The Night I Left Him, I Was Carrying His heir

e petition sat open on

g paths down her collarbones. The reflection in the mirror showed a woman with damp, d

Six months of a husband who might as w

e tap, and it would be over. She'd already d

rprint scanner on the master bedroom

hair, casting a lazy, curious glance toward the bathroom door crack. At

n Sin

h an easy, unhurried rhythm. Six months without a word,

door open, leaned against th

le blue eyes carrying a faint gl

me

ike he was c

Julian, did you forget this is

ith the scent of expensive cologne and the stale, metallic trace of a long-haul flight. Most p

rper," he said, eyes flicking to the pho

and turned the screen toward him. "Divorce pape

she was discuss

ed-not quite a smile, not quite a frown. He reached out, took the phone

and glass was shar

slow, deliberate edge: "Divorce? Who g

step closer. "Julian Sinclair. Six months. Not one message. An

collar, then back up at her face. One

ice. "I seem to recall you telling me, before I

"Now I'm being literal. Sign the papers, walk

htly against her pulse-not hard enough

ainst her ear, voice dropping to a slow, dange

ck. She pushed; he pressed her harder against the marble counter. A button popped off his shirt somewhere in the tussle. Her towel came loose. The cool stone bit in

is breath when her fingers traced the edge of his shoulder, and, sometime after midnight, he

new vocabulary tonight," he sai

ed her temples and pulled the sheet higher. "

at her over his shoulder. His eyes gave nothing away-or maybe they

eep that divorce paper.It

icked shut

ttered clothes and torn paper, and pushed the hair out of her fac