But those hands weren't hers, at least not while she was running around tidying up the mess Bryce had made for her.
With the hateful errands done, she trudged through a soaking rain toward the propagation house. For an hour or two, at least, she could dive into the final prep work for the spring season. And she could take her headache, and her sour mood, into a private spot and let the work do its magic.
When she was done for the day, she told herself, she was going to find Mitch. If he wasn't working in her library, she'd call him. She wanted his company - or hoped she would by that evening.
She wanted conversation, about something other than her problems. And wouldn't it be nice to relax with him, maybe up in her sitting room, by the fire - especially if the rain continued - and bask a little in the way he looked at her?
A woman could get very used to having a man look at her as if she were beautiful and desirable and the only one who mattered.
Get used enough to it, she might start to believe it. She'd like to believe it, Roz realized. What a difference it made, being drawn to a man you felt you could trust.
She opened the door to the propagation house.
And stepped into her own bedroom.
The fire was simmering low, the only light in the room. And it tossed flickers of gold, hints of red into the shadows. She heard them first, the quick breath, the low laughter, the rustle of clothing.
Then she saw them in the firelight, Bryce, her husband, and the woman who was a guest in her home. Embracing. No, more . . . grappling, hurrying to touch, to taste each other. She could feel the excitement from them, the snap of the illicit thrill. And knew, even in those few shocked seconds, this wasn't the first time. Hardly the first time.
She stood, with the sounds of the party dim behind her, and absorbed the betrayal, and the greasy slide of humiliation that was under it.
As she had before, she started to step back, to leave them there, but he turned his head, turned it toward her even as his hands cupped another woman's breasts.
And he smiled, bright and charming and sly. Laughed, low and pleased.
"Stupid bitch, I was never faithful. None of us are. "
Even as he spoke, his face changed, light and shadow playing over it as it became Mitch's face.
"Why should we be? Women are meant to be used. Do you really think one of you matters more than another?" That lovely voice dripped derision as he fondled the woman in his arms. "We all lie, because we can. "
Those shadows floated and the face became John's. Her husband, her love. The father of her sons. "Do you think I was true to you, you pathetic fool?"
"John. " The pain nearly took her to her knees. So young, she thought. So alive. "Oh, God, John. "
"Oh, God, John," he mimicked, as his hands made the woman he embraced moan. "Needed sons, didn't I? You were nothing more than a broodmare. If I'd been luckier, I'd have lived and left you. Taken what mattered, taken my sons, and left you. "
"That's a lie. "
"We all lie. "
When he laughed, she had to press her hands over her ears. When he laughed, it was like fists pounding on her body, on her heart, until she did simply sink to her knees.
She heard herself weeping, raw, bitter sobs.
She didn't hear the door open behind her, or the startled exclamation. Arms came around her, hard and tight. And she smelled her son.
"Mama, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Mama. "
"No. No. " She clung to him, pressing her face into his shoulder and fighting to stop the tears. "I'm all right. Don't worry. I'm just - "
"You're not all right, and don't tell me not to worry. Tell me what it is. Tell me what happened. "
"In a minute. Just a minute. " She leaned against him, let him rock her there on the ground until his warmth seeped into her own icy bones. "Oh, Harper, when did you get to be so big and strong? My baby. "
"You're shaking. You're not sick, you're scared. "
"Not scared. " She drew a deep breath. "A little traumatized, I guess. "