“It’s Brandi,” Marc corrected, his breath fogging the recently cleaned glass pane. He used his jacket sleeve to wipe it away and gave her the practiced All American Boy grin that used to melt her heart. Now it just left her cold.
“Whatever,” Colleen muttered. Without looking back again, she gathered up the last of her dignity and the cash envelope to drop in the office on her way out.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She fumed all the way home, lecturing herself on the thirty minute commute from downtown Tampa to Brandon in the sports coupe Marc had begrudgingly conceded to her as part of the divorce settlement. She reminded herself to slow down, groaning aloud in mortal vexation. “Just had to go and open your big, fat mouth. We’re really happy,” she mimicked herself, smacking first her forehead then the steering wheel for good measure. “Why the hell did I tell him I have a boyfriend? When he finds out I don’t…”
She knew what would happen. He’d give her pitying glances whenever she saw him at work, and she’d rather set herself on fire than have him give her one more of those poor thing you just can’t get over me sighs. A single tear slid down her cheek, and she swiped at it angrily with the back of her hand.
The truth was she wouldn’t have him back no matter how hard he begged. She did find the visual most appealing, though, preferably with him prostrate on the ground in front of her with all of their former friends and acquaintances in attendance. Pay per view would be good, she decided, enjoying an imagined setting somewhere between Gladiator and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. “Thumbs down,” she would snarl to the cheering mob, who naturally would be calling for his head on a platter. As an afterthought, she added pitchforks and torches to the scene and smiled.
Marc’s callous betrayal after eight years of marriage came out of far left field. It was obvious everyone in the free world knew the up and coming assistant curator was screwing his perky–something she’d never be, even on a good day–colleague. But no one–not even those she considered friends–had the guts to come forward and tell her. Her sham of a marriage was officially pronounced DOA the day she walked in on the two of them bent over the top of the large oak desk in his office, vigorously engaging in what his overpriced lawyer later claimed he was driven to by a cold and unresponsive wife.
Stomping into the condo in high dudgeon, she kicked off her low heeled pumps and padded in her stocking feet to the kitchen. “Food therapy it is. Mmm…what’s for dinner?” She picked out one of the entrees–some sort of suspicious looking fish she elected not to examine too closely–put it back, picked out another and stuck it in the microwave. While it heated up, she went to change from her slacks and blouse into a long baby blue satin nightgown, tying the matching robe around her. “Saturday night. Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Mel,” she sighed, dropping Braveheart in the DVD player and pressing the start button.
She ate her turkey and dressing in silence while she watched the historical drama unfold, using her finger to get at the last of the cranberry compote. When she finished, she paused the movie and took her tray to the kitchen, washing her fork before putting it in the dishwasher. She was headed for her bathroom to brush her teeth when the house phone in the kitchen rang. “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered, seeing the museum office number on the caller ID. Against her better judgment, she answered it anyway. “Hello?”
“Yo, it’s me.”
Quadruple damn. “Yes, Marc?” Colleen answered coolly.
“Thought you were going out to dinner,” he said, his tone smug.
“We are, just getting a later start than we had planned. What do you want?” Besides checking up on her story.
“Brandi and I have reservations at Bern’s this evening. Thought maybe we could all meet up for a drink later,” Marc suggested. “You know, just to show there are no hard feelings.”
He never took her there, Colleen caught herself thinking. “I don’t know…what our…exact plans are. Maybe another time…” She glanced around frantically for an excuse to end the call. “My cell’s ringing in the other room. That’ll be him. Gotta go!” She hung up quickly to end her misery.
With a heart weary sigh, she went to brush her teeth. Afterward in her bedroom, she splayed both hands on the dresser and leaned against it. “I’m not going to be able to go on like this,” she said to herself in the mirror. “I know how this is going to play out. He’s going to pester me to death unless I come up with the boyfriend to end all boyfriends.” She began searching her brain for all the good looking single men she knew. It was a very short search. She sighed. “I don’t want to go out with one of Bill’s accountant friends just to get Marc off my back,” she said, stamping her foot in exasperation like a five year old. “I want to find my own man who will love me for me, faithful, funny, intelligent, strong, thoughtful, and drop dead gorgeous. And loves movies,” she added as an afterthought. “Seriously. Is that too much to ask for?” She directed that last question at the ceiling. “The movies part is a deal breaker, just so you know.”
…I suggest you not be wishin’ for anything you don’t truly want while you’re wearin’ it. Just in case it was to be enchanted by the sidhe…
The strange comment came drifting back and she lifted the amulet she still wore to eye level. “I don’t know if you work or not, but now’s your chance to convince me. I wish for the man of my dreams,” she intoned formally. “The one I just described. Please. Um…thank you.” She held her breath and listened for several long moments. When there was no blare of trumpets announcing her Prince Charming’s arrival, her shoulders sagged. “I am such a–”
An intense flash of white light from the living room interrupted her tirade right before her personal paradigm took a fierce and permanent shift.
2
The blinding light followed by the loud, splintering crash was alarming in itself, but the deep masculine groan captured Colleen’s full and undivided attention. Diving for cover behind the bed, she peeked wide eyed over the rumpled comforter. She kept her eyes glued to the bedroom door, feeling around next to her nightstand for the Louisville Slugger she kept tucked away. Heaving a silent sigh of relief when her fingers closed around the bat, she slid it from its hiding place and shouldered it. She took a deep breath and mouthed her get it together mantra - panic later, calm now, panic later, calm now. Noise coming from the living room, blocking the only exit. Second story condo. She eyed the window and winced at the thought of jumping, then dismissed the idea knowing full well that she’d never get the window open without making a huge racket in the process.
Plan B–call 911. Where was her…shit. She groaned, visualizing her cell phone right where she’d left it on the end table in the living room. Important safety tip–if she lived through this, phone in pocket at all times from now on. She stiffened her resolve and began the slow process of creeping toward the bedroom door.
With her heart hammering in her chest, she held her breath as she lingered in the doorway and listened. When she heard nothing, she ventured a step out and peered toward the front door. Still locked. She relaxed a tiny bit and lowered the bat just a fraction while she inched her way around the corner and into the living room.
Any sense of wellbeing she had fled again when she heard another low groan. “Bloody hell, that hurt,” the deep voice complained. More wood creaked and splintered, followed by a soft grunt.
She raised the bat again in a stance that would have done Babe Ruth proud and bellowed in a gruff voice, “Who’s there?”
The only answer she got was a heavy sigh and another groan. “Identify yourself,” she demanded. “I’ve got a bat and I will beat the living shit out of you if you so much as blink. I’ve got a black belt,” she lied frantically, “and…and…a gun. A big one.”
“From the frying pan straight into the fire,” muttered the strangely