“I want a divorce.”
The words were spoken without fanfare, her voice almost emotionless. She could just as well have asked for the sugar bowl or commented that it looked as though it might rain.
Instead, Elizabeth Sinclair had just requested an end to her marriage of eighteen years.
Having shattered her world, she pulled her gaze away from the window and looked at the man seated across the table. For a few, tense moments, there was no reaction. He didn’t lift his head from the stack of papers he’d been studying during breakfast, he didn’t gasp or choke or sputter. When he set his coffee cup down, his hand wasn’t trembling.
If she hadn’t known him so well, she might have thought he hadn’t heard her. But she knew Donovan as well as it was possible to know another human being. He was digesting what she’d said.
She looked at him, feeling as if she was seeing him from a great distance. At thirty-eight he was a strikingly good-looking man—even more attractive than he’d been when they’d met. The gray that painted silver streaks at his temples only emphasized the inky blackness of his hair. His features were still even, but now they carried the added weight of maturity—hardening his jaw, leaving creases around his eyes.
He looked like exactly what he was: a successful man who was approaching forty without fears, who was tanned, fit, sure of himself and his life. There had been a time when Elizabeth had felt herself a part of that life. But that time was gone, drifting away so quietly she wasn’t even sure when it had disappeared.
He lifted his head slowly, his gaze meeting hers. Donovan’s eyes had always reflected his emotions. They’d turn warm green when he was happy and almost pure gold when he was angry. Now, they were blank.
“What?”
Elizabeth felt vaguely guilty. Even though she hadn’t planned on saying anything at that particular moment, she’d had some time to form a decision, to brace herself to say the words. To Donovan, it must have seemed as if they were coming out of the blue.
“If this is a joke, it’s not very funny.” Irritation rumbled in the husky words.
“I’m not joking. I want a divorce, Donovan.”
Panic flickered in his eyes. “What brought this on? If it’s because I forgot to pick up the dry cleaning, I think you’re overreacting a bit.” His smile wavered uncertainly.
“It’s got nothing to do with the dry cleaning.”
“Then what the hell is this about?”
She ignored the snap in his words, knowing fear more than anger had put it there.
“I’m not happy.” She said the words simply.
Donovan stared at her, clearly at a loss. “You’re not happy. What do you mean? Why aren’t you happy? And why haven’t you said something or done something?”
She picked up her teacup and stared into the amber liquid. It was easier than looking into his eyes. His eyes demanded answers that she couldn’t give. She couldn’t even answer her own questions. How could she explain that somewhere along the line she’d lost herself. She’d lost her identity.
“What should I have said or done?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t happy?”
“Why should I? It wasn’t your problem.”
“Not my problem? Elizabeth, you’re my wife. You’ve just announced that you want a divorce because you’re not happy. I think that makes it my problem.”
“Not really.” She set her teacup down, but she still couldn’t look at him.
He ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it into heavy, black waves. “Elizabeth, what’s wrong? Is it something I’ve done? Something I’ve said? Do you think I’m having an affair or embezzling money or something?”
“Of course not!”
“Then what is it? You don’t end eighteen years of marriage over nothing.”
“Donovan, it hasn’t anything to do with you. I’m just not happy.”
She needed to do something so she got up and started to clear the table. She’d known this wasn’t going to be easy, but somehow she hadn’t expected his pain to hurt her.
She set the plates in the sink. When she turned, he was standing in front of her and she leaned back against the counter, tilting her head back until she could meet his eyes. It was a mistake. The turmoil she saw there almost made her change her mind, almost made her tell him that she hadn’t meant a word she’d said. Almost.
“Elizabeth. Beth. Talk to me.”
The old diminutive gave her an unexpected stab of pain. It had been so long since he’d called her Beth. She drew in a deep breath and stared over his shoulder.
“We’ve grown apart, Donovan. We don’t have anything to say to each other anymore. We hardly even see each other.”
“What are you talking about? I’m home every night. We have breakfast together most mornings.”
“But you’re not here with me. You come home at night and you work in the study. In the morning you’ve always got a stack of papers beside you.”
“If you didn’t like my working at home, why didn’t you just say so?”
“It’s not just your working at home, Donovan. We’ve grown apart. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I have.”
He thrust his fingers through his hair again, frustrated. “Why is it that women think you have to spend every minute of every day together to be close? I can’t run a business without spending time at it.”
“I know that.”
“Then what’s the big problem? You’re not making any sense.”
She stared at him, trying to think of a way to make him see what she was trying to say. “Donovan, what was the last thing that you and I did together? Just the two of us. Something that didn’t revolve around Michael?”
The silence stretched out while he stared at her. Elizabeth waited for a minute and then edged by him to pick up the drinking glasses left on the table. He didn’t move to stop her. He just continued to stand next to the counter, his expression hard and tight. She set the glasses in the sink.
“All right, so maybe we haven’t been spending a lot of time together, but that could be changed.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Stop saying that!” His hand closed around her upper arm, pulling her around to face him. “You can’t just throw nineteen years of marriage out the window because we haven’t been spending enough time together. What about Michael? How are you going to explain this to him?”
“Michael is old enough to understand.”
“Understand? How the hell do you expect an eighteen-year-old kid to understand when it doesn’t make any sense to me?”
“Donovan—”
“What the hell are you thinking, Beth? You can’t do this.”
“Donovan, I don’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing I want.”
“Well, you’re doing a damn fine job of it.” His fingers dug into her arm, but she knew he wasn’t even aware of the pressure. She could feel her nerves stretching tighter. In a minute she was going to start screaming, and she was afraid she’d never stop.
“Donovan, when was the last time we made love? Can you remember?”
He stared at her, stunned. His fingers loosened, and she knew he was trying to remember, appalled by the time that had slipped by unnoticed.
He drew a quick, hard breath, his hand again tightening on her arm, pulling her closer. “If that’s what this is about, it’s easily remedied.”
Elizabeth tried to draw back, but he held her in place, his free hand cupping the back of her neck, tilting her head. She didn’t struggle as his mouth came down on hers. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her—at least not physically. The pain she felt was lodged deep inside.
She could taste his desperation, could feel it in the taut muscles of his body. But that was all she felt. She could remember a time when just the touch of his mouth had lit a fire inside her where now she felt nothing but emptiness and regret.
The fire was gone. Not even an ember remained. Only a pile of cold ashes, gray and worn, without life.
She remained passive in his hold, sensing that this would convince him as perhaps nothing else could. A tear slipped from beneath her closed lids, losing itself in the golden-blond hair at her temple.
Donovan raised his head slowly and took his hands away from her, but not before she felt the tremor in his fingers. His breathing was harsh in the quiet room. She opened her eyes, seeing him through a blur of tears. Was it possible for a person to age in a matter of minutes? He suddenly looked every one of his thirty-eight years.
“I’m sorry, Donovan. I just don’t love you anymore.”