She so had not come all the way to England from the States a year ago to marry the man of her dreams and then sit home alone all day, bored out of her ever-living mind, lonely, and sexually unfulfilled.

No freaking way.

So, he was a hotshot barrister.

So, he had an enormous case load.

So, he was important.

So freaking what?

He'd chased her across an ocean and half a continent to woo her. Now he wanted her to be the little woman, keep his home nice and tidy, have his shirts ironed, his pants pressed, a nice, hot dinner waiting, along with a Crown Royal, neat, poured at the end of a long, hard day. Mr. Importance wanted his back rubbed a couple of evenings a week. Oh, and while he was working on a case in his study late at night, it was perfectly acceptable to refill that empty whisky glass.

If that's what he wanted, he had married the wrong woman.

And wasn't that too bad for him, because she was wearing his ring. He was stuck with her. For better or worse. If he kept it up, it'd be worse for him, much, much worse.

Enough was enough.

She was tired of being ignored.

Her cellular phone rang. Her heart leapt into her throat as she checked the caller identification. Jon. Even after all this time, no matter how angry she was at him, she was still totally, stupidly mad for him.

"Hey, baby," he said. Even with the fuzziness of wireless service, his voice had the richness of a fine wine on a cold night.

Her shoulders dropped, her pussy moistened in anticipation. She loved his voice, especially when he whispered naughty things about what he was going to do for her.

And he'd do them, as well...

At one time, soon after they'd exchanged vows, he'd hurry home. She'd never forget the days he'd drop his briefcase and sweep her into his arms.

They wouldn't make it out of the foyer before he kissed her deeply. With his mouth, with his hands, he'd take long minutes to let her know how glad he was she was in his home, in his life.

For the first few months of their marriage, she'd lost weight because they'd rarely made it into the kitchen for food. Instead, he'd carry her straight up to their bedroom, never minding the steep narrowness of the stairs.

"I hate to tell you this..."

She waited. She wasn't going to make it easy on him.

"I'll be late."

Surprise!

"Beth?"

She sighed. "I'm here."

"Look--"

She could picture him running his hand through his hair in frustration. Jon was dark blond, and every hair was perfectly tamed, cut and shaped into harsh submission. He insisted on presenting a good picture to his clients and the Court. Funny how there always seemed to be time in the schedule to see the hairdresser, but not his wife. "What time?"

"Nine?"

Was he asking permission? "Not a minute later."

"Miss you."

She had no doubt he was telling the truth. He just didn't miss her enough to come home.