Your Italian doesn’t know what he’s getting into with those boys.’’
‘‘He’s not my Italian.’’ Anger flared within her. He didn’t want her, but he didn’t want anyone else to want her, either? Damn him.
‘‘Bet he still wants to be,’’ he murmured as he wandered over toward the bookcase and picked up a framed picture of Doc, her first foster rescue dog. ‘‘Good-looking boxer. I’m partial to brindles. He’s yours?’’
Apparently, he’d finished talking about Radovanovic. That was fine with Annabelle, but she didn’t care to follow him down that particular small-talk path. She was well aware that she was funneling her maternal feelings into the rescue program, and she had too much pride to let Mark know that. ‘‘He belongs to a friend. Let me ask again. Why are you here?’’
He returned the frame to the bookcase, drew a deep breath, then faced her. His jade eyes remained expressionless as he said, ‘‘I came to talk about a divorce. I think it’s time we did it.’’
Oh. Well. With that, he extinguished the last flicker of hope burning in her heart.
I really do want to kill him. Instead of reaching for her weapon, she summoned the professional inside her and used every ounce of acting skills she possessed to calmly state, ‘‘Okay.’’
That surprised him, she could tell. Had he expected her to protest? Burst into sobs? Fall down on her knees and plead? Not in this lifetime. She folded her hands and waited.
The man known on at least three continents for being cool, calm, and collected then stumbled over his explanation. ‘‘It’s the state of your eggs and I’m not going there and my sister-in-law told me I’m not being fair to you.’’
Annabelle blinked. ‘‘And you discussed my eggs with your sister-in-law?’’
Where is my gun?
‘‘They wanted to invite you to go to the spa with them today.’’
Her blood heated and her smile went cold. ‘‘And for that, you want to divorce me?’’
‘‘No, dammit. I don’t want to divorce you. I liked what we had just fine. But you want children!’’ He hesitated and shot her a look that might—just might— have held a tiny ray of hope. ‘‘Unless you’ve changed your mind?’’
She wanted to lash out at him. The man still wanted to sleep with her. He’d happily schedule sex all over the globe. That’s what he wanted. That’s all he wanted. Casual sex. No home. No kids. No strings. Mark Callahan couldn’t handle strings. He’d hang himself with them.
‘‘No,’’ she said softly, swallowing the hurt. ‘‘I haven’t changed my mind.’’
That truth told only half the story. What she had wanted from Mark was emotional involvement, but apparently that asked for too much. Mark Callahan was the most closed-off person on the planet.
She’d witnessed and respected his detachment during the years they’d worked together, and she’d strived to maintain a similar state herself. With their occupation, a degree of detachment had been necessary to survive. But when they married, they no longer worked in the unit. They had the freedom to want, to care. To love.
But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Wasn’t capable.
It had taken Annabelle time and a late period to figure that out. That weekend in New York before it all fell apart, she had come to understand that she wasn’t just ready for emotional involvement—she was already there. She’d cared about Mark Callahan. She had been in love with Mark Callahan.
When he’d celebrated the negative test and rejected even the idea of making a family with her, he’d shown her that his walls were still firmly in place.
But Annabelle never had been one to give up easy. Once she got past the hurt, she had reassessed. The man’s walls were higher than hers, thicker than hers. She had thought that maybe he simply needed more time for those walls to come tumbling down.
So she’d waited. One month. Two. Twelve. Somewhere along in there, she had told herself she
‘‘He’s not my Italian.’’ Anger flared within her. He didn’t want her, but he didn’t want anyone else to want her, either? Damn him.
‘‘Bet he still wants to be,’’ he murmured as he wandered over toward the bookcase and picked up a framed picture of Doc, her first foster rescue dog. ‘‘Good-looking boxer. I’m partial to brindles. He’s yours?’’
Apparently, he’d finished talking about Radovanovic. That was fine with Annabelle, but she didn’t care to follow him down that particular small-talk path. She was well aware that she was funneling her maternal feelings into the rescue program, and she had too much pride to let Mark know that. ‘‘He belongs to a friend. Let me ask again. Why are you here?’’
He returned the frame to the bookcase, drew a deep breath, then faced her. His jade eyes remained expressionless as he said, ‘‘I came to talk about a divorce. I think it’s time we did it.’’
Oh. Well. With that, he extinguished the last flicker of hope burning in her heart.
I really do want to kill him. Instead of reaching for her weapon, she summoned the professional inside her and used every ounce of acting skills she possessed to calmly state, ‘‘Okay.’’
That surprised him, she could tell. Had he expected her to protest? Burst into sobs? Fall down on her knees and plead? Not in this lifetime. She folded her hands and waited.
The man known on at least three continents for being cool, calm, and collected then stumbled over his explanation. ‘‘It’s the state of your eggs and I’m not going there and my sister-in-law told me I’m not being fair to you.’’
Annabelle blinked. ‘‘And you discussed my eggs with your sister-in-law?’’
Where is my gun?
‘‘They wanted to invite you to go to the spa with them today.’’
Her blood heated and her smile went cold. ‘‘And for that, you want to divorce me?’’
‘‘No, dammit. I don’t want to divorce you. I liked what we had just fine. But you want children!’’ He hesitated and shot her a look that might—just might— have held a tiny ray of hope. ‘‘Unless you’ve changed your mind?’’
She wanted to lash out at him. The man still wanted to sleep with her. He’d happily schedule sex all over the globe. That’s what he wanted. That’s all he wanted. Casual sex. No home. No kids. No strings. Mark Callahan couldn’t handle strings. He’d hang himself with them.
‘‘No,’’ she said softly, swallowing the hurt. ‘‘I haven’t changed my mind.’’
That truth told only half the story. What she had wanted from Mark was emotional involvement, but apparently that asked for too much. Mark Callahan was the most closed-off person on the planet.
She’d witnessed and respected his detachment during the years they’d worked together, and she’d strived to maintain a similar state herself. With their occupation, a degree of detachment had been necessary to survive. But when they married, they no longer worked in the unit. They had the freedom to want, to care. To love.
But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Wasn’t capable.
It had taken Annabelle time and a late period to figure that out. That weekend in New York before it all fell apart, she had come to understand that she wasn’t just ready for emotional involvement—she was already there. She’d cared about Mark Callahan. She had been in love with Mark Callahan.
When he’d celebrated the negative test and rejected even the idea of making a family with her, he’d shown her that his walls were still firmly in place.
But Annabelle never had been one to give up easy. Once she got past the hurt, she had reassessed. The man’s walls were higher than hers, thicker than hers. She had thought that maybe he simply needed more time for those walls to come tumbling down.
So she’d waited. One month. Two. Twelve. Somewhere along in there, she had told herself she
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