generally self-destructive. Why did she give a damn about the neighbors? She adored a scene.
“Did I, or did I not, obtain this house in the divorce settlement?” she asked, confounding him again because she sounded so serious.
“You did not,” he stated.
She blinked. “The house was awarded to you?”
“What is this? Sudden amnesia? You know goddamn well what the settlement was.”
She gazed off into space, totally perplexed. It was an incredible performance even for Denise.
“I had every right to throw you out,” he added, “and you’re lucky I didn’t turn you in just now for trespassing. Our deal was you stay away from me, and I stay away from you. And Blackbird doesn’t fit in there anywhere.”
She didn’t answer. She was absorbed in thought. John watched the play of emotions across her mobile face and thought with a jarring shock, She’s changed. Her hair was different. Less blond and a bit longer. Straighter than he’d ever seen it. And her face was rounder, fuller. And her skin was whiter—as if she didn’t spend hours sunning or spray-tanning, which he knew she did.
But the change was deeper than cosmetic. Something different. Something indefinable and curiously magnetic that reminded John what had attracted him to Denise in the first place.
Something he didn’t want to be reminded of at any cost.
“What’s with the questions about the neighbors? You know how nosy they are,” he accused.
“I just want to make sure I apologize for tonight’s disturbance,” she stated flatly.
“Oh, sure.” He laughed. “You hate them all. Every one of ’em wants to write a book about your sordid sex life—and mine, too, as far as that goes.”
“It goes pretty far,” she reminded him.
“Paranoia on your part,” he said with a disinterested shrug. “You’re the one with the indiscriminate hormones.”
Denise bristled but bit back a hot retort.
He lifted a brow at her silence. “You’re—different,” he said, thoughtfully.
She visibly jerked, as if he’d touched some secret part of her not open to the public. And then, wonder of wonders, a scarlet tide of embarrassment swept up her neck and flooded her cheeks.
Denise Scott blushing like a schoolgirl?
John’s bafflement increased. He’d seen Denise cry, and act coy, and feign hurt, and feel true emotional pain. He’d seen her faint, and had been the recipient of her infantile fury more times than he’d like to remember. He’d tried to save her when she’d been going down for the third time in a mire of low self-esteem and destructive behavior. He’d witnessed the brilliance of her acting skills, been awed by the depth of her perception, been disgusted by her selfishness, humbled by her unexpected tenderness.
But he had never, ever seen her blush. Not this guileless kind of embarrassment over her actions. Not this awareness of her own humanity, her own simple mistakes.
“Do you honestly expect me to believe you forgot who the neighbors are, and that I own this house?” he asked.
“No.” Her voice was taut and faraway. “Maybe I just . . . hoped and wanted . . . things to be different.”
“They’re exactly the same as they’ve always been.”
Nodding, she inhaled through her teeth, shaking her head. “Everything I own is here.”
“Everything you own is packed up in storage or at Derek’s place or somewhere else. It’s not here.”
Her mouth twisted. “It is now.”
He honestly didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t want her here. She’d caused too much destruction and pain already, and his patience was all used up. But he had crucified her during the divorce and some twisted chivalrous part of himself still smarted with guilt at cutting her down so thoroughly—a knife through butter.
“You can stay the night,” he said brusquely, moving away from her to right the lamp and put some distance between them. His jaw was hard as he gazed down at the bits of broken glass. “But you’re out of
“Did I, or did I not, obtain this house in the divorce settlement?” she asked, confounding him again because she sounded so serious.
“You did not,” he stated.
She blinked. “The house was awarded to you?”
“What is this? Sudden amnesia? You know goddamn well what the settlement was.”
She gazed off into space, totally perplexed. It was an incredible performance even for Denise.
“I had every right to throw you out,” he added, “and you’re lucky I didn’t turn you in just now for trespassing. Our deal was you stay away from me, and I stay away from you. And Blackbird doesn’t fit in there anywhere.”
She didn’t answer. She was absorbed in thought. John watched the play of emotions across her mobile face and thought with a jarring shock, She’s changed. Her hair was different. Less blond and a bit longer. Straighter than he’d ever seen it. And her face was rounder, fuller. And her skin was whiter—as if she didn’t spend hours sunning or spray-tanning, which he knew she did.
But the change was deeper than cosmetic. Something different. Something indefinable and curiously magnetic that reminded John what had attracted him to Denise in the first place.
Something he didn’t want to be reminded of at any cost.
“What’s with the questions about the neighbors? You know how nosy they are,” he accused.
“I just want to make sure I apologize for tonight’s disturbance,” she stated flatly.
“Oh, sure.” He laughed. “You hate them all. Every one of ’em wants to write a book about your sordid sex life—and mine, too, as far as that goes.”
“It goes pretty far,” she reminded him.
“Paranoia on your part,” he said with a disinterested shrug. “You’re the one with the indiscriminate hormones.”
Denise bristled but bit back a hot retort.
He lifted a brow at her silence. “You’re—different,” he said, thoughtfully.
She visibly jerked, as if he’d touched some secret part of her not open to the public. And then, wonder of wonders, a scarlet tide of embarrassment swept up her neck and flooded her cheeks.
Denise Scott blushing like a schoolgirl?
John’s bafflement increased. He’d seen Denise cry, and act coy, and feign hurt, and feel true emotional pain. He’d seen her faint, and had been the recipient of her infantile fury more times than he’d like to remember. He’d tried to save her when she’d been going down for the third time in a mire of low self-esteem and destructive behavior. He’d witnessed the brilliance of her acting skills, been awed by the depth of her perception, been disgusted by her selfishness, humbled by her unexpected tenderness.
But he had never, ever seen her blush. Not this guileless kind of embarrassment over her actions. Not this awareness of her own humanity, her own simple mistakes.
“Do you honestly expect me to believe you forgot who the neighbors are, and that I own this house?” he asked.
“No.” Her voice was taut and faraway. “Maybe I just . . . hoped and wanted . . . things to be different.”
“They’re exactly the same as they’ve always been.”
Nodding, she inhaled through her teeth, shaking her head. “Everything I own is here.”
“Everything you own is packed up in storage or at Derek’s place or somewhere else. It’s not here.”
Her mouth twisted. “It is now.”
He honestly didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t want her here. She’d caused too much destruction and pain already, and his patience was all used up. But he had crucified her during the divorce and some twisted chivalrous part of himself still smarted with guilt at cutting her down so thoroughly—a knife through butter.
“You can stay the night,” he said brusquely, moving away from her to right the lamp and put some distance between them. His jaw was hard as he gazed down at the bits of broken glass. “But you’re out of
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