She felt herself grow warm. “I have a purely professional interest in the scenery.”

“Is that so?”

She hated the way one of his black eyebrows lifted. Hated that curl of his lips. It was sardonic, but also quite sexy, and she was sure he knew it. “I use them for inspiration, not souvenirs,” she said coolly, wanting to squash him, and his amusement. There was no reason for him to take pleasure in her discomfiture. No reason for him to act superior.

“Interesting,” he drawled, and Morgan had to restrain herself from kicking him beneath the table because she knew he didn’t mean it. And he didn’t believe her. He probably was sitting there arrogantly thinking she was completely hung up on him … and imagining she was obsessing about having great sex with him … which was ludicrous because she wasn’t thinking about having great sex with him anymore. At least not when she was talking about the scenery and inspiration.

“I use the inspiration for my work,” she said defiantly, not even sure why she was getting so upset. “But you probably don’t consider it work. You probably think it’s silly. Superficial.”

“I never said that.”

“Perhaps you didn’t say it, but you think it. You know you do.”

“I find it interesting that you feel compelled to put words into my mouth.”

His ability to be so calm and detached when she was feeling so emotional made her even more emotional. She leaned toward him. “Surely you’ve wondered what drove you to marry a flighty woman like me … a woman so preoccupied with frivolous things.”

“Are you flighty?”

“You must think so.”

He leaned forward, too, closing the distance between them. “I’m not asking you to tell me what I think. I’m asking you—are you flighty?”

Her chin jerked up. “No.”

“Are you preoccupied with frivolous things?” he persisted.

Her cheeks burned hot and her eyes felt gritty. “No.”

“So you’re not flighty or frivolous?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then why would I think you are?”

She had to close her eyes, overwhelmed by pain and the wave of grief that swept over her.

“Morgan?”

She gave her head a small shake, refusing to open her eyes until she was sure they were perfectly dry. “I am sorry,” she said huskily. “You deserved better than me.”

“And I’d like to hear more about your jewelry and your ideas, unless you’re determined to hold onto this bizarre fantasy of yours that I don’t care for you or what’s going on inside that beautiful, but complicated head.”

She suddenly seethed with anger. Why was he so interested in her thoughts now, when he hadn’t been interested in anything but her body when they’d lived together? “I loved what I did,” she said shortly. “I was really proud of my work, and I am still proud of those three collections.”

She glared at him, waiting for him to speak, but he simply sat back in his chair and looked at her, and let the silence grow, expand and threaten to take over.