The Millionaire Claims His Wife

Chase put his hand to the back of his neck and tried to rub the tension out of his muscles. He had no idea what she was talking about, and neither did Nick, the poor, bewildered bastard. Not even Annie understood; Chase was certain of that, and never mind the way she’d kept saying, “I understand, sweetheart,” while she’d rocked Dawn in her arms.

“What do you understand?” Chase had asked her in exasperation, when she’d come hurrying out of the bedroom after she’d finally convinced Dawn to lie down and try to get some sleep. Annie had shot him one of those men-are-so-stupid looks women did so well and said she didn’t understand anything, but she wasn’t about to upset Dawn by telling her that.

“Dammit, Annie,” Chase had roared, and that had done it. Nick had come running, Dawn had started crying, Annie had called him a name he hadn’t even figured she knew...hell, he thought wearily, it was a good thing Annie didn’t have a dog, or it would have gotten in on the act and taken a chunk out of his ankle.

“Now see what you’ve done,” Annie had snarled, and the door to Dawn’s room had slammed in his bewildered face.

Chase groaned. He was tired. So tired. There’d been no sound from behind the closed door for hours now. Annie and his daughter were probably asleep. Even Nick had finally fallen into exhausted slumber on the sofa in the living room.

Maybe, if he just put his head back for a five-minute snooze...

“Dammit!”

Chase’s head bobbed like a yo-yo on a string. That was just what he’d needed, all right. Oh, yeah. Nothing like a little whiplash for neck muscles that already felt knotted.

“Stupid chair,” he muttered, and sprang to his feet.

For a minute there, he’d forgotten he wasn’t in the den he and Annie had shared for so many years. Annie had dumped all the old furniture when she’d bought this house. She’d filled these rooms with little bits and pieces of junk. Antiques, she called them, but junk is what the stuff was. Delicate junk, at that. Sofas and tables with silly legs, chairs with no headrests...

“You kick that chair, Chase Cooper, and I swear, I’ll kick you!”

Chase swung around. His ex-wife stood in the entrance to the room. She’d exchanged her mother-of-the-bride dress for a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and from the way her hair was standing on end and her hands were propped on her hips, he had the feeling her mood wasn’t much better than his.

Too bad. Too damned bad, considering that she was the one had gotten them into this mess in the first place. If only she hadn’t been so damned permissive. If only she’d put her foot down right at the start, told Dawn she was too young to get married—

“It deserves kicking,” he grumbled, but he stepped aside and let her swish past him, snatch up the chair cushions and plump them, as if that might remove any sign he’d sat there. “How’s Dawn?”

“She’s asleep.” Annie tucked the cushions back in place. “How’s Nick? I assume he’s still here?”

“Yes, he’s here. He’s asleep, in the living room.”

“And he’s okay?”

“As okay as he can be, all things considered. Has our daughter told you yet just what, exactly, is going on?”

Annie looked at him. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing the curls back from her face.

“How about some tea?” Without waiting for his answer, she set off for the kitchen. “Unless you’d prefer coffee,” she asked, switching on the overhead fluorescent light.

“Tea’s fine,” Chase said, blinking in the sudden glare. He sank onto one of the stools that stood before the kitchen counter, watching as Annie filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove. “Has she?”

“Has she what?” Annie yanked open the pantry door. She took out a box of tea bags and put it on the counter. “Would you like a cookie? Of course, I don’t have those hideous things you always preferred, with all that goo in the middle.”

“Just tea,” he replied, refusing to rise to the bait. “What did Dawn say?”

Annie shut the pantry door and opened the refrigerator. “How about a sandwich? Swiss? Or there’s some ham, if you prefer.”

“Annie...”

“You’d have to take it on whole grain bread, though, the kind you always said—”

“—that I wouldn’t touch until somebody strapped a feed bag over my face and a saddle on my back. No, thank you very much, I don’t want a sandwich. I don’t want anything, except to know what our daughter told you and what it is you don’t want to tell me.” Chase’s eyes narrowed. “Has Nick mistreated her?”