“Sit down, Misha. Just tell me about it,” he suggested quietly.

She leaned back in the chair and glanced up at him. No one but Matthew had ever called her Misha. She had been christened Mishalorna; her great-grandfather had been Russian, and her father had taught the language. But the name had lasted no longer than her infancy. Lorna was so much easier. Richard, especially, had always objected to the exotic hint of the foreign name.

Matthew hadn’t, and a very long time ago his special diminutive had always sounded teasing and affectionate. Now the sound of it sent a swift, strange rush of warmth through her. She grappled with the cool, distant speech she had prepared in her head. “I’m sure you feel I haven’t any right to be here, and I promise I won’t take up much of your time. If you’ll just hear me out-”

“You haven’t changed.”

He was studying her, his eyes skimming over her crossed legs and supple, slim body, apparently assessing the difference nine years had made. His jaw seemed to tighten as he took in soft red lips and expressive gray eyes, the way she brushed her hair back from her forehead, the pale blue knit dress gently molded to her figure.

Disconcerted by his intimate survey, Lorna glanced down and tried to compose her thoughts again. It wasn’t as if he could honestly be happy to see her.

“Misha? Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“Yes. Of course.” The thing to do was to get it over with. Lorna focused deliberately on the sheen of the teak desk rather than on those unfathomable eyes of his. There was no way she was going to let this drag on any longer than it had to. “The last time I saw you, Matthew, I was in the hospital. If you remember, you offered me a check for ten thousand dollars from…Richard.”

The room suddenly seemed plunged into silence. She saw Matthew’s impenetrable mask drop; the pulse in his throat was working overtime.