Birthright

possibilities. And it could, it did, latch on to the tiniest detail, work it, build on it, until it gleamed like gold.
    The problem was they challenged each other personally, too. And for a while . . . for a while, she mused, they had complemented each other.
    But mostly they’d fought like a pair of mad dogs.
    When they weren’t fighting, they were falling into bed. When they weren’t fighting or falling into bed or working on a common project they . . . baffled each other, she supposed.
    It had been ridiculous for them to get married. She could see that now. What had seemed romantic, exciting and sexy in eloping like a couple of crazy teenagers had turned into stark reality. And marriage had become a battlefield with each of them drawing lines the other had been dead set on crossing.
    Of course, his lines had been absurd, while hers had been rational. But that was neither here nor there.
    They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other, she remembered. And her body still remembered, poignantly, the feel of those hands.
    But then, it had been painfully apparent that Jacob Graystone’s hands hadn’t been particularly selective where they wandered. The bastard.
    That brunette in Colorado had been the last straw. Busty, baby-voiced Veronica. The bitch.
    And when she’d confronted him with her conclusions, when she’d accused him in plain, simple terms of being a rat-bastard cheater, he hadn’t had the courtesy—he hadn’t had the balls , she corrected as her temper spiked—to confirm or deny.
    What had he called her? Oh yeah. Her mouth thinned as she heard the hot slap of his words in her head.
    A childish, tight-assed, hysterical female.
    She’d never been sure which part of that phrase most pissed her off, but it had coated her vision with red. The rest of the argument was a huge, boiling blur. All she clearly remembered was demanding a divorce—the first sensible thing she’d done since laying eyes on him. And demanding he get the hell out, and off the project, or she would.
    Had he fought for her? Hell no. Had he begged her forgiveness, pledged his love and fidelity? Not a chance.
    He’d walked. And so—ha ha, what a coincidence—had the busty brunette.
    Still steaming from the memory, Callie stepped out of the shower, grabbed one of the thin, tiny towels the motel provided. Then closed a hand around the ring she wore on a chain around her neck.
    She’d taken the wedding ring off—yanked it off, she recalled—as soon as she’d received the divorce papers for her signature. She’d very nearly heaved it into the Platte River, where she’d been working.
    But she hadn’t been able to. She hadn’t been able to let it go as she’d told herself she’d let Jacob go.
    He was, in her life, her only failure.
    She told herself she wore the ring to remind herself not to fail again.
    She pulled off the chain, tossed it on the dresser. If he saw it, he’d think she’d never gotten over him. Or something equally conceited.
    She wasn’t going to think about him anymore. She’d work with him but that didn’t mean she’d spend a minute of her free time thinking about him.
    Jacob Graystone had been a personal mistake, a personal failure. And she’d moved on.
    He certainly had. Their little world was incestuous enough for her to have heard how quickly he’d dived back into the single-guy dating pool to do the backstroke.
    Rich, amateur diggers, that was his style, she thought as she yanked out fresh jeans. Rich, amateur diggers with big breasts and empty heads. Someone who looked good on his arm and made him feel intellectually superior.
    That’s what he wanted.
    “Screw him,” she muttered and dragged on jeans and a shirt.
    She was going to see if Rosie wanted to hunt up a meal, and she wasn’t going to give Graystone another thought.
    She pulled open the door and nearly plowed into the woman who was standing outside it.
    “Sorry.” Callie jammed the room key in her pocket. “Can I help you with something?”
    Suzanne’s throat snapped shut. Tears threatened to overflow as she stared at Callie’s face. She fought a smile on her lips and clutched her portfolio bag as if it were a beloved child.
    In a way, it was.
    “Didn’t mean to startle you,” Callie said when the woman only continued to stare. “Are you looking for someone?”
    “Yes. Yes, I’m looking for someone. You . . .I need to speak with you. It’s awfully important.”
    “Me?” Callie shifted, to block