Read Wanted: Wife for Free Online

with Denny almost two years,” he said, “and in all that time, I can count on two hands the times he’s told me he loved me. And because of that whenever he does, I’m dead certain he means it. With repetition comes dilution, don’t you think?”
    I squeezed his hand and leaned back into the molding. “I don’t know what I think anymore. All I can see is red. It’s not every day your future gets tossed out the window. I can’t wait until the ‘I told you so’s start rolling in.”
    Brent’s mouth crooked. “I promise I won’t say it.”
    I waved him off. “You’d just be another voice in the chorus.”
    He took a sip of my chocolate, then handed it to me. “Julie . . . this might sound callous, but did you love him?”
    It was the same question Andy Devine had asked me earlier. The difference was, my answer then had been knee-jerk, whereas Brent knew me so much better. I stared into the mug. “I thought I did.”
    “Even though he was still seeing Annika Eden?”
    I looked up. “How did you know?”
    He shrugged. “Everyone knows, darling.”
    “Everyone?” In many ways, Philadelphia was a small town; I could only imagine how they were laughing at me. “Yet he was still going to marry me?”
    Brent cocked a brow, as if obvious. “Was he?”
    “Oh, come on! Why would we make all these arrangements together if he never intended to go through with it?”
    “Perhaps to keep you around for a while? You’re successful, a cash cow. Very good for his portfolio.”
    I could feel my throat closing up. “And now he doesn’t need me anymore?”
    “I’m sorry, Julie,” he said quietly. “Truly I am.”
    How much more obvious did I need it to be? It really was true . I burst into tears.
    “That’s it, my dear, get it over with . . .” Brent murmured, rubbing my back. “It’ll wash him out of you like a good dose of ipecac.”
    I cried and cried for I don’t know how long, first in a gasping torrent, then with a moan or two coloring a few choice epithets, until I finally succumbed to a pathetic whimpering that eventually gave way to the immediacy of the moment.
    “Brent—I have no place to live! And two hundred invitations floating around out there! What’ll I tell my family? My job? My caterer !”
    He shoved a wad of tissues at me. “That you’ve come to your senses. What else could you say?”
    “But he’s made an absolute idiot out of me. How will I ever show my face to the camera again?” I honked my nose. “I’m ruined.”
    “Julie, enough already.” He grasped me by the shoulders. “I’ve every confidence you’ll find a way to work it out. Why, I’ll bet the next best thing for you is just around the corner. Now, go upstairs and revive that gorgeous face of yours. As soon as Denny comes back we’re taking you out for dinner. And cocktails. I suspect we’ll need many.”
    I didn’t have the heart to tell him I couldn’t eat a bite. But the cocktails were an inspiration, as well as an apt apology. Part of the blame for this fiasco lay with Brent.
    Two years earlier I had walked into his gallery, Curieux, to tape a spot on an exhibition of oils created with poisonous plants and venoms. Immediately, Brent took over my story, my cameraman, and—after a couple martinis—my private life, which he began to scrutinize. But I hardly minded. At the time I was still building my brand name, and Brent seemed so well-acquainted with the local oddballs, he became an excellent repository to draw from. So, after a few such tip-offs and their subsequent ratings-breaking stories, I was grateful to call him a friend. Even if he had introduced me to Richard.
    “He’s a shark,” Brent had said. “But if anyone can get you that contract, it’s Richard Sayles. He actually talked me into upping Dagor Ruski’s commission, and I still made a killing on his show. He’s new, but he’s hungry. You can’t miss.”
    At the time I had been mainly a general assignments reporter on another