“Misha-”

“I don’t care what you think anymore. If it weren’t for Johnny, I wouldn’t have come back here in a thousand years-” Matthew had ripped open the old wound, and the pain seared through her as she remembered the agony of one long, desperate day after another so many years ago. They had charged her with adultery, and she’d had no way to prove her innocence…but it shouldn’t still matter. Richard was dead. The wounds made by his father’s blistering contempt had scarred over. Only Matthew… She’d thought there was just a chance Matthew might believe her now. She should have known better, just from living with Johnny. A Whitaker never forgot or forgave an injustice. It came with the genes. And she was an idiot to have come here. Her eyes blurred with a disgusting film of tears.

Suddenly, she felt Matthew’s persuasive grip on her shoulders.

“Look. Why don’t you sit down for a minute-”

“Just leave me alone-”

“I’ll leave you alone,” he agreed quietly, and promptly didn’t. All she wanted to do was get out of there, yet she felt the backs of her legs brushing against the chair, his hold on her shoulders just firm enough to force her down into it.

She could cheerfully have killed him. “I want to leave,” she announced crisply.

“When you’re in shape to drive,” he replied. “At the moment, you’re in a mood to take on pedestrians at a thousand miles an hour. I think not, Misha.”

He walked behind her, and her fingers pressed so hard into her temples that they left dents. Behind her, she heard the chink of ice against glass. He held a drink in front of her. “No, thank you.” He nudged her fingers firmly around the drink. “Matthew,” she said irritably, “for openers, drinking and driving don’t mix.”