Page 34 of Colton's Last Resort

“Part of the job,” he excused. “You want me to apologize?”

“No,” she blurted. “There’s nothing available that most people don’t know. And it’s good you know. For the sake of what we’re doing.”

“In that case,” he said, “why don’t you tell me what happened with Quentin Randolph a year ago? Why did you break off your Page Six engagement?”

She should have seen the question coming. It hit her like a wall. “He wasn’t who I thought he was.”

He lifted both brows when she said nothing more. “That’s it?”

She felt her shoulders cave a bit. “Quentin loved the idea of my wealth more than he loved the idea of me. He wanted the connections that come with the Colton name more than he wanted me. And he fooled me into thinking otherwise for a little over a year before my brothers caught on to his schemes.” She paused in the telling, then asked, “Is that enough or do you need more?”

Noah’s tungsten eyes flickered. “Did you love the guy?”

“Would you agree to marry someone you weren’t in love with?” At his marked silence, she rethought her answer. “I loved the version of Quentin he built for me—the one that turned out to be false. So, in a way, I suppose I didn’t. Not really. And that makes it easier...until the humiliation sets in.”

“He’s a moron.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He spoke clearly, drawing each word out. “The guy’s a stage-five moron. If someone like that had come sniffing around Allison, I would’ve taken care of him.”

He would have, she realized. A shiver went through her. She blamed it on her wet hair and bathing suit, gathering the lapels of her bathrobe together. “When was your last long-term relationship?”

Rebuke painted his hard features.

She stopped his protest before it began. “These are things couples know about each other.”

A disgruntled, growly noise lifted from his throat. “Six...seven years ago?”

“And how long did it last?”

“Five months.”

“That’s long-term?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He cast off the admission. “What’s your idea of a long-term relationship?”

“A year,” she stated. “Or more.”

“Women tend not to stick around that long,” he revealed.

“Maybe you’re dating the wrong type,” she advised.

“What type should I be fishing for?” he demanded. “You know any trust-fund beauties who wouldn’t mind slumming it with an Arizona cop?”

Laura chose not to answer.

“Before Randolph, did you date anybody else?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about the other men. But she had probed him about the women in his life. It was only fair.

“Who?”

“Dominic Sinclaire.”

“The diamond guy?”

“Why do you sound so derisive?” she asked.

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