dress he'd bought for her, along with the heavy sweater. The dress was more like summer wear, and the evening had turned cool. He should turn up the furnace. He never noticed the cold, but she was so thin-skinned, she was probably shivering.
Dammit, there he went again. She was a grown woman. She could damned well turn up the heat herself. Avidly seeking lost shoes now, Axell used his toe to pry a slipper from beneath the leather sofa. It took two slams to land it in the pile with the first two.
"Your daughter seems fascinated by nurseries. She made a few revealing comments I can't fully understand. I thought you might prefer to deal with them rather than me."
"What comments?" Axell asked roughly, glaring at the picture before dropping it on the table as he uncovered a sandal lurking in a corner.
She hesitated, as if afraid to alight anywhere. He pointed at the couch as he swatted the sandal out of its hiding place. "Sit down."
She sat. She clasped her hands in her lap. She twiddled her thumbs. She looked everywhere but at him as he stalked the enormous room in search of shoes.
At his growl of exasperation, she finally sighed. "I don't want to get involved in your family problems," she stated baldly.
"Tell me about it," he agreed with venom. He didn't mean to make her flinch, he just couldn't help himself right now. He kicked the sandal until it landed upside down on a sneaker. "Go ahead," he finished a little less irascibly. "We might as well know each other's life stories."
She threw him a rueful glance. "I don't think so. Comic farce isn't my strong point." She pointed at the discarded picture. "Constance tells me that's a real baby in the crib. That her mommy was going to have a real baby."
Feeling as if a gun had exploded in his face, Axell swayed where he stood. Pain rippled through him, and in a desperate effort to fight it, he dropped to his knees and began systematically searching for the rest of Constance's shoe collection. "I didn't think she remembered," he muttered from the floor. "I had a decorator take the nursery apart and refurnish it right after Angela died. It just seemed simpler."
"No wonder she doesn't talk to you."
He bonked his head on the entertainment center. Rubbing the sore spot, he glared at her as if she were to blame, but he saw no accusation in her eyes. He threw a dusty patent leather shoe into the pile.
"She's only imitating you," she continued remorselessly. "If an adult like you can't tell express your emotions, how can you expect a child to say how she feels?"
Axell cringed and continued prowling the room. "She was so little," he protested. "How could I explain? Her mother was dead. That was difficult enough. Damn." He pounced on another sandal. "It was all so difficult. Angela and I hadn't been getting along. We'd hoped the baby would cure our differences,"—the sandal hit the pile with the first throw—"but it only made things worse. We had a furious fight that morning. I stormed off to my office. She must have decided to follow."
The words poured out, words he'd never told anyone, words that ripped his soul from his gut and tears from his eyes. Men didn't cry, dammit. He jerked a dollhouse away from the wall and located the missing leather shoe. Something wet streamed down his cheek, and standing, he kicked the shoe so hard, it flew past the stack.
In a dead voice, Axell finished the sorry tale. "We'd just had a thunderstorm. The roads were slick, leaves and limbs everywhere. I'd taken the big car because she liked the little convertible. She didn't even fasten her damned seat belt."
"It wasn't your fault," she said softly.
"Hell, I don't know." Wearily, Axell pinched his nose and wiped the tear before turning to face her. Why go over this now? It wouldn't change anything. But she stared at him with those damned open-as-the-sea eyes, and he struggled for words. "Angela died instantly from a blow to the head after she was thrown from the car," he said with a sigh. "Angela was only five months along. The doctors couldn't save him."
Him. His son. They hadn't even given him a name. He'd just had "Infant Son" inscribed on the gravestone. He hadn't cried. He'd simply stood there at the funeral, holding his young daughter's hand, watching them bury the last of his dreams.
Fighting the