“Does that upset you, Sloan?” Heather retorted bitterly. “I can’t imagine why. You’ve always known I’m not a saint like your precious Doe.”

She drew blood with that barb, she could see it in his face.

“Leave her out of this,” he said tightly.

“How can I, when she’s always come between us?”

Sloan’s fist tightened around the spoon in his hand. Heather had struck straight at that dark, empty place that had once been his heart.

“In any event,” she went on tonelessly, “I have a friend in Denver, remember? I’ve applied to Richard for help, and he has agreed to look for a possible position for me.”

Sloan remembered the newspaperman well enough. A sick sensation knotted his belly.

“At the very least I could become a governess, or perhaps a music teacher. Elite families are willing to pay handsomely for pianoforte lessons for their spoiled daughters, I’ve discovered.”

His jaw hardening, he set his daughter on the floor and rose slowly to his feet. Janna looked startled to be so abruptly abandoned, but Sloan paid her no heed as he moved to stand before his wife.

The tension was raw, so brittle it had an edge to it. He stared down at Heather, yet he didn’t realize he had reached out to grasp her shoulders until she said tightly, “Would you kindly unhand me?”

He didn’t want to let her go. He felt the primitive urge to bind her to him now, so she wouldn’t leave him.

“Sloan…” Her eyes implored him, while her tone softened to a plea. “Let me go. You don’t want me for your wife. You don’t really want me at all.”

She was dead wrong, he realized, his jaw locked against the pain. He did want her. More than he’d ever wanted any woman in his life.

“You think not, duchess?” Catching her wrist, he drew her hand down to his groin to feel the hard evidence of his desire. “What the hell does this feel like? Indifference?”

She winced. “Our relationship has always been merely carnal. Just sex—you said so yourself.”

“Maybe so. Maybe all I’ve ever really wanted is your body.”

She felt the color drain from her face.

For the space of a dozen heartbeats, he stood towering over her, his face as tight with emotion as hers. The strain between them was palpable enough to shatter.

“All right then,” Sloan said finally, his voice as cold as a Colorado winter. “Have it your way, duchess. You can leave. You can do whatever you want once the campaign is over.” His fingers opened to release her shoulders. “Don’t worry that I might repeat yesterday. I won’t touch you again. You have my word on it.”