something she couldn’t see. The curse he mumbled made her flinch.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t care.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
What was the old saying? In for a penny, in for a pound. “You once asked me to marry you.”
He laughed harshly, the sound carrying more irritation than humor. “Hell of a coincidence. You once said yes.” His arms folded over his chest. “Don’t push me. I still don’t understandwhat you’re looking for, but I’m the wrong man. You don’t want to get me angry, and that’s about five seconds from happening.”
“At last,” she said, stepping closer, feeling her own temper rise. “The fine, upstanding Adam Barrington. Banker, model citizen. You mean there’s someone inside? Someone real, with feelings? Is that a crack in the old wall there? I’m not completely at fault, you know. You let me go, damn you. Why? Why didn’t you come after me?”
Jane covered her mouth. That wasn’t what she’d planned to say at all. But it was too late.
“Let you go?” He spoke quietly, with a barely controlled rage. The muscles in his arms bulged with the effort of his restraint. His eyes burned with a hot fire that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with rage. “You walked out on me. Not a word or a note. Just a church full of people and a bride who didn’t bother to show up.”
Chapter Four
A dam straightened his arms at his sides and balled his hands into fists. His muscles trembled at the effort to restrain himself. His angry words, so filled with frustration and hurt, hung between them, echoing silently against the kitchen walls.
Damn her for forcing him to give it all away. Control, he told himself. Get control. But it was useless. Hot emotion tumbled through his body, swept on by heated blood. It bubbled and rolled within him, building with speed and pressure until the explosion became inevitable.
“It wasn’t like that,” she said, speaking so softly he had to strain to hear her. “I never meant it to happen that way. I thought—”
He swore loudly, the vulgar word cutting off her apology. “You thought?” he asked sarcastically, his rage burning the last of his civility. “What did you think? That no one would notice? That I’d get over being publicly humiliated? That your running away wouldn’t be the topic of conversation around town for months?”
She lowered her head. She’d pulled her long hair back in aloose braid. Bangs hung down her forehead, but her neck and ears were exposed. A dull red flush climbed from the neck of her T-shirt to her hairline.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry? Is that the best you can do? There was nothing, Jane. Not one damn word. I’d seen you drive up with your mother. You were in the church. Then you disappeared. What the hell happened?”
She opened her mouth to answer. He cut her off. “Don’t bother.” He turned away and faced the cupboards. If he continued to look at her, he wasn’t sure what might happen. “We all waited for almost an hour. I heard the people talking. I told myself there was a problem with the dress, or that you’d broken a heel.”
He didn’t have to try to remember that afternoon. The sounds and smells enveloped him like the clammy mist of summer fog. She’d insisted that the church be filled with roses. White roses. That scent had haunted his sleep for months.
He pressed his palms against the counter, as if the tile could cool his heated blood. He’d thought he’d forgotten it all, but the past broke through the wall of his control, swept across his emotions, unleashing the potential for destruction. Again his fingers curled toward his palms as if he could squeeze out the memories. Or the person who had caused them.
“Adam, I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting his struggle to maintain a semblance of composure. “So very sorry. It was never about you. You’ve got to believe that. It was about
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t care.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
What was the old saying? In for a penny, in for a pound. “You once asked me to marry you.”
He laughed harshly, the sound carrying more irritation than humor. “Hell of a coincidence. You once said yes.” His arms folded over his chest. “Don’t push me. I still don’t understandwhat you’re looking for, but I’m the wrong man. You don’t want to get me angry, and that’s about five seconds from happening.”
“At last,” she said, stepping closer, feeling her own temper rise. “The fine, upstanding Adam Barrington. Banker, model citizen. You mean there’s someone inside? Someone real, with feelings? Is that a crack in the old wall there? I’m not completely at fault, you know. You let me go, damn you. Why? Why didn’t you come after me?”
Jane covered her mouth. That wasn’t what she’d planned to say at all. But it was too late.
“Let you go?” He spoke quietly, with a barely controlled rage. The muscles in his arms bulged with the effort of his restraint. His eyes burned with a hot fire that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with rage. “You walked out on me. Not a word or a note. Just a church full of people and a bride who didn’t bother to show up.”
Chapter Four
A dam straightened his arms at his sides and balled his hands into fists. His muscles trembled at the effort to restrain himself. His angry words, so filled with frustration and hurt, hung between them, echoing silently against the kitchen walls.
Damn her for forcing him to give it all away. Control, he told himself. Get control. But it was useless. Hot emotion tumbled through his body, swept on by heated blood. It bubbled and rolled within him, building with speed and pressure until the explosion became inevitable.
“It wasn’t like that,” she said, speaking so softly he had to strain to hear her. “I never meant it to happen that way. I thought—”
He swore loudly, the vulgar word cutting off her apology. “You thought?” he asked sarcastically, his rage burning the last of his civility. “What did you think? That no one would notice? That I’d get over being publicly humiliated? That your running away wouldn’t be the topic of conversation around town for months?”
She lowered her head. She’d pulled her long hair back in aloose braid. Bangs hung down her forehead, but her neck and ears were exposed. A dull red flush climbed from the neck of her T-shirt to her hairline.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry? Is that the best you can do? There was nothing, Jane. Not one damn word. I’d seen you drive up with your mother. You were in the church. Then you disappeared. What the hell happened?”
She opened her mouth to answer. He cut her off. “Don’t bother.” He turned away and faced the cupboards. If he continued to look at her, he wasn’t sure what might happen. “We all waited for almost an hour. I heard the people talking. I told myself there was a problem with the dress, or that you’d broken a heel.”
He didn’t have to try to remember that afternoon. The sounds and smells enveloped him like the clammy mist of summer fog. She’d insisted that the church be filled with roses. White roses. That scent had haunted his sleep for months.
He pressed his palms against the counter, as if the tile could cool his heated blood. He’d thought he’d forgotten it all, but the past broke through the wall of his control, swept across his emotions, unleashing the potential for destruction. Again his fingers curled toward his palms as if he could squeeze out the memories. Or the person who had caused them.
“Adam, I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting his struggle to maintain a semblance of composure. “So very sorry. It was never about you. You’ve got to believe that. It was about
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