HOW SHE MADE IT through the weekend, Chantel didn’t know. They were some of the hardest days she’d ever spent, and she’d had her share of hard days in the past year. But she’d managed to keep Dillon at arm’s length. He’d tried to talk to her several times and had watched her closely, his confusion and desire showing clearly in his eyes.

      She’d turned a cold shoulder to him, refusing to entertain memories of their time together or to consider any contact in the future. He was Stacy’s. Off-limits. Period. There was no margin for error in that.

      Kicking off her shoes in the middle of her own living room on Monday evening, Chantel turned on the television before going into the kitchen to root through the refrigerator. At least work was getting easier. Today she’d forwarded several letters to Congressman Brown from constituents who needed help on federal issues. There wasn’t much a state senator could do to assist someone with the IRS, except to pass on the request. She’d responded to myriad letters on child-support reform, somehow managing to figure out how to do a mail merge on her computer. And she’d learned how to handle the scheduling for the congressman so she could fill in if Nan, in the capitol office, was ever away.

      She was beginning to think there was life after modeling. But she still regretted that she had no education. Stacy was a nurse, with a good job in the maternity ward at the hospital. Chantel envied her the pay but knew she could never work so closely with newborns. Always seeing someone else go home with what she wanted most would cause her constant pain.

      A knock at the door interrupted her consideration of a frozen burrito. “Who is it?”

      No answer.

      Frowning, Chantel shut the freezer door and went to peek through the peephole. Whoever it was was standing too far to the right. She could make out nothing more than part of one denim-clad leg. Another solicitor for some worthy cause? They always seemed to come at dinnertime.

      Chantel opened the door as far as the chain would allow. “Who is it?”

      Wade shifted so she could see him. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

      Chantel’s stomach dropped. Oh, no. Not now. It had only been six months since she’d left him in New York, but already he looked different. His hair was bleached blond, an earring dangled from his left ear, and he’d obviously been hitting the weights again. “No. How’d you find me?”

      He gave her the grin that had won her heart when she was only nineteen. “We’re both from this town. Where else would you be?”

      “So what do you want?” she asked warily.

      “Just to see you. We didn’t part on the best of terms, and…” He ran a hand through his short thickly gelled hair. “I owe you an apology for not being there for you when you were in the hospital.”

      “I didn’t want you with me in the hospital. I told you that.”

      “I know. You said it was something you had to do for yourself, but that’s crazy. For all intents and purposes, you’re still my wife, Chantel.”

      “I was never your wife, Wade.”

      He jammed one hand into the pocket of his Tommy Hilfiger jeans. “My folks would like to see you.”

      “I’ll try and stop by,” she replied, but she said it only to placate him. Visiting the people she’d once considered her in-laws would prove too awkward. She liked them, but they’d never spent much time together, and she needed her break with Wade to be as clean as possible.

      “Steve wants to know if you’re coming back. He says he could put you to work right away.”

      Steve Morgan had been her agent, was still Wade’s, evidently, and one of the few people Chantel actually missed. “Tell him I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want to model anymore. You both know that.”

      “Well, I’ve gotten a few covers. Have you seen them?”

      Chantel shook her head. She purposely stayed well away from the magazine racks at the grocery store. The allure of New York was strong enough without reminding herself of the life she’d led there. The easy money. The glamour and the parties. The attention. In those respects, the Big Apple had more than its share of appeal, but that kind of life was lethal to her. She couldn’t keep herself well when everything depended on her looks. And when she was there, she couldn’t stay away from Wade. He was an addiction as dangerous as any drug, because he thrived on her destruction.

      “Are you going to keep me standing outside all day?” he asked. “Can’t we at least be civil about this?”

      A voice in Chantel’s head urged her to refuse him. She supposed that was the voice of wisdom. Instead, she listened to her heart, which told her they’d been together for ten years and should be able to speak kindly to each other now. Closing the door just long enough to slide back the chain, she opened it again, and Wade stepped in.

      “I thought you liked contemporary decor,” he said, studying her living room, which could have been featured in the magazine Country Living.

      “You like contemporary,” she said simply, which pretty much summed up their problems. Wade had to have everything his way. No one else mattered.

      “Well, what you’ve done here is nice. You look great, by the way.”

      Chantel had no intention of returning the compliment, even though he did look good. He’d always looked good. And he smelled even better. The Givenchy that was his favorite cologne invaded her senses, bringing back memories she would rather forget.

      “Where are you working now?” he asked.

      She perched on the edge of a plaid wing-back chair, wishing he’d say whatever he’d come to say and then just go. “I work for a state senator.”

      “Wow. How’d you get that?”

      He thought she wasn’t smart enough to do a real job. That hurt her, as always, but she kept her shoulders straight and her head high. “I applied.”

      “Good for you.”

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

      “You don’t know?”

      “If it’s to talk me into coming back, you can save your breath.” Chantel knew she sounded much tougher than she felt and hoped he couldn’t see through her.

      “How come you never answered any of my letters?”

      “Because I never even opened them.” She didn’t add that she’d saved them, though. They were all lurking in a drawer in her bedroom.

      “Why?”

      “You know why.”

      “You think this whole thing is my fault, don’t you?” He propped his hands on his narrow hips. “What did I ever do but love you and take care of you?”

      And criticize and punish me. “I