He yelled, and took a breath, standing with his face no more than a foot from hers, seeing the ugly distortion of her features and knowing that his own must be equally twisted and stiff. She hit him then, an openhanded swinging blow that caught him on the cheekbone. Instantly his own hand moved in reflex. He saw her head rock, watched her stagger off balance, sit down on the edge of the divan, and then skid off to the floor. For a long and silent moment he stared down at her, horrified. Then he wheeled and started out the door as she found her voice.

When Rick Sheridan came back, he thought the room was empty. Then he saw the crumpled figure on the floor. The two years that he and his wife had been separated had cooled even whatever feelings had once existed. She had been a problem for so long. And now, now, she was to remain a problem.

The slowly dawning knowledge that there had been other men in her life was the only clue Rick had to follow. With which one had she been the impetuous—and dangerous mistress?