Gage.Her already battered heart clenched, the ache surfacing all over again.
Gage came toward her, reached down, and took both her hands in his. He bent and kissed her cheek. “I’m really sorry, honey.”
“I-I didn’t think you were here,” she said, her gaze running over his beloved face. He looked tired as he rarely did, and she wondered if he had missed her. “I didn’t see you in the chapel.”
“I was in the back of the room. Nothing could have kept me away.”
Fresh tears welled. “Gage . . .”
“Leave her alone,” Clay said, stepping protectively in front of her. “Haven’t you hurt her enough?”
“Clay!”
“From what I heard, you nearly got her killed in Mexico,” Clay continued. “Get out of her life, Logan, and leave her alone.”
Gage’s expression turned murderous. Then something moved across his features, and his attention shifted to Abby. “So I guess there’s more going on here than I thought. Didn’t take you long to find a replacement.”
Hurt slipped through her. How could he think for a moment that she could have already found someone new? The hurt had her snapping back at him. “At least Clay isn’t afraid to go after what he wants.”
Gage said nothing, just held her gaze a moment more, turned, and strode away. Abby’s heart went with him.
* * *
For the next two weeks, Clay called repeatedly, but she ignored his phone calls. She wasn’t interested in Clay Reynolds, no matter what Gage thought.
Since the funeral, she’d been helping Zuma get settled and Carlos get enrolled in school. It was almost like having a family again. She was wealthy now. She should be happy. She was, she told herself.
Except that she missed Gage.
And she was bored. She wasn’t the type to sit around her apartment and watch TV, or spend a fortune shopping, or indulge herself at the spa.
She needed to find something useful to do.
Clay Reynolds was head of New World Collections at the Denver Art Museum. The Mayer Center promoted scholarship in the field of pre-Columbian and Spanish colonial art. Sitting on the sofa in her living room, Abby hit Clay’s contact number.
After several rings, he picked up. “Abby.”
“Hello, Clay.”
“I didn’t expect to hear from you. You didn’t return any of my phone calls.” There was something in his voice—anger, she thought, a little surprised. Or resentment. Something.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d have a suggestion for me. I’m looking for something to keep me busy. I thought there might be some kind of work for me at the museum.”
His voice softened. “So you and Logan . . . you’re not together anymore? After what happened at the funeral, I thought maybe . . .”
“We aren’t together. Not anymore.”
“So you’re interested in working with the museum. That’s a great idea. The Devil’s Gold is still a hot topic. Perhaps you could do a series of lectures on the subject, incorporate your experiences, the work you did in Mexico to find the treasure—what it felt like when you finally succeeded.”
“Yes, I think I could do that. I’ve done a lot of research on the history of the men and women who searched for the treasure over the years. I think people might find their stories interesting.”
“Why don’t we talk about it over dinner at my house?”
Apprehension slid through her. With every date, Clay had become more aggressive. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t returned his calls.
“Better yet, why don’t I cook you supper here?” Where she could have a little more control. “I could finally get some use out of my kitchen. Are you free day after tomorrow?”
“I can make that work,” Clay said.
