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He reached for her with a gentle hand and brushed away a tear that had tumbled loose. “What happened to you, sweetheart? Why all this commotion over a silly tree?”
“I just want Sarita to be happy.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so. Why is it so important for you to decorate the house? Come on. Spill it.”
The quiver had spread to her sweet, vulnerable mouth. “I—I’m not feeling well. Ithink I’ll go lie down for a little while.”
“Honey—”
She shook her head, backing away from his outstretched hand. “Please, Chaz. Give me a little time alone.”
“Wait a minute. We need to talk. You haven’t told me about the Doña’s condition. And damn it all, Shayne, Iwant to discuss this Christmas business with you.”
“I don’t think I can.” Her voice broke. “Not right now.”
With that she turned and fled the room. Every instinct he possessed urged him to give chase, not to wait until she’d had time to deal with whatever demons haunted her, but instead force them into the open. He hesitated, suspecting he was listening to raging male hormones, the sort that wanted to sweep her into his arms and fight those demons for her, instead of the more rational part of his brain that urged him to abide by her wishes.
He checked his watch. One hour. He’d give her one hour and then they were going to have a long talk about their past and about Sarita, about their marriage and about their future.
And then he’d give in to those raging male hormones.
