Lights from yachts and boats dotted the distance. Along the shoreline, couples walked hand in hand. Henri opened the boathouse door and stepped inside. Moonlight streaked through the windows, across Fiona’s face. Confusion and frustration stamped her lovely features.
He angled them beneath a pontoon boat on a lift. The boat was still wet from use, and water tapped the ground in a rhythm that almost matched his pounding heart. Inhaling deeply, he caught the musty scent of the boathouse mixed with the cinnamon notes of Fiona’s perfume. He’d bought it for her on a trip to France before all of these difficulties had really gotten out of control.
“Enough already, Henri. Would you please tell me why we’re out here?”
He clasped both of her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you talking to Dr. Carlson.” He looked in her sherry-colored eyes, trying to read her. Something flickered there, something he could have sworn was fear, but then she looked away, her lashes shielding her expression.
Staring at the floor, she chewed her bottom lip for an instant before answering, “We were discussing a fund-raiser and party for the pediatric oncology ward. The planner had a heart attack and they need someone to step in and help.”
Okay, but why was she looking away? “You’re sure that’s all?”
She hesitated a second too long. “What do you mean?”
Fear exploded inside him. “Are you feeling all right?” He clasped her shoulders. “Physically. Is there something wrong? If so, you know I’m here for you. Whatever you need, just tell me.”
She squeezed her eyes closed, shaking her head, tears sliding free.
He reached to sketch his knuckles along her cheeks and capture the tears, hands shaking. “Oh, God, Fiona, is it...” His throat moved in a long swallow. “Do you have...”
She touched his mouth. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. Thank you, but you have no reason to feel obligated.”
“Obligated?” He kissed her fingertips. “You are my wife, my responsibility—”
“Please, Henri.” She took his hands from her face and clasped them briefly before letting go. “You are a good man. I’ve never doubted that. This is an emotional time for both of us, and let’s not make it worse with confrontations. Let’s just return to the party.”
He wouldn’t be dismissed so easily. “What were you laughing so hysterically about?” Anger edged through the fear. “And would you like to clue me in on the joke? Because right now I could use something to lighten the mood.”
“No joke,” she said with a sigh, meeting his gaze. “Just so ironic.”
“Then what are you hiding?”
“Henri.” She chewed her bottom lip again, her gaze skipping around evasively before she continued. “Um, he asked me out for a drink to discuss the fund-raiser.”
Henri saw red. Pure red. “He asked you out for a drink? As in a date? Not because of the fund-raiser?”
“Because of the fund-raiser, but yes, he clearly meant a date, as well.” She pulled at her curls, color mounting in her cheeks.
Henri had to stay calm. Had to make it through this conversation. “And what did you say?”
“I told him I’m still married, of course.” Gaze narrowing, she launched the words at him like daggers.
“Clearly that wasn’t a problem for him, since you are wearing my ring.”
She shrugged her shoulders, chandelier earrings swaying. “That didn’t bother him in the least.”
Henri turned toward the door, ready to return to the party and deck the guy straight into the pool.
Fiona placed a hand on his shoulder. “Stop, Henri. He mentioned hearing we’re splitting up. He thought I was available.”
“How would he have heard such a thing?” His mind went back to the original concern. “Were you at the doctor’s office where he’s a partner?”
She swallowed hard. “You seem to have forgotten his brother is our lawyer.”
“Not anymore.”
“I was thinking the same thing, actually.” She picked at her French manicure. “We should get separate attorneys.”
Dammit. This conversation was not going the way he intended. He just wanted to pull her into his arms and take her here. Now. To say to hell with the past and future. No more jealousy or discussion about...hell.
He just wanted her. “This is not the time or the place to talk about lawyers. Enjoy your party and your success.” He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking along her cheeks as he stepped closer, the heat of her lithe body reaching to him. “You’ve raised enough seed money for the shelter tonight. They can start their capital campaign for a whole new building. Let’s celebrate.”
She swayed toward him for an instant, as if she too was caught in that same web of desire. Her gaze fell away from his for a moment, roving his broad-shouldered body, then returned to meet his hungry gaze. There was something there still. He could feel it in the way her lips, slightly parted, seemed to call him to her.
Stepping back abruptly, she grasped the door latch. “Enjoy?” She shook her head, a curl sliding forward over her shoulder. “I don’t think that’s possible. There’s too much left unsettled for me to think about anything but getting my life in order.”
In a swirl of French perfume, she walked out the door and raced along the dock back to the party. The forcefulness of her reaction left him wondering what he was missing, but the speed of her departure closed the door on finding out.
* * *
She couldn’t go back to the party. Not with her emotions in such a turmoil. She hadn’t expected the brief conversation with Tom Carlson to lead to a showdown with her husband. But Tom had seen her come through the office earlier...and he had asked her for a drink. She’d shut him down hard. Even if she weren’t married, she was not in a place emotionally to be in a relationship right now.
Life was getting too complicated. She longed for simpler times again.
Peace.
Family.
So she sought out the last remnants. She loaded a plate of party food onto a tray with two glasses of mint iced tea and went upstairs to Grandpa Leon’s suite. His Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point that he required a round-the-clock nurse to keep watch over him so he didn’t wander off. His nighttime nurse’s aide sat in the study area off his bedroom, reading on her phone. A brunette in her midthirties, she had a warm expression on her face at all times. The perfect temperament for at-home care.
She looked up quickly and set her phone beside her. “Good evening, Mrs. Reynaud. Mr. Leon is on the balcony enjoying the stars over the lake.”
They’d glassed in the balcony so the temperature could be regulated year-round, and he could safely sit outside without fear of him falling—or climbing down as he’d tried to do one evening.
“Thank you,” Fiona said. “Please do feel free to join the party while I visit with Gramps.”
“That sounds lovely. Thank you. I’ll step downstairs for a snack. I’ll be back in a half hour, if that’s all right?”
“Absolutely. Take your time.” Fiona loved her grandfather-in-law and treasured this time with him. His disease was stealing him away and she would soon be gone. Her heart squeezed tighter as she stepped through the open French doors leading to the enclosed balcony.
“Grandpa Leon,” she said softly, adjusting the tray and settling it on the wrought-iron table between two chairs. “I’ve brought you a bite to eat.”
The older man turned, his shock of gray hair whiter every day as if each lost memory stole more of his youth along with the color in the once dark strands. “They don’t like me going to parties anymore. I believe they’re afraid of what I might say.”
“Everyone loves having you there. I’m sorry you feel that way, though.” The famil
y was just trying to protect him from embarrassment.
“It’s not your fault my memory’s failing. The boys are just trying to protect me and my pride.” Spearing a bit of shrimp scampi on his fork, he looked up at her gratefully. “This is good, especially for party food. Filling. Not a bunch of those frilly little canapés.”
“We have plenty of those, too. I just know your preference.”
“And I appreciate that. My tastes are the only thing not failing in my mind. But I imagine you knew that. You were always a perceptive girl. I am going to miss you.”
Her head jerked up. What did he know? He couldn’t possibly have guessed about the divorce. “Grandpa Leon, I’m not sure what you mean.”
He tapped his temple. “When my illness takes over. Even in my fog, I feel the sense of loss. I feel it here.” He tapped his chest. “The people who should be a part of my life. But I can’t recall who belongs to me and who doesn’t.”
Fiona didn’t even know what to say, so she covered his hand with hers and squeezed. “I do love you and I won’t forget you.”
“And I love you, too, sister dear.”
She blinked away a tear. She shouldn’t be surprised any longer at these moments he mistook her for someone else. Still... She shoved to her feet and started for the door.
Turning to look back at the man who soon wouldn’t be her grandfather anymore, Fiona said, “Do you want seconds on anything?”
He stared back at her, a confused look in his java-brown eyes. “Seconds?” He stared down at his empty plate. “What did the chef make for dinner? I can’t seem to recall.”
She struggled for what to say and then realized specifics didn’t matter so much as peace. “Tonight’s menu included your very favorite.”
He smiled, passing his plate to her. “Of course, my favorite. I would like more. And dessert—pie with ice cream.”
“Of course.”
Would he even remember he’d asked for it when she returned? She would bring it all the same and savor her last moments as part of this wonderful family.
Would she still be welcome here to visit him after the split became known to the rest of the family? Would she even be able to come here without losing her mind? The pain would be...intense. Especially at first. And later? She could barely think into the future. She’d been so afraid to dream years ahead for fear there were no years for her.
Today had reminded her all too well of those fears.
Three
Always hungry—which was the fate of an athlete—Henri pulled open the door to the Sub-Zero fridge, rummaging around shelves big enough to park a car—his personal choice in the kitchen remodel. It was three in the morning and no way would he make it until dawn. Though the food at the party had been decadent, he needed to put proper fuel into his system. In season, he put his body through the wringer and there was a helluva lot at stake.
He pulled out a carton of eggs and placed them on the granite counter. Running a hand through his hair, his mind drifted back to the fund-raiser.
From an outside perspective, the event was a complete success. Seven figures had been raised, more than enough seed money to launch a capital campaign to build a new shelter. His wife’s fund-raising goal had been surpassed. And he was damn proud of her. Even if things were difficult right now, he admired her spirit. He’d practically had to drag her out of the fund-raiser as the cleanup crews arrived. Fiona had wanted to make sure that everything was perfect, that things were easy on the housekeeping staff.
Of course, by the time they’d returned to their house, she’d bolted from his company and retreated to her room. Par for the course these days.
Opening a cabinet drawer, he pulled out a frying pan and sprayed it with olive oil. He switched on the gas of the massive gourmet cooktop and adjusted the flame. Once the pan began to hiss to life, he cracked two eggs, reveling in the sound and the promise of protein.
Cooking was one of the things that he actually liked to do for himself. And for Fiona. He’d made them delicious, flavorful and healthy meals. That was one of the reasons they’d spent so much time restoring this kitchen. It had been a space where they had bonded.
They had jointly picked the decorations in the room, visiting high-end antiques stores in the French Quarter and finding beautiful pieces. Like the big turn-of-the-century clock that occupied a prominent spot on the south wall. The clock was an intricate work of angles and loops. The antique vibe of the wrought iron had reminded them both of Ireland, which was one of the first places they’d traveled to together.
The room contained an eclectic mix of items—nothing matched, but the pieces complemented each other, pulling the room together.
With a sigh, he slid the eggs out of the pan and onto a plate. After he’d fumbled in the drawer for a fork, he grabbed the plate and made his way to the large window in the dining room. He sat at the head of the long cherrywood table, bought for entertaining the whole family. A gilded mirror hung over the sideboard laden with Fiona’s well-polished silver. Even though they’d built this haven together, if they split, he would be booted out on his ass and moving back to the family compound with his brothers. He loved his family, but this place was home now, deep in the heart of New Orleans.
The thought of leaving made it too damn hard to sit at this table—their table. Pushing his plate of half-eaten eggs away, he shot to his feet and wandered to the window.
Sometimes the contrasts of this city just struck him, the historic buildings jutting up against contemporary trends. It was a place between worlds and cultures. The New Orleans moon hung in the late night sky, just peeking through sullen clouds that covered the stars. He’d always enjoyed the moodiness of this place, his new home after growing up in Texas. This fit his personality, his temperament. He’d thought he had his life together when he met Fiona. Perfect wife. Dream career. Jazz music that could wake the dead and reach a cold man’s soul.
His brothers would laugh at him for saying stuff like that, call him a sensitive wuss, but Fiona had understood the side of him that enjoyed art and music. It cut him deep that she said they didn’t know each other, that they had no foundation and nothing in common.
She minimized what they’d built together, and that sliced him to the core. It hadn’t helped one bit that men were hitting on her at the party, already sensing a divorce in the wind even if they hadn’t announced it to a soul.
He was used to men approaching his wife. She was drop-dead gorgeous in a chic and timeless way that would draw attention for the rest of her life. But tonight had been different. He spent so much time on the road and she usually traveled with him. But even when they weren’t together, they’d always trusted each other. The thought of her moving on, of her with another man, shredded him inside. He didn’t consider himself the jealous type, but he damn well wasn’t ready to call it quits and watch her move on with someone—anyone—else.
Without his realizing it, his feet carried him past the window, past the living room. And suddenly, he was upstairs outside Fiona’s room.
Her door was wide open. That was the first thing that jarred him. He’d become so accustomed to seeing that closed door when he passed by her room at night. Fiona had literally shut him out.
So why was it open tonight?
Not that he was going to miss the opportunity to approach her.
The soft, warm light from her bedroom bathed the hall in a yellow glow. Curiosity tugged at him, and he peered into the room.
She was curled up in a tight ball on the settee at the foot of the bed, her sequined waistband expanding and contracting with her slow, determined breaths. He was surprised to see her still in her party clothes. Even with disheveled, wavy hair she was damn breathtaking. Her shoes were casually and chaotically tossed to the side.
For a moment, he thought she was asleep, and then he realized...
/> Fiona was crying.
A rush of protectiveness pulsed through his body. Fiona had been so calculating and logical these days that this spilling of emotion overwhelmed him. Damn, he didn’t want to see her like this. He never wanted to see her like this. It made him feel helpless, and that was a feeling he’d never handled well.
Once when Henri was younger, he’d walked into his mother’s room to find her crying. Tears had streaked her face, mascara marring her normally perfect complexion. She had been crying over the death of her career as a model. And his father’s infidelity. She’d been so shattered, and all Henri could do was watch from the sidelines.
She hadn’t been the most attentive or involved parent, but she’d been his mother and he’d wanted to make the world right for her.
He’d felt every bit as useless then as he felt now.
“Fiona?” He stepped tentatively into the room.
Startled, she sat up, dragging her wrist across her tears and smudging mascara into her hairline. “Henri, I don’t need help with my zipper.”
“I was on my way to my room and I heard you.” He stepped deeper into the room, tuxedo jacket hooked on one finger and slung over his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not,” she said in a shaky voice, swinging her bare feet to the floor and digging her toes into the wool Persian rug they’d chosen together at an estate auction.
Something was different about her today. She was showing a vulnerability around him, an openness, he hadn’t seen in nearly a year. And that meant there was still something salvageable between them.
For the first time in a long time, they were actually talking, and he wasn’t giving up that window of opportunity to figure out what was going on in her mind. He didn’t know where they were going, but he sure as hell wasn’t willing to just write off what they’d had. “It’s tougher and tougher to be together in front of people and pretend. I get that. Totally. That’s what you’re upset about, isn’t it?”
Reunited with the Rebel Billionaire Page 3
