from Toby’s wedding.
Reporters shouting their congratulations on her engagement to James. Cameras flashing in her eyes. She’d been blindsided by the unwanted attention as much as she’d been blindsided by news of an engagement she and James had discussed, but had never agreed to.
He grunted derisively. “And I don’t believe you any more now than I did when you said it the first time. You came to Horseback Hollow two months ago and you had sex with the poor dumb cowboy who didn’t know enough to recognize things for what they were. Your little walk on the wild side, I guess, before settling down all nice and proper with the English earl.”
“James isn’t an earl yet.” Which was the furthest thing from what she wanted to say.
“I don’t give a damn what he is or isn’t.” He slowed to make the turn through the iron archway, but the tires still kicked out an angry, arching spit of gravel. “He’s your fiancé. That’s the only thing I have to know. And as good as you were in the sack, princess, I’m not interested in a repeat performance.”
She bit down on her tongue to keep from gasping and stared hard out the side window until the tears pushing behind her eyes subsided. They hadn’t ever made it to a “sack,” as he so crudely put it. They’d made love under the moonlight in a field of green, surrounded by trees, singing crickets and croaking frogs. She’d slept in his arms under the stars and wakened at dawn to chirping birds and his kisses.
It had been magical.
“It was six weeks ago,” she whispered.
He still managed to hear. “Six. Eight. Whatever it was, it no longer matters to me. You want to screw around with a cowboy, do it on someone else’s ranch.”
She snapped her head around, looking at him. Even though it was dark as pitch, and the only light came from the glow of his pickup truck’s instrument panel, she still knew every inch of his face. Every detail. From the dark brown hair springing thickly back from his sun-bronzed forehead to the spiky lashes surrounding his hazel eyes to his angular jaw. She knew his quiet smile. The easy way he held his tall, muscular body.
“Don’t do that,” she said sharply. “Don’t cheapen what we had.”
“What we had, princess—” he drew out the word in a mocking British accent “—was a one-night stand. And the next day, you returned to the loving arms of your intended. Poor bastard. Does he know what he’s getting?” He pulled to a stop in front of a modestly sized two-storied house and turned off the engine. “Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he’s just happy to merge one highfalutin’ family with another and fidelity doesn’t matter one little bit.”
“He’s not my fiancé!”
“And that’s what you came all the way here to talk about,” he said skeptically. “To claim that he’s not your fiancé? While every newspaper and trashy tabloid in print, every gossipy website that exists, is dissecting the great ‘Jamelia’ romance. If he’s not your fiancé, why the hell aren’t there any quotes from you saying that? Everything else about the two of you has been chronicled across the world. Seems to me there have been plenty of opportunities for you to state otherwise.” He stared into her face for a long moment, then shook his head and shoved open his truck door. “We had this same conversation two months ago on the phone.” His voice was flat. “Should have saved yourself a ten-hour flight in coach.” He slammed the door shut and started walking toward the house.
“Six weeks ago,” she whispered again
But of course he didn’t hear her this time.
Chapter Two
Amelia finally got out of the truck and headed slowly toward him. Quinn watched only long enough to assure himself that she wasn’t going to collapse again, before he turned toward the house once more. He wanted her in his home about as much as he wanted holes drilled into his head.
It was hard enough to forget about her when she’d never stepped foot in his place. Now she was going to do just that. And his need to keep her out of his thoughts was going to become even more impossible.
He shoved open the front door and waited for her to finish crossing the gravel drive. Her dark hair gleamed in the moonlight, reminding him of the last time. Only then the long strands had been fanned out around her head, and her face bathed in ecstasy.
He clenched his teeth and looked at the scuffed toes of his leather boots. The second she crossed the threshold, he moved away. “Close the door behind you.”
His steps sounded hollow on the wood floor as he headed through the house to the kitchen at the back and he heard the soft latch of the front door closing behind him.
He slapped his palm against the wall switch, flooding the kitchen with unforgiving light, and grabbed the plastic-wrapped loaf of bread from where he’d last tossed it on the counter. He yanked open a drawer, grabbed a knife, slammed the drawer shut and yanked open the fridge. Pulled a few things out and slammed that door shut, too.
None of it helped.
She was still in his damned house.
Another woman he’d let himself believe in.
Didn’t matter that he knew he was to blame for that particular situation. He’d barely known Amelia. And he’d known his ex-wife, Carrie, for years. Yet he’d made the same mistake with them both.
Trusting that he was the one.
The only one.
He carelessly swiped mayonnaise on the two slices of bread, slapped a slice of cheese on top, followed by a jumble of deli-sliced turkey.
Every cell he possessed knew the minute Amelia stepped into the kitchen behind him, though she didn’t make a sound. She was as ghostly quiet as she was ghostly pale.
He dropped the other slice of bread on top of the turkey and managed not to smash it down out of sheer frustration. He tossed the knife in the sink next to his elbow and it clattered noisily.
He turned and faced her, choking down the urge to take her shoulders and urge her into a chair.
She looked worse than ill.
The shadows under her eyes were nearly purple. The oversize shirt—an uglier color than the contents of his youngest nephew’s diaper the last time he’d been stuck changing it—had slipped down one of her shoulders and her collarbone stuck out too sharp against her pale skin.
It wasn’t just a day of traveling—by means he damn sure knew she wasn’t used to—taking its toll.
“What the hell have you done to yourself?”
Her colorless lips parted slightly. She stared up at him and her eyes—dark, dark brown and enormous in her small triangular face—shimmered wetly. “You’re so angry,” she whispered.
Angry didn’t begin to cover it. He was pissed as hell. Frustrated beyond belief. And completely disillusioned with his judgment where women were concerned.
Especially this woman, because dammit all to hell, there was still a part of him that wanted to believe in her. Believe the things she’d said that night. Believe the
