don’t see how he’s to blame for the situation.”
“Touché.” He tilted his glass toward her.
She didn’t know this man. Didn’t recognize him. Maxime Durand was known for never holding back his emotions. Arguments in his kitchens had ended up with him punching so many holes in the walls, he’d quit bothering to repair what his employees had taken to calling design features.
Her fingers tightened on the slender stem of her own glass. “Well.” She felt tears sting her eyes and resolutely blinked them away. “Aren’t we being ever so civilized?” Madeline was finding it difficult to work up the proper fury while feeling as if she’d been hollowed out with a dull melon baller. “Is this how your other marriages ended?”
“You knew I’d been married before,” the stranger stated in a tone as cool and sterile as the décor of the room. “You knew those marriages had failed. I told you repeatedly that I don’t believe I possess the marriage gene. But you refused to listen.”
He had. And she had.
Her bad.
No,
Madeline reminded herself firmly as an encouraging flare of anger flashed through her.
His.
“I also warned you about the difference in our ages,” he continued defending the indefensible. “I knew you were too young. But I couldn’t resist your entreaties.”
“It wasn’t as if I got down on my knees and begged,” she muttered. But, admittedly, she’d come damn close. “Besides, my father was seventeen years older than my mother.”
“I’m well aware of that. Given that you pointed it out on a regular basis even before we began living together.”
She hated that he was calm when she was not. Hated that he had the gall, after what he’d done, to use her own words against her.
She repeated what she’d always said. “They were totally compatible. In their marriage and in the kitchen. And my father never,
ever
strayed.”
He shrugged as he refilled his glass from the decanter on the outrageously expensive ultramodern glass console table the designer had said would be perfect in the space. The table Maxime loved. The one Madeline found lacking in any warmth. Like the rest of the penthouse.
The kitchen was the only place she’d ever felt even the slightest bit comfortable. Unfortunately, it was also Maxime’s realm, and she was basically relegated to saucier whenever they prepared the rare meal together.
After they’d returned from their honeymoon, Madeline discovered that instead of working side by side, as she’d imagined, her new husband was putting her at the front of the house at his restaurant, where she was expected to serve as both the dining room manager and hostess.
“Your beauty and charm bring my dining room to life,
darling
,” he’d insisted. While admittedly flattered, she hadn’t devoted all those years learning how to cook to end up spending each evening wearing Spanx beneath long blackgowns, standing on foot-killing heels, greeting guests, and keeping service humming, all the while continuing to smile until her lips felt frozen.
He’d assured her it would only be temporary. But one month had turned into two. Then six. Then a year, then, before she knew it, although she was occasionally called in to help out on the kitchen line, most of her time was spent up front, and locked away in her office, running the financial side of the restaurant while her husband ruled supreme in the kitchen. On those increasingly rare occasions he was actually in the city. Most of the actual cooking had been taken over by his sous chef. Who was—no surprise, given the chauvinism of the business—male.
She’d believed him when he’d told her the trips were business. But now she was forced to wonder the same thing Katrin’s husband was allegedly trying to discover for his own reasons. How long had the couple’s affair been going on?
“Children don’t always know what goes on in a marriage,” he pointed out, dragging her mind back from that vexing thought to their
“Touché.” He tilted his glass toward her.
She didn’t know this man. Didn’t recognize him. Maxime Durand was known for never holding back his emotions. Arguments in his kitchens had ended up with him punching so many holes in the walls, he’d quit bothering to repair what his employees had taken to calling design features.
Her fingers tightened on the slender stem of her own glass. “Well.” She felt tears sting her eyes and resolutely blinked them away. “Aren’t we being ever so civilized?” Madeline was finding it difficult to work up the proper fury while feeling as if she’d been hollowed out with a dull melon baller. “Is this how your other marriages ended?”
“You knew I’d been married before,” the stranger stated in a tone as cool and sterile as the décor of the room. “You knew those marriages had failed. I told you repeatedly that I don’t believe I possess the marriage gene. But you refused to listen.”
He had. And she had.
Her bad.
No,
Madeline reminded herself firmly as an encouraging flare of anger flashed through her.
His.
“I also warned you about the difference in our ages,” he continued defending the indefensible. “I knew you were too young. But I couldn’t resist your entreaties.”
“It wasn’t as if I got down on my knees and begged,” she muttered. But, admittedly, she’d come damn close. “Besides, my father was seventeen years older than my mother.”
“I’m well aware of that. Given that you pointed it out on a regular basis even before we began living together.”
She hated that he was calm when she was not. Hated that he had the gall, after what he’d done, to use her own words against her.
She repeated what she’d always said. “They were totally compatible. In their marriage and in the kitchen. And my father never,
ever
strayed.”
He shrugged as he refilled his glass from the decanter on the outrageously expensive ultramodern glass console table the designer had said would be perfect in the space. The table Maxime loved. The one Madeline found lacking in any warmth. Like the rest of the penthouse.
The kitchen was the only place she’d ever felt even the slightest bit comfortable. Unfortunately, it was also Maxime’s realm, and she was basically relegated to saucier whenever they prepared the rare meal together.
After they’d returned from their honeymoon, Madeline discovered that instead of working side by side, as she’d imagined, her new husband was putting her at the front of the house at his restaurant, where she was expected to serve as both the dining room manager and hostess.
“Your beauty and charm bring my dining room to life,
darling
,” he’d insisted. While admittedly flattered, she hadn’t devoted all those years learning how to cook to end up spending each evening wearing Spanx beneath long blackgowns, standing on foot-killing heels, greeting guests, and keeping service humming, all the while continuing to smile until her lips felt frozen.
He’d assured her it would only be temporary. But one month had turned into two. Then six. Then a year, then, before she knew it, although she was occasionally called in to help out on the kitchen line, most of her time was spent up front, and locked away in her office, running the financial side of the restaurant while her husband ruled supreme in the kitchen. On those increasingly rare occasions he was actually in the city. Most of the actual cooking had been taken over by his sous chef. Who was—no surprise, given the chauvinism of the business—male.
She’d believed him when he’d told her the trips were business. But now she was forced to wonder the same thing Katrin’s husband was allegedly trying to discover for his own reasons. How long had the couple’s affair been going on?
“Children don’t always know what goes on in a marriage,” he pointed out, dragging her mind back from that vexing thought to their
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