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He punches a wall, his fist putting a hole through the drywall.
What in God’s teeth? He’s losing his shit.
“What’s the matter?”
He paces some more, ignoring me, then heads for the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator open, and then seconds later, ice falling into a glass.
He can’t be this worked up over a discussion about orgasms?
“Riley,” he shouts. It’s jarring, because he never raises his voice. “Bring me my clothes.”
Hurt washes over me. I shared my soul with him. Who does he think he is?
I climb out of bed and retrieve a robe from my closet, wrapping it around me before collecting his clothing from the floor. I frown, because he typically takes the time to hang his expensive suits. Last night—this morning—nothing’s as it was.
I glance at the hole he’s created in the wall and scowl. When I enter the kitchen, he rakes his eyes over me. No teasing me about covering myself. No threats to defile me.
Cold.
Stone cold.
Oh no …
He sets down his whiskey, and snatching his clothing from my hands, he dresses in silence.
My dread grows with each passing second. Along with my anger.
He’s hot. Then cold. Demanding my darkest secrets. Then distancing himself.
I feel foolish. Hurt, because I convinced myself he’s more than the cold-hearted brute before me. It’s emotional whiplash, and my heart can’t take it.
Tears fall, but I angrily wipe them away.
Finished dressing, he tosses back the remaining whiskey.
I beat him to the door. “This is the end,” I firmly say as I whisk it open.
His freak-out minutes earlier is replaced by a chilly formality. “It should be.”
He took every inch of my body, then returned last night to steal my heart. But he won’t get away with sabotaging my dignity. I rise on my toes. “Say it. Yes, we’re over,” I hiss in his face. “Give me that much.”
His jaw tics. One second passes. Two.
On three, he walks out. He didn’t say it. Why couldn’t he say it?
Earlier, he asked what my dirty little secret was?
The answer just walked out the door.
CHAPTER THREE
I drift in and out of sleep until a phone begins ringing.
The landline.
It’s 6:30 a.m. Too early for Ciro to be calling in a panic. My family and friends use my cell. Aren’t telemarketers prohibited from making calls this early?
I drag myself out of bed on the second ring to dig inside my purse, wondering if whoever’s calling has already tried my cell phone. If this is some sort of family emergency…wait… Four times. Disconnect. Flee.
