out of them. Throwing caution to the wind, I had also bought a chic gray wool coat. I left my hair long and loose, which made me feel a little unkempt, but I have to admit I was feeling rather spiffy when Barry arrived. I opened the door with a coy smile.
He looked polished and professional in a navy suit, striped tie, not a pale blond hair out of place. “Ready to go?” he asked, then pointed to his watch. “Traffic is a nightmare.”
My smile slipped. “I…yes.”
“Good, because I’d hate to be late.”
Barry wasn’t the most attentive man I’d ever known, but tonight he seemed unusually preoccupied. Then I realized he was probably more anxious about the award for which he’d been nominated than he wanted to let on. Indeed, on the drive to the hotel, he checked his watch at least a hundred times, his expression pinched. And he seemed to be coming down with a cold since he sneezed several times. To see my normally calm, collected boyfriend so fidgety moved me. I reached over to squeeze his hand. “Relax. I hope you have a thank-you speech prepared.”
He smiled sheepishly. “I made a few notes…just in case.”
I instantly forgave him for not noticing how fabulous I looked. Besides, I reminded myself, I had dressed for Ellen Brant, and as luck would have it, we were seated at her table for the awards ceremony. In fact, by some bizarre shuffling of bodies and chairs, she wound up sitting between us. The woman was so cosmopolitan, even in my new clothes I felt gauche. I raised my finger for a nervous nibble on my nail, and tasted the bitter tang of fresh nail polish…a do-it-myself manicure was the best I could manage under the circumstances.
“Denise, your dress is divine,” she murmured over her martini glass.
“Thank you,” I said, taking my finger out of my mouth and sitting up straighter.
“She’s smart and fashionable,” Ellen said to Barry for my benefit. “I like this girl.”
“She’s dependable, too,” Barry said. “And loyal.”
I managed to conceal my surprise at his bizarre statement. Until I realized that to Ellen, recently betrayed by her husband, loyalty was essential. So on cue, I nodded like a puppy dog.
Ellen pursed her collagen-plumped lips. “Denise, why don’t you call me next week and we’ll go over the paperwork for that investment account.”
“Okay,” I said in a voice that belied my excitement. If Ellen opened an account at Trayser Brothers, I’d be able to pay off my outfit and buy my apartment. Plus a new bed that didn’t reek of woodsmoke. A closet organization system. Caller ID.
I could scarcely eat I was so wound up. I tried to contribute to the conversation, but Ellen and Barry were soon absorbed in television-speak, and I thought it best not to intrude. Barry was, after all, hoping for a promotion, and Ellen would drive that decision. Instead, I chatted with other people seated at the table, spurred to a higher degree of socialization than usual by the open bar. Happily, the evening was topped off by a slightly tipsy Ellen presenting Barry with the award for excellence in producing that was acknowledged in the industry as a precursor to the Emmy.
For his part, Barry was the most excited I’d ever seen him—which was no compliment to me, I realized suddenly. But I postponed an untimely (and uncomfortable) analysis of our love life by clapping wildly. I told myself it was okay that he didn’t name me personally in his thank-you speech, a fact that he seemed truly distressed over later when we were in the car.
“I forgot my notes and I went completely blank,” he said in the semi-darkness, his hands on the steering wheel at the ten and two positions—he was a fastidious driver. “I’m sorry, Denise. You’re the one who’s had to put up with my long hours and my traveling.”
“It’s fine,” I murmured. “I’m just so proud of you. And I know Ellen is impressed.”
He made a dismissive noise, but was clearly pleased. Then he winced. “Oh, by the way, Ellen asked me tonight to be in L.A. Monday morning.”
My good mood wedged in my throat. His travel to the West Coast had become more frequent in the past couple of months—in the wee hours of the morning, I wondered if something other than work drew him there. After all, if I wasn’t thrilled with our sex life, he probably wasn’t, either. “How long will you be gone?”
“Two weeks, maybe three.”
“That’s almost a month,” I said, hating the way I sounded—horny.
“No, it isn’t,” he said with a practicality that did not put me at ease.
“You’ll miss Valentine’s Day.”
He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Denise. Right now I have to focus on this promotion. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Want to spend the night?” I asked, not caring that I was being transparent.
He looked over at me and laughed. “Sure.”
I smiled all the way home, determined that tonight Barry and I would have great, boisterous sex. I might even pull out some of the tricks that Redford had taught me that I’d never shared with anyone else. I had shaved my legs to get ready for the dinner, so nothing was holding me back.
Unfortunately, we drove straight into a traffic jam in midtown that left us in gridlock. After thirty minutes had passed with no movement, I began to dwell on Barry’s comment that I was dependable…and loyal. He made me sound like a cocker spaniel.
I studied his profile, noting how preoccupied he was, and realized abruptly that we had fallen into a serious rut. No wonder we’d never talked about marriage—we rarely saw each other and we rarely had sex.
For all intents and purposes, we were already married.
Feeling rebellious, I ran my fingers through my loose hair and whispered, “We could have sex right here.”
Barry looked over at me with a shocked expression, then laughed nervously and gestured to the cars around his silver Lexus. “Are you crazy? We’d be arrested for indecent exposure. A stunt like that would mean my job, Denise.”
I pulled back, humiliated at my own behavior. He was right, of course. The network’s top female anchor had gone out drinking one night and performed a topless dance at a bar where at least one handheld video camera had been rolling, and everyone had been put on notice. Barry couldn’t jeopardize his job just because I was feeling neglected. So we listened to National Public Radio and chatted about the evening.
“You seemed to be having a good time talking to everyone,” Barry said. “Everyone thought you were great. Everyone loves you, Denise.”
Something in his voice made me turn my head to look at him in the semi-darkness. He’d spoken with a sort of wistfulness when he’d said “everyone loves you,” as if everyone else saw something he didn’t. I waited for clarification, but Barry simply scanned the traffic, tapping his finger on the steering wheel to a jazzy song floating from the speakers.
I was imagining things. Barry loved me. He hadn’t changed—I had. More specifically, that stupid wedding dress had made me paranoid.
And reflective.
Because the wedding dress had made me confront the possibility of marrying Barry…was it something I wanted? And if not, then what was the purpose of our being together? Companionship? An occasional sexual release? Were we merely a pit stop for each other on the way to…something else? I was suddenly seized by the feeling that I was looking at someone I’d known for years. Yet…did I really know him?
In hindsight, I’d known little about Redford when I’d married him—beyond his sexual prowess. A sudden stab of desire struck my midsection, but I closed my eyes against it.
During those few days with Redford in Las Vegas, I had been a different person, wanton and hedonistic…a bona fide nymphomaniac. I don’t know what had come over me…okay, admittedly, Redford had come over me a few times, but I digress. My parents—especially my mother—would be appalled if they knew how I had behaved during that time, and my girlfriends would be shocked. I could scarcely think of it myself without being overcome with shame—nice girls didn’t do the things I’d done with Redford. Especially after knowing the man for mere hours.
At the time, I’d thought that Redford DeMoss, with his chiseled good looks, military manners and tantric sex sessions was the most exotic creature I’d ever encountered. I’d only dated city boys who were competitive and frenzied. Redford’s easy confidence and sexual aura had literally knocked me off my feet. Only later, after I’d returned to New York, did I admit to myself that everything that came out of his sensual mouth—words about down-home cookin’, home-grown lovin’ and small-town livin’—came straight out of a country song. He’d been playing a part—hell, we both had. It was a love-at-first-sight fantasy. We’d had no business getting married.
“Denise?”
I blinked myself back to the present and stared at Barry, who was staring at me. “Huh?”
He frowned and rubbed one of his eyes. “I asked if I left any of my allergy medicine at your place. If not, maybe we should backtrack to my apartment.”
While I had been winding down memory lane, the traffic had begun to unravel. I was suddenly eager to get home—to my cozy apartment, not to Barry’s sterile condo. “You left your toiletry bag at my place when you came back from L.A. Are your allergies acting up?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding toward my new coat. “I think it’s the wool.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem,” he said. “By the way, I noticed your new outfit. Good job.”
“Thank you,” I said, unsure whether or not he’d just paid me a compliment.
He squinted in my direction. “Did you cut your hair?”
“Um, no…I left it down.”
“Oh. It looks…mussed. It’s a different look for you.”
I laughed. “I guess you’ll feel like you’re making love to a different woman tonight.”
“Yeah.” Except he didn’t laugh.
While I pondered my state of mind and general mental health, Barry’s cell phone rang—a crisis at the station—and he remained on the call through parking the car near my apartment, the walk thereto, and the walk therein, rubbing his watery eyes intermittently. Still talking, he headed for the bathroom, presumably in search of his allergy medicine. I scooped up the mail that had been pushed through the door slot and tossed it on the end table, then went to the kitchen to fix coffee for endurance (I was still feeling optimistic).
Listening to the distant murmur of Barry’s voice, I watched the coffee drip and gave myself a stern pep talk (no fantasizing about other men—i.e., Redford—while making love this time), and, to my credit, I’d managed to work up a pretty good lust by the time I carried a tray with two cups of coffee to the bedroom.
Not that it mattered. Barry lay sprawled across the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his cell phone closed in his limp hand. His toiletry bag lay open next to him—the allergy medicine had apparently kicked in rather quickly. I retraced my steps to the living room and drowned my disappointment in my coffee, which was a mistake, since it left me wide awake.
I found a grainy old movie on television and settled back with a cushion across my stomach. But my mind, as it is wont to do in the wee hours, spun into isolated corners of my psyche, stirring up depressing questions. Was Barry the one, or was I simply pinning all my expectations on him and our sexual friendship? Was my soul mate still out there somewhere, waiting for me to materialize? And the most depressing question of all: What if Redford DeMoss had been my one true love?
I brought the cushion to my face and exhaled into it. I knew I had hit rock-bottom lonely when I started thinking about Redford. He was a brief, distant episode in my life…a mistake. The speedy annulment only spared us both more grief and circumvented the inevitable split when he returned from the Gulf. And for me, it helped to gloss over the humiliation of having married someone like Redford. We were such polar opposites, and a quickie marriage in Las Vegas was so, so unlike me. At hearing the news, my friends had been, in a word, stunned. No—flabbergasted would be a more apt description. And my sweet, loving parents who lived in Florida…well, I’d never quite gotten around to telling them.
Similarly, there had never been a good time to tell Barry.
My face burned just thinking about it…and Redford. He had been insatiable in bed, with the endurance of a marathoner. I cast a glance toward the bedroom where the sound of Barry’s soft snores escaped, and felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t fair to him that I compared the two of them in that regard. Redford had been on leave from the Gulf—he probably would’ve humped a picket fence. Although if we hadn’t bumped into each other, he would’ve had no problem finding another willing partner. A compelling figure in his dress blues, Redford had oozed sex appeal—in and out of uniform. I closed my eyes, recalling my first memory of him.
I had been standing in line to check in to the Paradisio hotel in Vegas, fretting over Cindy’s late arrival, when a tall, lone officer had walked in. He must have drawn all the energy from the room, because I remember suddenly having trouble breathing. The manager had offered him expedited service to circumvent the long line, but Redford had refused special treatment. I couldn’t take my eyes off him—his broad shoulders had filled the uniform jacket, his posture proud, but his expression relaxed and friendly. My body had vibrated as if I’d been strummed, every cell had strained toward him. He’d caught me looking and winked. Mortified at my uncharacteristic behavior, I’d looked away. But later, we had found each other again.
And again…and again…and again…
I gave myself a shake to dispel my destructive train of thought. Great sex did not a relationship make—as evidenced by my short-lived marriage.
Forcing my mind elsewhere, I picked up my mail from the end table, hoping the caffeine would wear off soon.
There were lots of credit card offers, which I immediately ripped into small pieces, just as I advised my clients to do. There was an appointment reminder from my OB/GYN for a few weeks from now—yippee. There were bills, of course, and several useless catalogs. There was a thank-you note from Kenzie and Sam for a gift I’d sent for their log cabin in upstate New York. A postcard from my folks from their seniors’ tour in England—they were having a good time, although Dad missed cold beer. And there was a long manila envelope—I squinted—from the Internal Revenue Service?
I studied the address: Mr. and Mrs. Redford DeMoss. My heart lurched crazily, followed by relief. This was obviously some sort of mistake. Redford and I had filed taxes once because our abbreviated marriage had spanned the end of a calendar year. I had filled out the forms myself because I’d wanted to make sure they were done properly (and economically).
Still, my hands were unsteady as I tore open the envelope, and slid out the letter written on heavy bonded paper. I skimmed the words, barely seeing the print. I was familiar with the form letter—in my line of work as a financial planner, I’d seen this same letter dozens of times, only not directed toward me.
Redford and I, it seemed, were being audited.

4
FOR AN HOUR I WAS NUMB. Alternately I stared at and reread the IRS letter commanding me and Redford to appear ten days hence, bearing proof that the joint return we’d filed three years ago was accurate as it pertained to a couple of items—primarily our income and the deductions we’d taken.
Or rather, the deductions I had taken. It had been the time frame when I was getting my financial planning business off the ground and, admittedly, I had taken some rather aggressive deductions regarding a home office. I chewed one home-manicured fingernail to the quick, then began to gnaw on a second. The fact that I was being audited by the IRS would not be perceived as a plus by my employer, or among my clients and potential clients. Ellen Brant, for instance, wouldn’t take kindly to the news. Barry—
My heart skipped a beat or two or three. Oh, God, what was I going to tell Barry about Redford?
Barry, there’s a tiny detail about my past I keep forgetting to mention…
Barry, you’re not going to believe this…
Barry, want to hear something funny?
Nausea rolled in my stomach. I couldn’t tell him about my annulled marriage now—he’d think I was only telling him because I had to.
Which was true, but still…
No, I’d have to be careful to keep this audit business under wraps. I paced and hummed to keep the panic at bay, my mind racing for a way out of the mess I’d landed in.
Suddenly I brightened: Barry would be in L.A. for two, maybe three weeks. By the time he returned to New York, the situation with Redford would be put to bed—er, put to rest.
If I were very, very careful, I’d come out of this situation unscathed.
I rubbed my roiling stomach. As if the secrecy and the possibility of being slapped with a fine or a penalty wasn’t enough to give me a bleeding ulcer, there was the thought of being reunited with Redford.
Would he come to Manhattan? Then I scoffed—of course he’d come if he were Stateside. Under order of the IRS, he had to come. Probably with a new, young wife in tow, and maybe even a kidlet or two. They’d make it a family vacation—see the Met, the Statue of Liberty, the ex-wife.
Although, in truth, I wasn’t really his ex-wife because the annulment meant I’d never been his wife. The potential complications swirled in my head, overridden by one gut-clenching question—had Redford thought about me since our annulment?
Annulment. Our marriage had been such an egregious mistake, it had to be indelibly erased. I eased onto the edge of a straight-back chair, remembering how overwhelmed I’d felt when I’d filed those papers. When I’d first arrived back in New York, I had still been awash with my lust for Redford, wistful and optimistic and certain we’d be able to work through any obstacles to be together. He would visit me in New York when he had leave from the Gulf and when he returned to his station in North Carolina. Then I would join him on his family horse farm in Kentucky when he retired from the Marine Corps in a couple of years. With his vision and my financial know-how, we’d grow the business exponentially. He’d made everything seem so…possible. I had been buoyed by the light of adventure in his eyes and blinded by the promises in his lovemaking.
But doubts about our relationship had set in almost immediately. I’d felt isolated and alone. He had warned me it might be weeks before he could call me or e-mail, and since none of my girlfriends had been with me in Vegas, I had no one to reassure me that I hadn’t imagined my and Redford’s feelings toward each other. Indeed, when I’d announced I’d gotten married, they all thought I was joking—sensible, down-to-earth Denise would never marry a virtual stranger in Vegas. Had I gone completely mad?
I didn’t even like horses.
When I started thinking about how little I knew about Redford and how much longer he would be in the Marines, my doubts had snowballed. His comment about not being able to communicate with me had seemed lame. But it was the article that appeared in the newspaper a few days later that had pushed me over the edge: G.I.’s Desperate To Say “I Do.”
I would never forget that headline. The story went on to describe how soldiers on leave from the Middle East conflict were driven to marry the first willing girl they met because they were afraid they wouldn’t come home, and eager to have someone waiting for them if they did. Not surprising, the story went on to say, the divorce and annulment rates for those speedy marriages were astronomical. The women were portrayed as desperate in their own right—caught up in their desire to attach themselves to an alpha male out of social loyalty and the pursuit of cinematic romanticism.
Cinematic romanticism. According to the article, I wasn’t in love with Redford—I was in love with the idea of Redford. Which explained why I would have fallen for someone who was so polar opposite to me, so radically different from the “type” of guy I usually dated…and so quickly. Over the next few days, I had come to the conclusion that it all had been a big, honking mistake. As soon as I’d gotten my period (thank you, God), I’d settled on an annulment.
Through the Internet I’d found a Vegas attorney to file the petition for a civil annulment. He’d had a greasy demeanor that made me feel soiled, but he seemed to be experienced in dissolving quickie marriages. He’d filed the petition on the grounds that “before entering into the marriage, the plaintiff and defendant did not know each other’s likes and dislikes, each other’s desires to have or not have children and each other’s desires as to state of residency.”
All true, except for the part about having children. Redford had expressed a desire for little ones, girls in particular. But I had assuaged my guilt by the fact that we hadn’t discussed when or how many.
The attorney warned me that Redford could contest the annulment, and I have to admit that a small part of me had hoped he would. But upon returning to his unit, he must have come to some of the same conclusions because the papers were returned promptly, with his signature scrawled across the bottom, making it official: Redford and I had never been man and wife. Kenzie, Cindy and Jacki pledged their secrecy, and I pledged to drive Redford from my mind. They had kept their pledge. I had been somewhat more lax.
Sometimes a month would go by without me thinking of him. And then something out of the blue would trigger a repressed memory and I would spend a sweat-soaked night reliving the amazing ways Redford had turned my body inside out…the ways he had stroked and plied me to pleasure heights I hadn’t known existed. Then whispered that he loved me and had taken me higher still.
During those long, lonely hours, regrets would hit me hard. I’d close my eyes against the dark and fantasize about still having Redford in my bed, with his strong arms and legs wrapped around me, his warm sex inside of me, his sigh in my ear. And I would entertain what-ifs…
The mornings after those tortuous nights I would drag my sleep-ravaged body out of my cold bed and promise myself it would be the last time I would lose sleep over Redford DeMoss. I attributed my recent and more frequent recollections of him to all the weddings and bridal talk among my friends—I had consoled myself that the wayward thoughts would recede when the excitement passed.
But now I wondered crazily if I had somehow willed this IRS audit through all the kinetic vibes about Redford that I had sent out into the universe. Cindy’s theory about a self-fulfilling prophecy taunted me…
I don’t remember falling asleep. One minute I was stewing in troubling memories, and the next, Barry was shaking me awake and sunshine streamed in the windows.
“Why did you sleep on the couch?” he asked, his eyebrows knitted.
“I was watching a movie,” I mumbled, pointing to the TV, which was still on. I felt thoroughly miserable, still wearing my expensive (and now crumpled) dress, my face gummy with old makeup, my mouth furry and hot. At the crackle of the IRS letter beneath my hip, panic struck me anew.
Thankfully, Barry didn’t notice the letter. He reached toward me and pushed my hair out of my eyes, gazing at me with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I lied.
“Are we all right?” he asked, surprising me.
But it was just the gentle reminder I needed to bring me back to the present. Barry was here and he cared. My heart squeezed and I nodded. “Of course we are.”
He smiled, seemingly relieved. “You know I love you.”
I blinked. Barry and I had professed our affection for each other before, but he wasn’t particularly verbal about his feelings. “I know,” I murmured, feeling guilty that only last night I had questioned his loyalty to me.
“Good,” he said. “I’m sorry about zonking out on you last night. I guess I was more tired than I realized, and the allergy medication took care of the rest.”
“That’s okay.”
“So,” he said, his voice suddenly sultry, “how about letting me make it up to you tonight—meet me at Millweed’s at seven?”
My eyes widened. “A girl can’t say no to Millweed’s.”
He winked and kissed my ear. “My thoughts exactly. I need to take off.” He stood and pulled on the jacket he’d been wearing last night, then picked up his toiletry bag and moved toward the door. “Do you have any big plans today?”
Track down my ex-husband. I swallowed and considered telling Barry about the letter that was burning into my thigh. But I didn’t want to break the romantic mood or raise any red flags. Besides, who knew if I would even be able to locate Redford? If he were still overseas, the audit would be a moot point. It seemed silly to bring up the subject in the event it amounted to nothing.
“No big plans,” I said breezily.
“Okay, see you later.”
My heart moved guiltily. “Wait,” I called, and sprang up from the couch, heedless of where the letter might fall. I ran over to the door to stretch up and give Barry a full-body hug. “See you later.”
He grinned, then angled his head. “You have something stuck to your butt.” Before I could react, he reached around and peeled the letter from my backside.
I snatched it out of his hand and manufactured a laugh. “It’s nothing,” I said, crumpling the letter. “Junk mail,” I added for convincing detail. Then I shooed him out the door and closed it more forcefully than I intended.
Sighing in relief, I leaned against the door and smoothed out the letter, just in case its meaning was somehow less ominous in the light of day.
I scanned the words addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Redford DeMoss and worked my mouth from side to side. No—just as ominous. A slow drip of panic started to raise the acid level in my stomach. How could I prepare myself for speaking to Redford again? Assuming I could track him down, would he be angry? Belligerent? Aloof? Sarcastic? Disinterested?
Mrs. Redford DeMoss. Denise DeMoss. Redford had said it sounded like a movie star’s name, and that I was as beautiful as one…
I set aside the letter long enough to take a shower. But as soon as I closed my eyes to allow the warm water to run over my face and shoulders, memories of Redford came flooding back. Everything about the man had been big—his body, his laugh, his spirit. He had made me feel special and protected and desirable. His lovemaking had awakened a dark, daring side of me that I hadn’t known I possessed. He had been a generous lover—slow, thorough and innovative. I was pretty sure that a few of the things we had done were illegal in some states.
With a start, I realized my body had started to respond to the erotic memories. Feeling sentimental and keenly frustrated from my lack of sex, I slid my hands down my stomach to lather the curls at the juncture of my thighs, thrilling from the warmth of the water and the slick pressure of my soapy fingers. Redford had adored making love in the shower, had kissed and suckled and caressed me until I nearly drowned. He had an amazing way of prepping my body with his fingers, readying me for his entry until I thought I would die from wanting him inside me. My own fingers weren’t as strong and firm, but they found the essence of my pleasure ably enough, and strangely, even though there were some details about Redford that had faded in my mind, when I closed my eyes and sent my mind and body back in time, I could conjure up his presence in two breaths.
I leaned into the tiled wall and he leaned into me, the shower spray bouncing off his broad, muscled shoulders, his dark hair slicked back from his tanned face, his sensuous mouth nuzzling my shoulder, the soapy water mingling on our skin. He seemed to derive pleasure from mine, pleased that he could excite me, murmuring encouragement and throaty laughs when I was close to climaxing.
“I want to hear you, Denise…tell me how good it feels…”
I’d never been with anyone who was so…conversational during sex. The novelty of it—and the naughtiness—had pushed my level of sensitivity higher than I’d thought possible. “Um…oh…Redford…it feels wonderful…feels like…I’m going to…explode.”
And I did, convulsing as the warm water pulsed over me, losing myself in the exquisite torture of a powerful orgasm that weakened my knees. I slid down the wall and sat on the shower floor, shuddering, recovering slowly under the cooling spray. As always, the inevitable guilt set in.
I told myself that I had fantasized about Redford this time only because Barry had left me in a state of unfulfilled arousal. And Redford was uppermost in my mind only because of the IRS letter. I was a sensible woman—everyone said so. What possible good could come of rehashing the past?
I turned off the shower, stepped out and pulled on a robe, giving myself a mental shake. But my traitorous feet took me into the bedroom to stand in front of the trunk at the foot of my bed, and I relented with a sigh. My heart was clicking as I raised the lid and moved aside family photo albums, high school and college yearbooks, and a box of cards and letters I’d collected over the years, my fingers keen to find a secret cache.
At the bottom of the trunk in a corner sat a Punch cigar box—the brand that Redford had smoked. I’d never before dated a man who smoked cigars; I remembered finding it so male and strangely attractive. Over the past couple of years I had felt comforted by the fact that I couldn’t conjure up a picture of Redford in my mind—it convinced me that what I’d felt for him was a mirage. But when I touched the smooth surface of the box, I could clearly see him smiling and smoking a cigar by the pool at the Las Vegas hotel where we’d stayed.
Thick, dark hair with sun-lightened streaks, bronzed skin, laughing black eyes, sharp cheekbones…and a Tom Cruise smile that made me want to sprawl on the nearest horizontal surface in hopes he would trip and fall on me.
He had fallen on me quite a lot—that detail was burned into my memory.
My hand shook as I removed the cigar box, untouched since I’d left it there just over three years ago. When I lifted the lid, my breath caught in my throat and I felt as if I was being pulled backward through a time tunnel.
The gray velvet box holding my wedding ring sat on top. I used two hands to open it and at the sight of the wide gold filigree band, I was overcome with bittersweet memories…
“Do you like it?” Redford had asked while we were standing in the most garish jewelry store in the western hemisphere. Among the flashing lights and salesmen with bullhorns, I’d been doubtful we could find anything simple. But Redford had pulled one of the salesmen aside and cajoled the man into showing him the estate jewelry that Redford was sure was being held in the back for special customers. Sure enough, the man had disappeared, then returned with a tray of exquisite rings. I had fallen in love with the filigree band on sight…much like I had with Redford.
As I gazed at the ring, bittersweet pangs struck my chest. I was mistaken about being in love with Redford, but I was still in love with the gorgeous wedding band. He had paid an enormous sum for it—we’d argued over the cost, but Redford had parted with his money during our time together as if there were no tomorrow. And according to the newspaper article, that had been Redford’s frame of mind exactly.
I had sent the ring to the attorney to include with the annulment papers that were served to Redford, but Redford had returned the ring with the signed papers with no explanation. The attorney had advised me to sell the ring to offset the fees of the annulment, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it at the time…or since.
I bit my lip and snapped the ring box closed, then set it aside to riffle through the remaining contents of the cigar box: a coaster from the hotel bar, a matchbook from the place he’d taken me dancing, the key to our room at the Paradisio hotel, ticket stubs to shows, a party horn, postcards, our marriage license, the annulment papers, and our wedding pictures.
I knew women who had hired no fewer than three photographers on the day of their wedding to circumvent a no-show, faulty equipment, or a drunk cameraman. Other women had white satin albums trimmed with ribbon and lace, crammed with studio-quality photos of them in their designer gown, a glowing groom, twelve bridesmaids, twelve groomsmen, three flower girls and a ring bearer. Other women had 5x7s, 8x10s and 16x20s of the special day. I had three blurry Polaroid pictures.
The first showed the two of us smiling at the camera through the driver’s-side window of Redford’s rental car. In the second picture, I wore a paper veil and held a small bouquet of silk flowers. We were exchanging vows—Redford’s mouth was open slightly, caught midword. His voice came floating back to me, a deep, throaty drawl that had wrapped around me and stroked me like a big, vibrating hand…silken sandpaper. A shiver skated over my shoulders—apparently memory cells existed in every part of one’s body.
The third picture showed us kissing as man and wife. Unbidden, my mouth tingled and the elusive elements of his kiss came back to me—the way his eyes darkened as he inched closer, the possessive feel of his mouth against mine, the promise of his tongue…
With effort, I forced myself back to the present and to the photo in my hand. We were covered in confetti the witness had tossed on us through the open window. Redford was wearing a black sweatshirt. I couldn’t tell from the photo, but remembered that I’d been wearing a T-shirt with no bra, my hair messy and hanging around my shoulders, not a speck of makeup. Natural, hedonistic…what had I been thinking?
In hindsight, I hadn’t been thinking—at least not beyond the next orgasm. Redford had been the first man to tap in to my sexuality and I’d been blinded by lust. I had mistaken enthusiasm for love.
I did have a fourth picture, although not of our wedding. I carefully withdrew the framed 5x7 from the box, drinking in the sight of First Sergeant DeMoss in his dress uniform, achingly handsome in his official U.S. Marine Corps photo. He had given it to me somewhat sheepishly at the airport, and I had clutched it all the way back to New York. I ran my finger over his face, my heart full over my naiveté at the time.
The phone rang and I picked up the handset on the nightstand, happy for a diversion from the troubling thoughts on the continuous loop in my head. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Kenzie.”
I smiled into the phone. “Hey, yourself.”
“So, did you wow the boss lady last night?”
“The dress was a hit. Thanks again for your help.”
“Did you get the account?”
“I’ll find out more this week, but I’m hopeful.”
“You’ll have to call me in Jar Hollow to let me know how it goes.”
“You’re not coming back to the city this week?”
“No, that’s another reason I called—Oh, wait, Sam just walked in and I need to, um…give him a message. Can I call you back?”
“Sure,” I said, then hung up with a smirk. A message—right. Good grief, the two of them were like teenagers. But I wasn’t jealous…really I wasn’t.
I tried not to imagine the acrobatics going on in Jar Hollow while I stared at Redford’s picture and waited for Kenzie to call me back. The phone rang again less than two minutes later—of course, if the stories were true, she and Sam had had time for a quickie. I picked up the phone and sighed dramatically. “Please stop dangling your sex in front of me.”
Dead silence sounded on the line.
My chest blipped with panic. “Hello?”
A deep, rumbling laugh rolled out. “Well, that’s what I call picking up where we left off.”
I swallowed. “Who…who is this?” But I would have recognized that orgasmic voice anywhere.

5
LAUGHTER BOOMED over the phone again. “It’s Redford, Denise—your ex-husband. Who did you think it was?”
I was instantly nervous, hearing his voice when my body still vibrated from his memory-induced orgasm. “Um…someone else.”
“Sounds like a pretty interesting conversation,” he said, his smooth Southern voice infused with amusement. “If this is a bad time, I can call back.”
“No,” I blurted, my cheeks flaming. “I can talk now.”
“Good,” he said easily. “Listen, I got a letter from the IRS yesterday—looks like the government wants a little more of my time.”
“I received the same letter,” I said, regaining a modicum of composure. “You’re out of the Marines?”
“Retired for almost six months now.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Kentucky. Versailles, to be exact. This is where the girls are.”
So he had children—the girls he’d wanted. I don’t know why the news surprised me, but my disappointment was acute. And then I realized that Redford having a family certainly made things easier for me—I could shake my stubborn fantasies once and for all.
“That’s nice,” I managed.
“And you’re still living in the same place?”
In other words, my life hadn’t changed a bit. My chin went up. “I’ll be buying my apartment soon.”
“Great. So, do you live alone?”
I frowned. “Yes.”
“No kidding? I thought you’d be remarried by now.”
“Um, no, I’m not married.” I stared at my closet door—plastic covering the wedding gown stuck out from under the door, mocking me.
“Not married? Don’t tell me I ruined you for other men,” he teased.
Had he always been so cocky? My mouth tightened. “Not at all.”
“Darn. And here I was hoping that you still carried my picture around.”
I glanced down at the framed picture still in my hand and dropped it back into the cigar box as if it were on fire. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He cleared his throat, as if he realized he’d over-stepped his bounds. “Well, Denise, what do you know about this audit?”
“No more than what the letter said.”
“Three years seems like a long time to have lapsed to be audited.” He sounded concerned.
“No,” I assured him. “Considering the backlog at the IRS, I’d say three years is about right.”
“Are you still a financial planner?”
“Yes. I work for a brokerage firm now.”
“Congratulations. Does that give us an advantage? I mean, do you deal with the IRS often?”
“Only as an advisor to my clients regarding payment of fees or penalties.”
At the sudden silence on the other end, I realized my response wasn’t exactly comforting, and since the audit was most likely a result of my creative accounting, I felt as if I owed him a little reassurance.
“Redford, chances are this will be a routine interview. They’ll probably just want to ask us a few questions, see a few receipts, that sort of thing.”
He gave a little laugh. “I don’t even know where my tax records are—in storage somewhere.”
“I kept everything,” I said.
“Everything?” he asked, his voice suspiciously nostalgic.
I glanced at the cigar box containing souvenirs of my time with Redford and closed the lid. “All the tax records,” I corrected. “I’ll bring them to the interview.”
“Great. I guess I’d better start making travel plans.”
“The interview is a week from Tuesday,” I offered.
“Yeah, but I’m interested in buying a stud horse in upstate New York. I was thinking I could come up early and maybe kill two birds with one stone.”
So Redford had entered the family business. Another area where we were opposites—the closest I’d ever gotten to a horse was walking next to a carriage in Central Park, and one of the beasts had nipped a hole in my favorite sweater.
“And I’ve never been to New York City,” he continued, “so I thought I’d try to squeeze in some sightseeing since I might never get the chance again. How would you feel about being a tour guide?”
“Fine,” I said, then wet my lips. “Are you coming alone?”
“Yes.”
My shoulders dropped an inch in relief. I don’t know why, but I didn’t relish the thought of meeting his new wife. “When would you arrive?”
“Whenever you can fit me in,” he said, and God help me, my mind leapt to a time when I had “fit him in” anytime I could.
“How about Friday?” he asked.
“I’ll ch-check my schedule, but that should be okay.”
“Great,” he said, his genial tone making it obvious that our conversation wasn’t affecting him at all. “And if you could recommend a place to stay while I’m there, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll look into it,” I promised. “How can I reach you?”
He recited a phone number, which I jotted down.
“Although you never know who might pick up around here,” he warned with a laugh.
On cue, I heard a shriek of childish laughter and the patter of little feet in the background.
“If you leave a message and you don’t hear back from me within a few hours, just call again.”
“Sure,” I said, my heart dragging. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay. Listen, Denise…”
My heartbeat picked up. “Yes?”
“It’s great to hear your voice again. I’ve thought about you a lot over the years and…”
And? I swallowed, waiting.
“And…I’m glad to know you’re okay.”
I closed my eyes before murmuring, “Same here.”
We said goodbye and I disconnected the call on an exhale, feeling wobbly and acknowledging the sudden urge to eat a party-size bag of peanut M&M’s. I settled for a cup of nonfat, sugar-free vanilla yogurt with a little cocoa sprinkled over the top (not the same, no matter how much the weight-loss gurus try to convince you otherwise) and tucked myself into a chair with my legs beneath me.
So I was going to see Redford again. I lay my head back on the chair and released a sigh that ended in a moan. Just speaking to him on the phone had left me feeling fuzzy, as if he had brushed his naked body against mine. How pathetic was I that the mere sound of his voice could rattle me after all this time? Especially when Redford had obviously found someone else to brush up against.
I wasn’t naïve enough to think that Redford hadn’t taken other lovers after our annulment. But because our sexual relationship had been so radical and so…incomparable for me, deep down I guess I’d hoped it had been for him, too. That he hadn’t played the “kiss you all under” game with anyone else, or that no other woman had left teeth marks in his shoulder.
I laughed at myself. I hadn’t really expected Redford to be pining for me, had I?
I mindlessly spooned yogurt into my mouth, sucking on the spoon (which even Freud would have deemed too obvious for analysis), while my thoughts coiled into themselves in confusion. I was scraping the bottom of the container with an eye toward licking the foil lid when the phone rang again.
My pulse jumped—maybe Redford had forgotten to tell me something. I idly wondered if he had kept my phone number and address somewhere, or if he’d simply looked me up through directory assistance. I padded to the bedroom where I’d left the handset and pushed the connect button. “Hello?”

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