Along with anger was another emotion he couldn’t pinpoint, but it didn’t feel good. He hated emotions. They were so—so uncomfortable. He much preferred the silent, unsentimental world of academia. He was comfortable there; ever so much more comfortable than when he was forced to confront the unstable whims, fancies, and moods of people like Brenda Fitzpatrick. Or his brother George. He lifted his eyebrows in what he hoped was a sardonic expression before saying frostily, “And what, pray, do you know about the kind of brother I am?” She sat across from him and looked about as mad as he felt. Her breakfast had not yet been served, and she stabbed at the table in front of her with a slender, beautifully manicured forefinger. “I know because I’ve seen the two of you together. And apart. And that poor boy is terrified of you, in case you couldn’t tell for yourself.” Terrified? Again Colin’s eyebrows lifted like larks soaring. “Terrified? Of me? You’re out of your mind.
