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salt into the wound. Tomorrow
he would call the real estate agent and put this place on the
market. With a bit of luck, he’d get his money back. That was what
he should be concentrating on right now.
    There was nowhere to sit, so he sat on the floor, his
back against one of the kitchen cabinets, feet flat on the floor,
knees bent. He rested his forearms on his knees and stared down the
hallway to the front door, ignoring the fact that he was probably
getting dust on his suit.
    He didn’t know how to feel, what to do with himself.
For so long his future had stretched in front of him like this
hallway—straight and clean and utterly known. He’d known exactly
what he needed to do—build his reputation at Whittaker, Malcolm and
Venables, make partner, solidify his position in the world.
Elizabeth had been an integral part of that, the woman he’d
imagined at his side as he took the steps required to get him to
where he wanted to be.
    As it turned out, where he’d wanted to be was not
where she’d wanted to be. Funny, but he’d never thought to even ask
her.
    Just as he’d never thought to ask her if she would
like to live in this house, with these paint colors.
    He lowered his head and massaged the small muscle
between his eyebrows. He’d been an idiot. A blind, foolish idiot.
And he’d paid the price. He’d lost Elizabeth.
    The woman you think you want to
marry doesn’t exist. She’s a construct, cobbled together by my
over-developed sense of duty and your desire to be connected to a
man who in many respects has filled the role of father in your
life. I would make a terrible, terrible wife for you.
    Elizabeth’s words from three days ago echoed in his
mind. At the time, he had denied them. Hadn’t wanted to hear what
she’d been saying. He’d been driven by fear and pride, determined
to bring her home with him. They were supposed to walk down the
aisle barely six weeks from today. All their friends were invited
to the wedding, along with the most important of his work
colleagues. If—when—they called the wedding off, the fact that
Elizabeth had jilted him would be common knowledge. People would
talk and snicker behind their hands. There would be speculation. He
would be a laughing stock. A man who couldn’t hold onto his
woman.
    Even as humiliation rose afresh within him, he knew
that the blow he’d taken to his pride was the least of his
problems. More important to him was the fact that Elizabeth had
been frustrated and stifled by him and the life they’d planned
together.
    He’d made her unhappy, and he hadn’t seen it. She’d
hidden it from him, toed the line, agreed to everything, and yet
inside she had been suffocating.
    Not my fault. She’s a grown woman. She could have
spoken up. Told me what she wanted, how she felt. We were supposed
to be equals, after all.
    He pushed himself to his feet. Brushing dust off the
seat of his pants, he strode for the front door.
    He couldn’t leave his thoughts behind so easily. They
caught up with him as he got into his car.
    Because Elizabeth had tried to talk to
him—and he’d ignored her. Not so many months ago, she’d waited
until they were having a quiet night in and she’d told him in a
nervous, self-conscious way that she’d like to experiment more in
the bedroom. She’d told him that she wanted to spice things up
between them, try something new.
    And he’d been so uncomfortable with what she’d asked
that he’d shut her down. Self-conscious heat burned through his
body as he recalled the way he’d dismissed her suggestions. He’d
all but patted her on the head and told her not to worry herself
about such matters in his rush to end the conversation.
    It wasn’t as though she’d asked for anything
ridiculously kinky, either. Certainly nothing he hadn’t done with
his other girlfriends. Her sexual fantasies had been very vanilla,
very tame by modern standards—and yet the thought of throwing her
on a bed and taking her from behind had felt