Текст книги "Love Unrehearsed"

Автор книги: Tina Reber

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

I decided to pass up the leather jacket instead; an easy choice at eighteen hundred euro. I really didn’t need to spend that kind of money; not when I had to replace an expensive bar refrigerator. After all this time, I still couldn’t bring myself to feel comfortable using Ryan’s credit card. While most women would think nothing of spending his money, money that I didn’t earn or that we had pooled together, I could not.

It went totally against the grain for me. Maybe if he were here with me I’d feel differently. It would have been something we did together. A twenty-two-hundred-dollar jacket would feel like a gift. But alone, it just felt like I was abusing his generosity.

After about an hour of meandering through the surrounding shops, and with no signs of my two unwanted friends, I headed straight back to the hotel with my meager purchases. No sooner did I reach the first intersection than I spied the two men I was trying to avoid spring up from seats at the outdoor café across the street. Shit. I felt the cold sweat break out. They were able to cross in my direction; traffic was hindering me from crossing at my corner.

I stepped closer to a tall man who was dressed very Euro-chic; when he glanced down at me I smiled, hoping to attract a new, safer sort of friend. I practically jogged to keep up with his long strides, but I was determined to stay next to him. The two assholes were a few paces behind me.

Just as I started to feel relieved that the hotel was in sight, a new panic swelled. The front of the hotel was surrounded by a mob-sized crowd. Police were cordoning off the sidewalks as more people continued to gather.

I squeezed my way through the tightly packed crowd, trying to avoid the two creeps following me.

When I finally made it to the end of the line, a police officer stopped me, blocking my way to the front doors.

“No, I’m a guest of the hotel. My fiancé is inside.” I tried to keep my voice down and dug into my purse. “My name is Taryn Mitchell. I am engaged to Ryan Christensen.”

My admission was instantly refuted as if I had just told the biggest joke. “Oui, mademoiselle, as are all of these women as well!”

I was incensed at being the focus of his ridicule. I frantically searched my tiny purse, only to realize that I never got an ID badge for the event, nor did I have my passport.

“Unless you have proof of your stay, I cannot let you enter. Back away from the gates, s’il vous plaît.”

I tried to plead one more time, as this situation was turning dire. Several officers gathered, obviously intrigued by my issue; however, I was quickly dismissed as some delusional fan.

The officer’s tone became harsh. “Mademoiselle, back away. Now! I will not warn you again.”

I tried calling Trish but the call immediately rolled to voice mail. I didn’t have David’s number and calling Ryan was out of the question. Panic and a low-battery light were causing my nerves to twitch.

Mike, please pick up. Why is no one answering their damn phones?

More women were gathering. The crowd was getting unruly and my two hours were just about up.

Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes were gathered, all jockeying for the best view and spot to get autographs. The closer I got to the door, the less friendly they became, behaving like starving animals protecting their hunting grounds.

I looked over my shoulder to see that the two creepy men were just a few feet away and narrowing.

Where the hell could I go? They didn’t appear to be paparazzi, so what the hell did they want? Would they dare try to accost me while here in this thick crowd? Perhaps hold me for ransom, knowing that someone as rich as Ryan could well afford to pay? One stick of a needle filled with a knockout drug and I could find myself being carried out of here only to wake up duct-taped in the trunk of a car. Screaming wouldn’t solve anything in this loud crowd and the police would probably arrest me if I tried to rush past any of these wooden barricades.

I squeezed in between several girls, receiving hostile glances in the process. The creepy man with the bad comb-over hairstyle stared at me like a hungry tiger ready to pounce. His squat face was pockmarked and unshaven and was probably on the first page of France’s Most Wanted List. His tall friend with the newsboy cap was eyeing the police, nervously glancing back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. I needed to put as much distance between us as possible.

Terror clenched my stomach as I saw him raise the black item in his hand. Panicked, I froze. I couldn’t look away. And then he aimed and started to take my picture. I shoved my sunglasses over my eyes and ducked, trying to get closer to the hotel entrance, hiding my face while contorting my body through the narrowest of human passages. Come hell or high water, I was getting back inside that door.

I called Ryan’s cell, only to land in his voice mailbox. Finally someone answered my frustratingly slow international call. “Mike! Oh thank God! I’m out front of the hotel, but they won’t let me back in.”

No sooner did I get the words out when someone touched my shoulder. “Aren’t you Taryn Mitchell?”

some young woman asked in a thick French accent. I could see her getting very excited about the prospect. I didn’t know what to do.

“You are, aren’t you? Do you think I could get a photo with you?” she asked with much enthusiasm.

Several other women near her all turned their attention on me and I felt like the mouse that had just been spotted by the starving cats. “Mike! Please come get me. I’m getting—”

“May I have your autograph, s’il vous plaît?” Pens, paper, and cameras seemed to appear from out of nowhere.

I tried to back up to get some space between me and the rising commotion, but I accidentally stepped on someone’s foot. I turned to apologize, but the girl was less than forgiving, making her angry point by spouting off and giving me a hard shove.

I muttered a curse and without thinking, I pushed her back, defending myself. I was tired of taking random shit from his fans. After almost a year of enduring snide comments, insults, and threats combined with all the other random bullshit from everyone else who felt I didn’t belong with Ryan, something in me snapped.

That’s when her friends got involved and the shoving match started. Three against one. The girl in the black jacket palmed my face, scraping my sunglasses off. I didn’t know what was more important—defending myself or retrieving the glasses, which were a gift from Ryan.

Someone grabbed my hair and yanked me off balance. One more hard push and gravity and inertia took over. I lost my grip on my small shopping bag.

Blunt-force pain cracked into my side as I clipped the edge of a wooden barricade, knocking a good bit of air out of my lungs. I tried to slow my fall, clawing desperately at the waist of the large male form in front of me. I felt skin tear when my arm scraped over the holster holding his gun.

Next thing I knew I was flat on my stomach with wood tangled around my legs, surrounded by men yelling in words I didn’t understand.

Someone grabbed the back of my jacket and pulled me forward.

I tried to haul myself up on my arms, only to have them fold underneath me as I was pressed flush with the street. A sharp, crushing pain that felt like two hundred pounds of mayhem made my spine crack. Someone’s knee was holding me down. Cinders scraped my cheek like jagged shards of glass when I tried to stop this horrible misunderstanding.

Panic swelled inside me and I screamed for them to stop and listen to me. Instead, a hand knotted into my hair and slammed my face back to the pavement, stunning me into silence.

The coppery taste of blood flooded into my mouth as I was dragged from the ground and placed in the backseat of a car.

Never in a million years would I have guessed that by 11 A.M. I’d be in handcuffs.

Chapter 7

Bruised

I could tell that my bottom lip had been split open. It stung like hell when I drifted my tongue over it, even though a rough scab had already formed to close the wound. The rancid coppery taste that lingered in the back of my mouth was enough to turn my stomach.

The front of my shirt was speckled with brown spots of dried blood.

My entire left cheek ached and I wished I could wipe my face.

The last time I’d felt nearly this battered was when I was sideswiped by an SUV, but my mortification level this time was off the charts. How lucky for me to feel this bad twice in one lifetime. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t fracture the same wrist for the third time.

I stared in a daze at the stacks of paper and files piled on the inspector’s desk, and tried to stifle the spins and the full body tremors, desperately wishing I could rewind the last few hours of my life. This wasn’t just an “oopsy,” this was a monumental fuckup.

I knew I needed to be calm. An attempted explanation that I was shoved unwillingly, instead of their assumption that I actually meant to incite a riot and attack and assault the officer, was also better delivered if I wasn’t babbling through tears. Needless to say, being detained by the police in a foreign country was beyond terrifying.

The scant contents of my small purse were strewn about on the inspector’s desk. He scrutinized my lip gloss as if it were a chemical weapon. It’s cherry-flavored, asshole.

“I don’t remember the name of my hotel,” I repeated with renewed frustration. “Our travel arrangements were made by Ryan Christensen’s agent. We were driven by a chauffeur to the hotel from the airport. I’m telling you I don’t know.” My last words cracked from my throat as the handcuffs pinched my wrists. “Please, just let me make one phone call so we can clear up my identity.”

My request was ignored.

Tired of looking at his smug face, I glanced up the wall at the large, round clock, snuffling back my tear-induced runny nose. Ryan’s interviews should be over by now. Surely his team ushered him on to the next item on his agenda—the open photo call. I could only imagine how angry he’d be with me once he discovered where I was.

My thoughts were swirling. Would this incident be a deal-breaker for Ryan? Too embarrassed by my getting arrested to want to continue a relationship with me? Heck, if standing on a table to propose to me was enough to incite panic in Marla, what the hell would me getting arrested in Paris do to him?

Once they throw me in a cell, would Ryan be forced to leave for Barcelona tomorrow without me?

What choice would he have? I knew nothing about France’s laws or how long I’d be sent to prison. If the lengthy forms the inspector was filling out were any indication, surely that’s where I was headed next.

The inspector continued to toss his false accusations to the point of madness.

“I was not reaching for the officer’s gun nor was I attacking him,” I strained with urgency. “Why won’t you believe me?”

My brain kept repeating, five to ten for assaulting an officer. God, I should have listened to Ryan. I should have stayed in the fucking hotel when he said no to my request. Waves of remorse were coursing in like the tide, pressing hard on my chest with each surge.

“You have no passport, no identification. You claim your information is at a hotel which you cannot name,” the inspector continued to drone.

Damn, he was irritating. This was the first time I was ever out of the country. I didn’t even think to grab my passport this morning when I changed purses. I almost left with nothing on me, deciding a credit card and lip gloss were my only necessities. I wanted to slap that accent right out of his mouth. I glanced at the antiquated computer sitting on his desk. “My name and signature are on my credit card. And if you don’t believe me, just search my name on the Internet. That ought to give you enough photographic proof.” My glare was definitely a challenge, hoping that a few hundred pictures of me and Ryan would be enough.

The slight smirk on his face indicated he really didn’t care. His callous attitude morphed my sadness into anger.

“Remind me to never come back to Paris if this is the way you treat foreign visitors. Do I have the right to call an attorney, or is that against your laws, too?”

The bastard ignored me and kept writing.

“The paparazzi took plenty of pictures of your officer’s knee in my back. That ought to do wonders for your tourist business once that hits the media.”

Inspector Clueless tore his eyes away from his paperwork long enough to glare at me and snip something under his breath in French. I could tell by the slur in his tone that whatever he said, it wasn’t meant to be pleasant.

My pinched shoulders were starting to ache worse than where I nailed my knee on the macadam.

“What happened to the women who assaulted me and stole my shopping bags? Why aren’t they in handcuffs?”

He was still glaring when his telephone rang. I made out the word interrogé in his reply.

“Well, it appears that someone has arrived to collect you,” Inspector Jerk-off said.

My heart lodged in my throat, seeing that first glimpse of Ryan being led through the office doors by several men in dark suits, followed by Mike, Trish, David, and Aaron. I had heard his raised voice arguing and insisting to see me and I knew he was going to take one look at me and be livid. My head dipped in shame.

“Taryn? Are you all right?”

Ryan dropped down on his knee next to my chair. His eyes were wide as he took my chin in his fingers, trying to be gentle in his angered state. “Sweetheart, what the hell happened to you?”

Only sputters came out first. “I tried to tell them who I was, but they said I was resisting arrest. My passport . . . I forgot it in our suite.”

I managed to tell Ryan how I was followed, surrounded by fans, shoved over a barricade by angry women, and then dog-piled and slammed by the police.

Shock, concern, and a whole lot of fury crossed Ryan’s face as he assessed my injuries.

The inspector attempted to give his version of the circumstances but Ryan abruptly cut him off. He stepped right up to the edge of the inspector’s desk.

“Four grown men against one woman? She’s like a hundred and twenty pounds, for Christ’s sake! You needed four men to fucking subdue her?”

“I understand you are upset—”

“No! You have no fucking clue how upset I am. She’s sitting here bleeding! And what if she were pregnant? Did your men consider that while they were assaulting her?”

A very distinguished, slender man in a dark blue suit and tie placed a heedful hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

“Monsieur Christensen, please, allow me.” The man pulled a wallet from his inside coat pocket and flashed his ID. “Gérard Bertrand, Personal Attaché to the Prime Minister. I am here on his direct orders regarding this matter and I have heard enough. Let me have the file and remove those handcuffs from her at once.”

My breath stuttered with overwhelming relief. Ryan brought the freaking cavalry with him. I guess the prime minister fully expected us to attend dinner with his family tonight, after all.

So many people packed the small office, all speaking at once in a blur of French and English. The handcuffs were removed, much to my relief. Ryan continued to fuss over the blood on my chin. Trish’s phone was fused to her ear.

I knew he was angry. “I’m so sorry,” I pleaded desperately, hoping they both would find the grace to forgive me. As social errors go, this was way beyond using the wrong fork at dinner or mispronouncing a translated word.

“Shh. Everything is going to be okay,” Ryan whispered, pressing my hair back from my cheek to wipe a new tear away.

A tall man with a thick mustache and wiry gray eyebrows approached. “Monsieur Christensen, Mademoiselle Mitchell. Please accept our most sincere apologies for this misunderstanding.”

Ryan blocked the hand outstretched to me. His own hands balled into tight fists again.

“Misunderstanding?” he growled at the audacity. “Look at her! You call this brutality a misunderstanding?

How about I beat the shit out of one of your boys like this—”

Mike pressed a hand into the center of Ryan’s chest.

The man tucked my file under his arm, unabashed. “I assure you, I will personally investigate this matter. You have my word.”

“Your word means nothing to me,” Ryan spit out angrily. “Your investigation can’t possibly begin to right this wrong.”

I stood and interrupted, wanting nothing more than to get Ryan and myself out of this potentially explosive situation. “Excuse me. Am I free to go?”

The man’s eyes darted to mine and a faint smile crinkled his lips. “Oui, mademoiselle. You may depart.

No charges will be filed.”

I nodded, brushing my fingers over the numerous scrapes on my face as if that would hide them better.

“Can someone please take me back to the hotel?” I was done being humiliated and scared out of my mind. The need to grab my passport, dark sunglasses, and an airplane ride out of hell was driving me toward the door.

Ryan covered me with his jacket and with his hand pressed low on my spine, guided me outside and into the backseat of a waiting sedan.

Trish was busy, calling in favors and sending texts to God-knows-who to cover this up. I wanted to curl up into a ball and die.

David was obviously distressed. He glanced at this watch. “We need to get you back to the Hotel Britannique for your photo call, Ryan. There’s still time. We can put this setback behind us and still stay on schedule.”

“No,” Ryan said flatly, pulling me tighter to his chest when I tried to squirm away. I presumed we’d end up in a fight once he got me alone.

“Listen, I know this has been traumatic,” David continued. “The Burberry thing was just a filler.

Everyone else is at the photo call waiting for y—”

“I said no,” Ryan spat. I felt the tension in his grip on my shoulder. His lips were pressed to my forehead when he breathed, “We’re going back to our hotel.”

Despite Ryan’s declaration, David was still trying to persuade him to continue on with his scheduled obligations when we entered our lavish suite. “Okay, so what do you want me to tell the producers when I have to explain why you weren’t at the photo call? And the premiere is at six. Our car has to leave here by five thirty.”

“I’ll handle dealing with the studio execs,” Ryan’s agent, Aaron, said. “Under the circumstances, it’s unfortunate but they’ll understand.”

David was unrelenting. “But if we intend to cover this up properly, he should make it to all of his scheduled appearances. Being a no-show only confirms the suspicions. He needs to be there, Aaron. You know it as well as I do.”

Ryan wasn’t listening to anyone. He marched off to the bathroom.

Trish had every electronic device known to man fired up and was multitasking her ass off trying to counterattack all the negative press before it surfaced.

I sat on the sofa, wallowing deep in guilt for causing all of this, wishing I could disappear back into the quiet of my apartment. I just couldn’t shake it no matter what I tried to do. The fear and mortification were swirling in my chest like an angry tornado, sucking up every other emotion in its wake.

I’d never been in any trouble with the law, not even as a kid, and having my first taste of it was terrifying. Hanging out with Marie and my other best friend, Thomas’s sister Melanie, I came damn close a couple of times, but somehow, some way we always came out in the clear.

Several times Thomas and I came close to getting busted, like the time the cops pulled us over when we were driving back from a keg party at North Bay beach. God, I shook all the way home from that near

miss. Or the time we were interrupted by shore patrol having insane sex at two in the morning out near the bluff.

Despite that, nothing as bad as this had ever happened before. And the ramifications that would stem from this were too numerous to even begin to comprehend.

Ryan sat next to me, scrutinizing my injuries. My breath hissed uncontrollably from the sting when he rubbed a warm washcloth over my cheek.

His eyes were so repentant. “Sorry, honey. I’m trying to be gentle, but we have to clean these cuts.”

As much as I loved him tending to me, I wanted to pull the cloth from his hand. I felt like I didn’t deserve that gentle hand.

David ended a phone call. “Marcia Gay Harden’s assistant is going to come up and stay with Taryn while you’re at the premiere, Ryan. Jenna’s people are all busy.”

“I’m not going,” Ryan said softly, wiping my lip with the utmost care.

All eyes landed on him—even mine.

David became overly animated in the midst of his talent-manager meltdown, ranting on and on about not believing what he had just heard.

“I said I’m not going,” Ryan repeated. David started arguing but Ryan paid no attention to him. An eerie calm was over him. The calm before the storm. perhaps?

I felt Ryan’s hand tremble lightly when he tipped my chin up. “I need to call the concierge and get some medicine for you,” he said softly. “I got most of the dirt out of the cuts but I’ll be able to do a better job once I get you in the shower.”

I stilled his hand. “Ryan, please. I’ve ruined enough. You have to go.”

His nostrils flared. “I’m not leaving you. Not like this.”

I took the washcloth from him, ignoring the fact that the once-pure-white towel was now tinged pink.

“It’s only for a few hours.” I tried to smile encouragingly, feeling as dirty and stained as the cloth in my hand.

His lip quivered ever so slightly as he shook his head. “I can’t.”

I locked eyes with David, wishing he wouldn’t hover. I was about to do him a huge favor. “Can you please excuse us for a moment?”

I hoped David could read me enough to know that I was trying to do the right thing. Mike, bless his soul, cleared everyone out of our suite.

Ryan pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. “Don’t try to talk me into going.”

His tone left no room for argument. I was resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going anywhere tonight anyway, including a stately dinner with the prime minister of France and his family.

“The world is not going to come to an end if I miss the premiere.”

So he thinks. Maybe not, but his fans would surely be outraged.

He cracked open a bottle of water, gaping at me. “What?”

“You have obligations,” I hesitantly muttered.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

I shook my head to disagree. He was just reacting to his own emotional overload, which I’ caused.

“This is your career, your movie. I won’t let you ruin that. Not for me.” I searched my bag for anything resembling an aspirin.

Ryan frowned. “I’m not going without you.”

I stopped in front of him on my way to the bathroom. “Yes, you are.” As I turned for the bathroom doorway, a stick of nasty pain shot into my ribs again.

One lift of my shirt and a sideways glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed my suspicions. I had a gigantic black and blue mark across my waist at least six inches long. It reminded me of the colors of the sky at dusk, wrapped in tender pain. Well, at least it wasn’t the right side like last time when the car struck me, but it sure looks the same.

Ryan gasped. “What the hell is that?”

He startled me. I quickly dropped my shirt, tugging hard on the hem.

That’s when he saw the gash on the back of my forearm for the first time as well. His long fingers circled my wrist.

A puffy red welt and scabby road rash decorated my arm.

“It’s nothing.” I pulled my arm away.

“The hell it is.”

He shifted to face me and tried to lift my shirt but I held the hem, pulling it taut.

“Let. Me. Look,” Ryan ordered, growling through his teeth. It was clear that he wasn’t asking. It was obvious that his tolerance was all used up.

Tired of fighting it, I acquiesced. Ryan’s eyes scrunched together as if he were in pain, too.

I didn’t know what to say other than “I’m sorry.” I pulled my shirt down as if it would hide my shame.

“Please, go to your premiere. I’ve already done enough damage to your career for one day.”

I turned the water on, planning on using the shower water to cleanse my wounds and mask more tears that I needed to shed before I drowned internally. After my shower, I’d pack. Overwhelming feelings of failure made me want to run and hide.

“No. Taking care of you comes first for me, sweetheart.”

If he only knew how much I felt the same.

Ryan carefully pressed his body into mine, wrapping his arms around my shoulders in a tender embrace as if I were frail. “And I want you to stop saying you’re sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

I shook my head and tried to tear away from him. God, he couldn’t be more wrong.

“I should have listened to you and never ventured out on my own. And now . . . now I’ve humiliated us both. I don’t even know how you can stand to be so nice to me right now.”

Confusion blanketed his face. He freed one arm long enough to turn the shower off. The bathroom was turning into a sauna, steamed up tight with fog.

“Do you think if I had any other job, your first trip to Paris would have been different?”

I tried to push him away. “Ryan, don’t . . .”

He lifted my chin, refusing to let me go. “Or would the paparazzi have been stalking you when you strolled the streets of a safe foreign city? Instead of being out there enjoying all the sites with you as a couple, protecting you like a man should, you were left to fend for yourself, again. Do you think that makes me happy or feel worthy of you? Let me tell you, it doesn’t. And now, seeing you injured like this . . .”

“Stop it, Ryan. Please. None of this is your fault. You had nothing to do with this. It was my stupid decision to go out. I didn’t think it would be a big deal to go shopping on my own. I know better now. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

His frustrated growl raised up a notch. “Do not put this on yourself, Taryn.”

My mind raced. “How can I not? You’re here trying to do your job. I was the one making headline news wrestling with the cops. It seems like every time I try to make it easier or find my place I end up making it ten times worse somehow.”

I had to hold it together before I completely lost it. “I just want you to be happy, Ryan, without jeopardizing your career. The media is going to rip you . . . I can’t stand it, knowing I caused you pain and humiliation today. You have no idea how sorry I am. I should have stayed out of the way.”

I walked back into the bedroom and grabbed some of my clothes, shoving them back into my suitcase.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“We don’t leave until the morning.”

I ambled around the room collecting my things, feeling soreness in my bruised knee. I knew if I stopped moving the tears would flow and I really didn’t want to cry in front of him right now.

“You’ve spent enough time today worrying about me,” I muttered ruefully. “Please just . . . You need to get ready for your premiere.”

His face fell. “Babe, are you hurt somewhere else? You look like you’re limping.”

If I tell him, he’ll blow off the premiere for sure. Well, not because of me, he won’t. I tried to shove the pain aside. “No.”

Ryan marched over to me, ripped my shoes from my hand, and hurled them across the room.

“Stop fucking packing! “What part of I’m not going without you didn’t you understand? You expect me to what, just roll out of here without you so I can come back later to find that you’ve run off?”

I shook my head, adamantly denying his assumption. I doubted France had a big enough rock for me to crawl under.

“You think I don’t know your MO by now? How you willingly martyr yourself for my greater good?

Dammit, Taryn. You think all this shit means that much to me? I can’t believe you’d think I’d just leave you here alone after all you’ve been through today.”

He threw a few of his own clothes into his open suitcase. “You wanna go? Fine. Let’s go. We’ll be on the next fucking plane home.”

I set my jacket down. His newfound anger frightened me. “I wasn’t going to leave.” Well, not that I would ever admit. “It’s just . . . I feel like shit for bringing this on you. I’m mad, and embarrassed, and frustrated.”

The scab on my lower lip pulled, reminding me that I had matching bruises on the outside as well.

“I will never, ever put you in a position where you’d have to choose between me and your career, Ryan. Never. I’ll never do that.”

I gathered up my shoes from the floor. Why he puts up with me, I’ll never know.

“What did you just say?”

I froze. I didn’t think my internal grumblings were audible.

“Did you just say, ‘put up with you’?”

I reluctantly nodded.

Ryan grabbed one of the ornate side chairs, forcefully pulling it closer to the bed. He propped his legs up, crossing them at the ankles. “Oh, I’ve gotta hear this shit. Please, go on. Enlighten me how I put up with you.”

Common sense told me this wasn’t going to end well so why bother starting. I should have kept my mouth shut.

“Well?” He was growing impatient. So was I.

My Christian Louboutin black pump ricocheted off the lid when I lobbed it at my suitcase. I was so riled I’d resorted to mistreating the thousand-dollar shoes that Ryan had purchased for me. “All I wanted to do was look at a jacket and even that turned into a disaster.”

He looked around the room. “Did you buy it? I don’t see any bags.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You went shopping and didn’t buy anything?”

“I lost my shopping bags when I fell. I bought some gifts, but everything I bought disappeared in the mêlée.”

Ryan sat up. “How much did you lose?”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

“I used my charge card so it’s my loss,” I muttered contritely.

“Jesus Christ, Tar.” He got up and stalked around the room. “Where’s your purse?” he growled, shoving things around to look for it.

“What do you want it for?” I moved my coat to get it.

“Because now you’ve pissed me off.” He grabbed the small bag from my hand and yanked on the zipper. Then he slipped my credit card out and examined it.

“This,” he said, holding it up, “is mine now. It doesn’t exist.” He looked at the other card, which was our joint card, and shoved it back in its slot.

“Wait, stop—”

He grabbed his wallet out of his jeans pocket and confiscated my card. “I don’t give a shit if you need it to put gas in your fucking car; you use our card from now on.”