The Beautiful Ones (Arabesque) by Adrianne Byrd Page A

you didn’t.” He jerked open the door, but felt her hand land on his shoulder before he cleared the threshold. Closing his eyes, he refused to turn around.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “And you’re wrong.”
“Am I?” A pathetic rumble of laughter shook his tall frame. “The thing I’m trying to figure out is if you’re lying to me or to yourself.”
“Solomon is just a friend. He has always been just a friend.”
“Te quiero.”
Ophelia sighed. “I was eighteen, drunk—”
“You love him.”
“Of course I love him. I love Marcel, too. We’ve known each other for years.”
Jonas almost wavered, and then forced himself to ask the question most prominent in his mind. “And if you had to choose between me or him?”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of ultimatum?”
“And if it was?”
The instant silence was like a knife through the heart, and after a few long, drawn-out seconds, he jerked his shoulder from her grasp.
“Jonas,” she called weakly.
He didn’t turn around.
* * *
     
Ophelia watched him go and slumped wearily against the door’s archway. It was the perfect ending to a horrible night, and it was all Solomon’s fault.
She huffed out an annoyed breath and went back inside the condominium.
Benton appeared out of the blue. “Is there anything else I can get you this evening, ma’am?”
“No.” She smiled. “That will be all for the night. Thank you.”
Benton bowed and exited as quickly as he’d appeared.
And just like that she was alone—alone with her thoughts and her roller-coaster emotions. Just what the hell was she doing? Did she even have a clue?
Two weeks ago she was excited—no, she was ecstatic at Jonas’s spontaneous proposal. And now?
Ophelia closed her eyes. Maybe she was just upset. Rightfully so, with Jonas bolting without even attempting to resolve the issue like two rational adults. “I’m going for a drive. Humph. He’s not going to keep pulling that stunt.” She stormed toward her bedroom and then slammed the door behind her.
The loud bang at least gave her some small measure of satisfaction—so she did it again.
She sucked in a deep breath and then did something she hadn’t done in years: she started crying. Why, exactly, she wasn’t sure. However, once the dam broke, there was no stopping it.
Blurry eyed, she headed toward the bathroom and snatched sheets of Kleenex out of a small, pink box in a sad attempt to dry her tears, but they kept coming—pouring, actually.
“Damn him,” she finally mumbled and then added, “Damn them both.”
Peeling out of her clothes, she submerged herself beneath a stream of steaming hot water until her tears abated. However, her emotions continued to go all over the map.
Shutting off the shower, Ophelia grabbed the nearest towel. Instead of drying off, she wrapped the plush towel around her wet body and slinked off to her bedroom. Vaguely, she wondered if Jonas had returned, but she didn’t go check.
She refused to be forced to choose between him and Solomon.
But what if you have to?
Ophelia closed her eyes and lay across the bed. This was her and Jonas’s first disagreement, she realized. They shouldn’t go to bed angry. Hadn’t her mother taught her that advice on marriage?
You’re not married yet.
She sighed and reached for one of the bed pillows. It was a lousy substitute for comfort, but the other option, calling her best friend, was out of the question as well.
She heard a slam and sat up in bed.
Jonas had returned home.
Seconds stretched into minutes while Ophelia strained to listen for his footsteps. When she finally heard them in the hallway, she drew and held her breath.
Should she go to him, wait for him, or ignore him?
Problem was, she wanted to do all those things as well as scream at him, hit him, and break off their engagement. Her heart squeezed. Where had that last thought come from?
The footsteps grew louder.
She needed to make a decision, but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the