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calmly, kindly, ask her why she’d left their marriage without a word. Three years had gone by. The subject wasn’t touchy anymore. At least not for him. He knew why she’d left. He’d been a lousy husband. This should be something she’d want to discuss. To get off her chest.
    He wouldn’t be mean. He’d say the words women loved to hear. That he wanted to talk. To clean their slate. For closure. So they could both move on completely. Actually, what he was doing was giving her a chance to vent. She’d probably be thrilled for it.
    He grinned. He was a genius. Mostly because Liz was the kind of woman she was. She didn’t rant and rail. Or even get angry. She’d probably quietly tell him that she’d left him because he had been a nightmare to live with, and he would humbly agree, not argue, showing her he really did want closure. All the while he’d be processing her house, looking for clues of what mattered to her, what she needed. So he could get it for her and wipe this off his conscience.
    He wove in and out of traffic two car lengths behind her, not surprised when she drove to one of Miami’s lower-middle-class neighborhoods. She identified with blue-collar people. Which was one of the reasons theirmarriage had been so stressful. She’d been afraid to come out of her shell. Afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing with his wealthy friends. Afraid, even, to plan their own parties.
    She pulled her car onto the driveway of a modest home and jumped out. As she ducked into the one-car garage and disappeared, he drove in behind her.
    He took a second to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. First he would apologize for being presumptuous when he made the waffles for her. Then he’d give her the spiel about wanting a clean slate—which, now that he thought about it, was true. He was here to help them move on. Then he’d do what he did best. He’d observe her surroundings, really listen to what she said and figure out what he could do for her.
    Taking a few measured breaths, he got out of his car and started up the cracked cement sidewalk. He was amazingly calm by the time a little girl of about three answered the door after he rang the bell.
    â€œMom!” she screamed, turning and running back into the dark foyer. “It’s a stranger!”
    Cain blinked. His mouth fell open. Then his entire body froze in fear. Liz had a child? A child old enough to be…well, his ?
    Oh, dear God. That would explain why she’d left without a word. Why she’d avoided him—
    Liz and a red-haired woman Cain didn’t recognize raced into the hall leading to the foyer. The red-haired woman pushed the little girl behind her in a move that very obviously said this was her child, not Liz’s.
    Chastising his overactive imagination, Cain forced his breathing back to normal but it wasn’t so easy to get his heart rate off red alert.
    And Liz still barreled up the hall, looking ready for a fight. She was only a few feet in front of him before she recognized him.
    â€œOh. It’s you.” Sighing heavily, she turned to the redhead. “This is my ex-husband, Cain.”
    Still coming down from the shock of thinking he was a dad, he quickly said, “I’m here to apologize about the waffles last week.”
    â€œApology accepted. Now leave.”
    Wow. She was a lot quicker on her feet than he’d remembered. “No. I can’t. I mean, you didn’t have to send another employee to clean my house today.” Embarrassment twisted his tongue. He wasn’t saying any of this well. Where was the control that helped him schmooze bankers, sweet-talk union reps and haggle with suppliers?
    Gone. That’s where. Because Liz wasn’t a banker, union rep or supplier. She was a normal person. His ex-wife. Now he understood Ava’s comments the day he’d discovered Liz was his temporary maid. He wasn’t good at