“God, Isabel. Do not spout phrases like that.” He tossed back his drink and poured another.

“What would you like me to say?” she asked, hating that she could offer no words of comfort and still tell the truth.

He set his snifter down so hard the reddish liquid sloshed over the sides. Hargreaves ignored it, and came to her. “I want you to tell me it does not matter that he has returned.”

“I cannot.” She sighed, and lifted to her tiptoes to kiss the clenched line of his jaw. His arms came around her, and squeezed her tight. “You know I cannot. I wish I could.”

Taking the glass from her, Hargreaves set it on the end table, and pulled her toward the bed. She shook her head.

“You deny me?” he asked, clearly incredulous.

“I am confused, John, and distressed. Both of which rather dampens my ardor. It is no reflection on you. I promise.”

“You have never turned me away. Why did you visit? To torment me?”

Isabel pulled back, her lips pursed. “My apologies. I was unaware that I was only invited to fornicate.” She tugged her hand from his, and moved away.

“Pel, wait.” Hargreaves caught her about the waist, and buried his face in the curve of her neck. “Forgive me. I feel a gulf between us that was not there before, and I cannot bear it.”

He turned her to face him. “Tell me truthfully. Does Grayson want you?”

“I don’t know.”

John released a frustrated breath. “How in hell can you not know, Isabel? You, of all women, should know if a man desires to be in your bed or not.”

“You have not seen him. His garments are odd-coarse and overly simple. Wherever he has been, it has not been anywhere he would socialize. Yes, he lusts, John. I recognize that much. But is it me he lusts for? Or a woman in general? That is what I do not know.”