Redwolf's Woman. Laura Wright

      “So, where’s her father?”

      She felt her smile fade. “Excuse me?”

      “Your husband? Where is he?”

      “As I said, we’re not together anymore,” she said quickly, coming to her feet.

      A shadow passed over his eyes. “I can’t help but wonder why you kept your last name.” He looked up at her, his steely gray gaze searing through her. “Look, I was going to wait until tomorrow. But maybe we can get a head start.” His brows raised expectantly. “Don’t you think I’ve waited long enough to hear the truth?”

      “The…truth,” she fairly stuttered as she turned away sharply, searching for the right words anywhere else but in his eyes.

      She didn’t get very far.

      Her hand brushed against the picnic table, knocking over the pitcher of lemonade. She fought for her footing as ceramic crashed against brick, as liquid and ice spilled everywhere. Her pulse pounded in her ears. In an instant, she was on her knees grabbing for the shards of orange and green earthenware, Jared beside her.

      Her mind churned at a hundred miles an hour. He wanted to hear the truth. But which truth?

      Ava sucked in her breath and dropped a shard of broken pottery. Clutching her hand to her breast, she glanced down, her index finger stinging and aching. Tiny droplets of blood fell from her finger onto the ground and onto the jagged square of ceramic.

      Jared reached for her hand. “You cut yourself.”

      “I’m fine,” she said, pulling away from him. The last thing she needed was for him to touch her.

      “Let me see it, Ava.”

      “No. It’s nothing.”

      He took her hand anyway. Wasn’t that just like him, she thought as she gave in to his strong, callused fingers, prying open her tight fist. A small gash marred her index finger. Nothing serious, just a bad scrape, but Jared was really focused on it. He grabbed one of the quickly melting ice cubes off the ground and placed it on the cut.

      Ava sucked in her breath at the sharp pain.

      “Sorry,” he whispered, rolling the ice over the cut in small circles. “It isn’t deep. No permanent damage done.”

      She glanced up at him, her traitorous gaze tracing the open collar of his shirt, then stopping to stare at his smooth, tanned chest cut with pure corded muscle. Her fingers twitched in remembrance of how his chest felt beneath her hands, against her breasts. Beads of ice water trickled down her wrist, begging her pulse to slow.

      “Ava, dinner’s ready.”

      Rita called her from what seemed like a land far, far away. But it was enough. Ava pulled her hand and her gaze away from Jared and stood up.

      He followed suit. “You should get some peroxide on that.”

      She nodded.

      “And I should go.” He touched the brim of his hat and started to walk away.

      Last chance. To what? she thought. Run away, escape, try to get out of this neighborly call that wasn’t going to turn out very neighborly? She said, “Listen, Jared, about tomorrow.”

      He turned and cut her a sideways glance. “What about it?”

      She bit her lip. This was getting ridiculous. There was no escaping the inescapable. He deserved the truth. Hell, he demanded it. And whatever happened tomorrow she’d deal with it—here or back in New York. At least she and Jared could be free of a four-year burden. She took a deep breath, praying that he was ready to hear what she had to say. “We’ll be there at noon.”