no sense. Another more resentful, less logical part felt as though he’d intentionally stolen her dream. Or worse, as if he were rubbing the failures of her life in her face. Bringing into sharp relief the fact that she hadn’t been able to cut it, had abandoned her art and settled for a job she never wanted in the first place.
But why would he do that? How would he even know?
She hadn’t seen nor heard from him in twelve long, empty years.
Every one of her stuffed-down regrets boiled to the surface. She wanted to run. Hide. Scream. She wanted to tear off this stupid uniform and demand a life do-over.
With considerable effort, Cagney pulled herself together.
She needed to talk to Jonas privately before her wild imagination created yet more scenarios that didn’t exist, before she did something rash that she’d regret. Because, more than anything else, she wanted a second chance at the conversation that should have happened more than a decade earlier.
Chapter Two
Jonas addressed the assemblage much more quickly than Hennessy had introduced him, or at least it felt that way. He fake smiled his way through a ceremonial groundbreaking, mostly for the media, then made himself and the architect who’d designed the new wing available for one-on-one questions during a meet-and-greet reception.
That part only took about an hour, but by the end, he was emotionally drained and ready to retreat to his hotel room in nearby Crested Butte. The whole day had been … weird. A letdown. Not at all what he’d expected. The glow of smug satisfaction he’d anticipated over the years simply hadn’t materialized.
Confused and lost, he said his requisite goodbyes as swiftly as possible, then made his way down the ramp to where the limo waited in the underground garage. His handmade Italian leather shoes echoed on the pavement in the cavernous and largely empty concrete structure. He loosened his tie as he walked, then said to hell with it and whipped the thing off altogether.
After inhaling deeply, he blew out a long breath, ran his hands through his hair—and that’s when he saw her.
Cagney. Standing next to his limo.
He stopped dead as—much to his surprise—a wave of uncertainty assailed him.
His Cagney, all grown-up and more beautiful than ever, stood right within reach. Her hair was pulled back, but wisps of it danced around her face. She fiddled her fingers together, finally settling on crossing her arms—just like she’d always done when she was nervous around him. Was she nervous? When he didn’t move, she offered him a brave, small smile. Happy? Anxious?
Everything inside him twisted and tightened. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He was supposed to hate her.
Her lips looked the same. Did they taste the same? And her thick, blond hair … would it still feel like mink against his palms?
“Hi,” she said, her tone choked off.
His well-honed composure crumbled, and all he wanted in that split second was her. Some uncontrollable insanity urged him to toss his vengeful plans out the window, then wrap her in his arms and whisper that everything was okay. They were adults now, and Chief Bishop no longer had a say in their choices. That evil SOB didn’t even have to be a part of their lives if they didn’t want him to be.
Drunk on impulse and long-dead romantic dreams, he took two steps forward before he noticed her outfit: a Troublesome Gulch Police uniform. It stunned him like an uppercut from out of nowhere. So much for excising Chief from their lives.
Oh, yeah. They didn’t have a life together.
Remember? Never had, never would.
Ugly reality settled over him like armor, which was exactly what he needed to survive this unexpected encounter. He cleared his throat, hardened his heart. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” she said, easily.
He didn’t want to hear the unspoken, and you don’t, but the implication ribboned through his brain unbidden. He raised one eyebrow and huffed. “Well, you have my sympathies in that respect.”
Her smile faded into a look of confusion, which quickly transformed into something far more invasive and insightful. She cocked her head to the side, studying him with those laser-blue eyes that had always been able to see into his soul.
Good thing he’d developed a nearly impenetrable emotional shell over the years. Still, his breathing shallowed. “What?”
“Nice speech out there.”
He didn’t need her approval. “What do you want, Cagney?”
“At this point? A simple answer to a simple question.”
He exhaled with impatience. “Make it fast. I have meetings,” he lied.
“Oh, I will.” She paused until he looked at her. “If you hate Troublesome Gulch so much, then why did you bring your zillions here, to our hospital? And an art therapy wing, of all things.” Her tone was soft, unassuming. Her words were not. “It’s pretty puzzling.”
She knew him.
She’d always known him.
He didn’t have to put up with this. After a moment’s hesitation, he shouldered gently past her and opened the limo’s back door.
“Don’t you have a driver to do that kind of thing for you?”
He threw his tie inside the plush vehicle, then shrugged out of his jacket and did the same with it. He turned to face her, disconcerted by how close she stood. He could smell the unique perfume of her skin, etched into his memory. Pine and wildflowers and woman. “I don’t believe in making people wait on me just because I earn more money than they do. I’m perfectly capable of opening my own door.”
“Fair enough.” She shrugged. “But then, why the limo? Isn’t that sort of service the whole point?”
Valid question. Damn it. He silently castigated himself, then muttered, “Seemed fitting under the circumstances.”
“Ah, the circumstances.” Another pointed pause. “You haven’t answered my first question. Why here? Why this particular donation?”
Revenge was the honest answer. An eye for an eye. Paybacks. He wanted to hurt her like she’d hurt him. Worse. Of course, he couldn’t come right out and say that.
He dragged his gaze over the length of her body, ending at her face. “Maybe I thought you’d followed your dreams, though by the look of your work attire, I’m obviously mistaken.”
Her cheeks reddened as though he’d slapped her.
A surge of remorse bolted through him.
Then again, why should it? After the way she’d destroyed him, he shouldn’t feel bad about anything he said to her.
“You could’ve asked.” She shrugged. “I’ve always been here. Number’s in the book.”
Right. He struggled for a plausible explanation. “Maybe I did it for you, Cagney. Ever thought of that?” He held both palms up. “My error, since you seem to have taken a different path.”
Seemingly impervious to his icy demeanor, she hiked her chin. “Use your words as weapons all you want, but I don’t believe that.”
He frowned, feeling off-kilter and not liking it one bit. She was so together, so steady. “Don’t believe what?”
She gestured toward the hospital. “That you’d do something like … this art therapy wing … for me.”
His gaze narrowed. “Yeah? Why not? Finally learn to hate me from your old man?”
She paused again, but he could see the slight tremor of her hands. “If anyone has learned hate and anger, it’s obviously