Smoky Mountain Home. Lynnette Kent
together.”
He snorted into the phone. “Give me a break. You abandoned your daughter in July when you flitted off to Europe with…what was his name? Jean? Gilles? Jacques? What about that draws us together?”
“I know I deserve all of what you’re saying, and more. But I’m willing to change. Just give me a chance.”
“Listen carefully, Brittany. No way. In fact, there is no way in hell I’d let you back into my life. Don’t worry about Darcy and don’t bother me again.” He cut the connection with a flick of his thumb. Before he could toss it into the passenger seat, it rang again.
He checked the caller ID, and, as soon as he said, “Hi, Stephen,” his business partner in Manhattan launched into a tirade about the latest abuses and demands of his own clients, interspersed with accusations concerning Jonah’s mistakes relating to the company and its affairs. Though the two of them pursued their design projects separately, Stephen enacted this ritual of complaint and blame several times a week as a way of asserting his control of the firm. Jonah made noises of agreement or disagreement where expected until the storm passed over and hung up. Then he dropped the phone on the passenger seat and left the car.
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