He raised a brow. The corner of his mouth lifted as he deliberately called up his cold-bastard’s smile. “Differences, Morgan?” he asked softly.
She had the grace to flush but waved a graceful hand in annoyed dismissal. “All right, so we haven’t exactly had the happiest relationship. We barely tolerated each other. It’s been that way for a long time. It suits me—and you!—so don’t tell me anything different! You’ve probably had someone on the side for years, but I’ve never cared. Just like you never cared that I—” She stopped abruptly, biting her lip.
“I did care, once. A great deal,” Michael said in a neutral voice. He felt a twinge of regret for what could have been then it was gone, taking along with it much of the ancient bitterness and anger. “But you’re right about this much. I got out of the habit a long time ago.” That truth stung. Her eyes flashed. He coolly watched her obvious struggle to retain control of her temper.
When she finally trusted herself to speak, her voice was icy. “Exactly, Michael! So what has changed? Why now? Why have you filed for divorce?” Sarcasm dripped in her voice. “What happened, did someone die?”
Michael flinched. He instantly smoothed his expression but not quickly enough.
Morgan’s own expression subtly altered. “Michael…” She started to reach out, to touch his arm.
Michael stiffened, staring her down. “Don’t, Morgan.”
Her hand dropped to her side. She hadn’t the right, and she at least had the sense to recognize it. In a quieter voice, she said, “I’m sorry, Michael.”
“No one has died.” This was not going as he had thought it would. In frustration, Michael swept his hand over his face. His fingers grazed the dark stubble on his jaws and chin. It was not the only outward sign of neglect. He hadn’t slept well for some time, but that wasn’t what had worn him down. His whole world and everything that he had believed about himself had been tilted on its axis. He was aware of the searching look that Morgan gave him. He knew what she would see. He had not bothered to change his flight-rumpled clothing before sitting down with his lawyer or coming to see his estranged wife. He was always fastidious about his appearance, even in casual dress. By his standards, he was unkempt, and Morgan would know that.
She asked slowly, “Do you love this person?”
“Leave it, Morgan.” Michael felt a stark shaft of pain under his ribs. How very much he wished that he had been allowed to be even a small part of Chloe Somerset’s life. How much he regretted that Catherine had not trusted in him enough to let him share it.
Morgan understood him well enough to realize that he was under considerable strain. “Was there an accident?”
He shook his head. “It was a long illness—three years. Leukemia. I didn’t know anything about it. She never told me.” He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t stand still, fielding any more of Morgan’s intrusive questions. He swung around, stalking to the mantel over the fireplace. He grasped the shoulder-height stone before turning a shuttered expression to her. “I am not willing to discuss this.”
Michael didn’t like Morgan’s silent, narrow-eyed assessment. She was looking at him with such a strange look in her eyes. What was she thinking? Was it the divorce? There was enough at stake in assets that it could be worth her while to drag things out. Morgan had always had a penchant for the good life.
Then something, something close to pity, flickered across her face. Her voice was even. “All right, Michael. I won’t fight you on the divorce.”
He drew his brows together, staring at her. What the hell was going on in her head? This capitulation was unlike the Morgan that he knew.