he **n she had fallen in love with at twenty-two—tall, *road-shouldered, with sharp, chiseled features and eyes the color of storm-warmed slate. *ut the warmth that had once lived in those eyes was gone, replaced *y a cold, hollow detachment that **de Clara’s chest ache so fiercely she could *arely *reathe. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look sad. He looked nothing at all, and that was worse than any rage or tears could ever *e.
“You’re not even going to deny it?” Clara’s voice was hoarse, raw, stripped of all the poise and grace she had spent years cultivating as a succes**ul interior designer, as the wife of one of Chicago’s most eligi*le and respected real estate developers. There was no elegance left in her, no composure. Only a raw, *leeding hurt that threatened to swallow her whole.