The Mentor Read Free Page B

the bathroom doorway watching as he splashes cold water on his face over and over again.
    “I take it your work didn’t go well this morning?”
    “No need to ‘take it.’ Why don’t you just ask me?”
    Uh-oh, impossible mood.
    Anne crosses the bedroom, past the bank of windows that look out over the park, walks into her closet, and grabs two dresses, two short (but not too short), sexy dresses—what’s the point of chiseling down her thighs if she doesn’t show them off—one deep red, one this marvelous metallic shade of burnt gold.
    “Charles, which one should I wear tonight? I want to look like a trophy wife.”
    That gets a smile out of him. He looks from the dresses to her body.
    “The gold.”
    He’s right, of course—the dress’s tawny gleam sets off her red hair and pale, freckle-splashed skin to high advantage. Anne hooks the dress on the back of the door. She quietly slips into her slacks and blouse. Charles sits brooding on the edge of the mahogany sleigh bed.
    Anne sits beside him and rubs his neck.
    “You know how much I believe in you, darling. We’ll get through all this.”
    He turns to her, looking so vulnerable, so vulnerable and so gorgeous, with that full mouth, those hazel eyes cradled in their comforting web of wrinkles, that tousled chestnut hair, that jaw covered with stubble, bristly stubble that brings an exciting hint of pain when it moves across her flesh.
    “Oh, Anne, I didn’t marry an optimist for nothing.”
    And he kisses her, lightly, on the lips. Anne knows that in many ways she’s stronger than Charles. He’s an artist—certain critics have even called him a genius—prey to unspeakable demons, crippling doubts. His work is so important. Sometimes, late at night when she can’t sleep, Anne will tiptoe into the library, pick up one of his books, and reread a favorite passage. What compelling characters he creates, how beautifully he puts words together, capturing all the pain and frailty and radiance of life. And this man loves
her
. She wants so much to help him right now, for his sake, of course, but also, she admits to herself, to assuage her guilt over her success—and her transgression.
    “Thanks for putting up with me, tea biscuit,” he whispers in her ear.
    “Hey, no problem.”
    “You be the best.”
    “I had a silly idea,” Anne says tentatively.
    “We should take off for Bangkok?”
    “I wish we could. If you hate the idea just say so, but do you think maybe it would help if you got your office organized? Just a little.”
    He refuses to let the housekeeper enter the rooms where he works, the former maids’ quarters down that long hallway off the kitchen. Anne, organized to a fault, is secretly appalled by the unanswered mail, unreturned phone calls, unfiled papers. She’s sure a clean sweep would help Charles stay focused on the future, on his new work.
    “I relent. Magdalena can haul in the Dirt Devil and work her magic.”
    “But what about cleaning out some of the deadwood? I had this fantastic temp last week while Trent was on vacation. Completely unobtrusive. Why don’t I call the agency and have them send her over? If you don’t like having her around, we’ll send her right back.”
    Charles walks into the bathroom and turns on the sauna. Anne follows.
    “Will you at least consider it?” she asks.
    “I will.”
    “HG-TV is coming up to the office this afternoon to shoot a piece on
Home
, so I won’t see you till the party. What time is your
Book Talk
taping?”
    “They’re sending a car at four-thirty,” Charles says, taking off his shirt and slipping out of his pants. There he is in those striped boxers, with that boxer build—a boxer gone slightly, sexily to seed.
    “Nina’s expecting a mob scene,” Anne says, her gaze running down his body.
    “Free food’ll do it every time.” Charles steps out of his shorts. Anne catches her breath. She looks at the two of them in the mirror. Their eyes meet. He looks wounded, wary.