Read Online Capturing Paris by Katharine Davis - Free Book Online Page A

mean lack of work.” He turned the chair back to face the desk.
    She went over to him. “Take off your glasses,” she said, starting to massage the muscles in his neck. His skin was warm. She bent to kiss his head, his shaggy hair softer than it appeared.
    He pulled his head away. “Come on, leave me alone.”
    â€œYou don’t mean that.” She moved around and lowered herself into his lap. A small pile of papers slid onto the floor.
    â€œAnnie, look at what you’re doing.” He tried to lean away and reach for the papers scattered across the rug. “Annie, please.”
    â€œPlease what?”
    â€œPlease, not now.”
    â€œI know what you need.” She ran her fingers through his hair and down to his shoulders.
    â€œListen to me. I said, not now.” His words felt like a slap.
    â€œWell, when? Will you tell me that?” She reached to unbutton his shirt, but he took her hands in his own with a determined grip. She felt hot and embarrassed, but she couldn’t stop. “What is it? You don’t want sex?” The powerful word echoed in her ears. “There I’ve said it. You haven’t touched me in months.” He looked away, still holding her hands. Now her words poured forth in a torrent. “What’s happening to us? You’re not old; certainly I’m not. I still need you, Wes. This coldness, it’s changing everything.”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it.” He let go of her hands.
    â€œWe need to talk about it.” She reached for his face, trying to get him to look her in the eye. “You don’t want sex? Or is it me? You don’t want me?”
    â€œIt’s not about sex.” He wouldn’t look at her, and his tall, slender body remained rigid and inert.
    â€œMaybe you should talk to someone?” She spoke softly, as if coaxing a difficult child.
    â€œGod, Annie. It’s not that.”
    â€œI know what depression is. You remember my father.”
    â€œLook, I’m stuck inside here all day long trying to hang on to the few clients I’ve got, and trying to get new ones. It’s not easy.” His blueeyes darkened to the slate color of a rough sea. “This is not some kind of mental illness. It’s very simple. I can’t stand not having enough work to do. I feel like a goddamned failure, and it just keeps getting worse.”
    â€œYou’re not a failure.”
    â€œWhat would you call it then?”
    â€œWesley.” She decided to take a different tack. “This is not just about you. We’re in this together. This problem belongs to both of us, and you’re shutting me out.”
    â€œAnnie, just give me time. Everyone has their own way of coping.” Now he sounded angry. He stood, nearly knocking her to the floor with the sudden movement. “I’m going out. I want to get some air.” He clicked off the desk light and left her alone, standing in the dark.
    Annie crossed the shadowed room and sank back onto the bed. At first she felt only shame. She curled into a ball, pulling her knees to her chest. Her hair fell lank around her face. Wesley didn’t want her. He wouldn’t allow her to help. She heard the front door close and his footsteps fading in retreat. The old familiar ache set in, the girlhood loneliness she’d endured when her father closed the door to his study, the way he used to shut her out. He had refused to talk about her mother, refused to reveal his sadness, refused to share their loss. She’d been powerless then, a mere child, unable to change her parent. Now, as she lay on the faded bedspread, a similar helplessness weighed upon her. She listened to her own breathing, the silence heavy. Part of her wanted to fall asleep and forget, but she could feel anger creeping in and taking over her body.
    She would not let it happen again. She got up, went to the alcove off the living room, and turned on the