Calling out "Paul" so intimately made Gemma Montague feel like she was floating on air. She'd lost count of how many years she'd longed to use that name, how many times she'd whispered it to herself in the dead of night.
Seeing the hand reaching for him, Paul Ashworth recoiled abruptly. A layer of frost instantly covered his handsome, gentle face as he stared intently at the person before him. "Who are you?"
He didn't need to second-guess it; he knew with absolute certainty. The person before him was not his wife. He had her every smile and frown memorized, etched into his very bones. No matter how well this person mimicked her, they could never fool him. A face could lie, but the eyes never did. A single glance from his wife could melt his heart into a puddle, and this person was absolutely not her.
Gemma Montague's hand froze in midair, a flicker of hurt in her eyes. "Paul, what's wrong with you? Why are you suddenly being like this?"
