"It's like a tree looking at its root in disgust when that's what keeps it grounded and firm." "Not all roots are so generous," he said in a low voice. "Some are weak." "True, but they're still there or the tree would never have grown." He rested his hands on the sink and studied her. "You really believe that?" "Of course." "Hmm, must be nice." He began to wash the dishes. Cassie threw up her hands in surrender. It was clear he was not going to share anything. "You're right. It's not important." She returned to the dining room and cleared the table, then blew out the candles, encasing herself in blackness. The smoke danced for a while with the moonlight before it dissipated. She sat down and held her chin in her hands. It didn't matter. Nothing about him mattered. He was a passing diversion like the smoke—something seen but intangible. He wanted a woman he could marry, someone to look good on his arm and in his restaurants. She did not want to be another man's wife again. Especially someone powerful and used to getting his way.
