Reunited with the Rebel Billionaire

by Catherine Mann

  “Of course,” she answered too quickly.

  “Why am I having trouble believing you?” He draped his jacket over a wing-back chair by the restored fireplace. “We didn’t have trouble with trust before.”

  “It’s easy to trust when you don’t know each other well, when we kept our life superficial.” The words came out of her mouth almost like lines from a play. Too calculated, too rehearsed.

  He leaned back against the marble mantel. “You’re going to have to explain that to me, because I’m still bemused as hell as to where we went wrong.”

  Sighing, she smoothed the silk dress over her knees. “We forgot to talk about the important things, like what would happen if we couldn’t have kids. What we would have bonding us besides having lots of sex and procreating.”

  Sifting through her explanation, he tried to make sense of her conflicting signals, her words and body language and nervous twitches all at odds. “You only saw sex between us as about having children? Is that why you’ve been pushing me away since your mastectomy and hysterectomy?” Because of the genetic testing, the doctor had recommended both, and Henri hadn’t been able to deny the grief they’d both felt over the end to any chance of conceiving a child together. But the bottom line was, he’d cared most about keeping his wife alive. “You know I’m here for you, no matter what. I’m not going to leave you when you need me.”

  Her expression was shuttered, her emotions hidden again. “We’ve discussed this. Without kids, we have nothing holding us together.”

  Nothing except for their passion, their shared interests. Their shared life. She couldn’t be willing to discount that so quickly.

  “And you’re still against adoption?” He was stumped about that, considering her father was adopted. But she’d closed down when he brought up the subject.

  “I’m against a man staying with me for the children or out of sympathy because he thinks I’m going to die.” She shot to her feet, a coolness edging her features. “Could we please stop this discussion, dammit?”

  Was that what she thought? That he had only stayed because of her cancer gene? They’d discussed divorce before then, but only briefly. After? She’d dug in her heels about the split.

  He couldn’t deny he wouldn’t have left a woman facing the possibility of a terminal illness, but their relationship was more complex than that. He shoved away from the fireplace strewn with Wedgwood knickknacks, strode toward her and stopped just short of the settee.

  He clasped her shoulders. “You said we never talked enough. So let’s talk. Tell me.”

  Henri needed her to talk. To figure this out. Because even now, even with the smudged makeup and tousled brown hair, she was damn beautiful. The heat of her skin beneath his hands was familiar and intoxicating.

  He still wanted her. Cancer or no cancer. Kids or no kids. Though his hands stayed steady on her shoulders, he wanted to send them traveling on her body. To push her back on the bed.

  Their bed—before she’d sent him to his own room after they’d returned from her surgery overseas. She’d said the surgery left her in too much pain to risk being bumped in the night. And somehow over time, she’d kept the separate rooms edict in place. He didn’t know how so much time had slipped away, but day by day, he’d been so damn afraid he would say or do the wrong thing when she was in such a fragile state. He’d gone along with her request for space until the next thing he’d known their lawyer was drawing up papers.

  He was done waiting around. He was a man of action.

  After a moment of hesitation, she shrugged off his hands. “Talking now won’t change us splitting up. You have to understand that.”

  “Then let’s talk to give each other peace when we walk away.” If he could keep her talking, they were still together. She wouldn’t be closing the door in his face.

  She chewed her bottom lip before releasing it slowly, then nodding. “Speak then.”

  He sat on the settee and held her hand, tugging gently. She held back for a moment before surrendering to sit beside him. He shuffled at the last instant so she landed on his lap.

  “That’s not playing fair.”

  “Then move.”

  Indecision shifted across her heart-shaped face, then a spark of something. Pure Fiona spunk. She wriggled once, causing a throbbing ache in his groin an instant before she settled.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s not playing fair.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk.”

  “I did. Now it’s tough to think.” He tapped her lips. “But I’m trying. We could start with you telling me what really made you cry.”

  She avoided his gaze as she said, “I had a long talk with your grandfather this evening. Seeing him fading away made me sad.” Resting her head on Henri’s chest, she took a ragged breath. Grandpa Leon and Fiona had always been close.

  “I understand that feeling well. It’s hard to watch, hard to think about. I miss him already.” Pulling her closer, Henri softened as she wrapped her arms around him. Lifting a hand, he stroked her dark brown hair, releasing the braid that confined her curls. This was what he missed. Being close like this. Feeling her against him. “Are you really prepared to walk away from this family? My brothers, Adelaide...everyone?”

  Fiona stayed against his chest, fingers twirling around the back of his neck. Shocks of electric energy tingled along his spine. His hand slid down the side of her body, gingerly touching the silky fabric of her dress, making him itch for more. The light smell of her perfume worked his nerves. It had grown silent between them. The only audible noise was the click-click-click of the ceiling fan.

  “Perhaps they will still like me afterward.” The words came out like a whisper.

  “Of course they will.” It was impossible not to like her.

  “But I understand it could be awkward for everyone, especially for you when you move on.” Again, she cut into his core.

  “You already have me in a relationship with someone else? That’s cold.” He hadn’t had eyes for anyone but her since they’d met. He’d been head over heels for her from the get-go.

  “I imagine the women will be flocking to you the instant they hear you’re free.”

  Fiona’s face was close to his now. Her mouth inches from his. The breath from her words warmed his lips.

  “But I only want you.” He tilted his head, touched the bottom of her chin and kissed her fully, his tongue meeting and sweeping against hers.

  The familiar texture of her lips, the taste of her, awakened a deep need in him. They knew each other’s bodies and needs. He knew just where to stroke behind her ears to make her purr.

  Fiona kissed him back, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close against her. Her fingers slid into his hair, caressing along his scalp and grazing lower, her nails lightly trailing along his neck, then digging into his shoulders with need.

  His hands roved down her back, the ridge of her zipper reminding him of earlier when he’d slid it up, link by link. Every time, touching her set him on fire. The silk of her dress was every bit as soft as her skin.

  And he had once made it his personal mission to learn the terrain of every inch of that skin.

  His fingers played down to her hips, digging in as he tugged her even closer on his lap. The curve of her ass pressed against the swelling ache of his erection, making him throb even harder. He nipped along her ear, then soothed the love bite with the tip of his tongue. Her head fell back and her lips parted with a breathy sigh that prompted his growl of approval in response. He kissed down her neck, to the sweet curve of her shoulder. His hand skimmed up her side—

  And just as quickly as it had started, she pulled back, sliding off his lap and stumbling to her feet. Her hands shaky, she smoothed the lines in her dress.

  What the hell? He struggled to pull his thoughts together but a
ll the blood in his body was surging south hard and fast.

  She stared at him, eyes full of confusion. “You need to go.” Before he could speak, she made fast tracks to the door, holding it open even wider. “You need to go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  And even with the lack of blood to his brain, he knew. There was no arguing with his wife tonight.

  * * *

  Kicking at the cover, Fiona tossed in her king-size bed, trapped in the twilight hell between having a nightmare and being half-awake. The torture of knowing she should be able to grapple back to consciousness but unable to haul herself from the dream that felt all too real.

  In the fog of her dream, Fiona pushed open the door of her childhood home, making her way across the kitchen and into the living room. Her father, a dignified-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair, sat on the overstuffed chair in the corner of the room, clutching the newspaper in his hand.

  Something was wrong. She could hear it in the rattle of those papers clutched in his shaky grip. See it on his face when his gaze met hers over the top of the New Orleans Times.

  “Dad?” The voice that puffed from her lips seemed distant. Younger.

  He shook his head, his mouth tight as if holding back words was an ungodly tough effort. Panic filled her chest. She needed to find her mother.

  Spinning away, she started roaming the halls of the three-story house, opening the doors. Searching for her mother. Chasing shadows that crooked their fingers, beckoning, then fading. Again and again.

  At the last door, she was sure she would find her mother, a willowy woman, a society leader who stayed busy, so busy Fiona had attended boarding school during the week to be kept out of the way.

  On her weekends at home, there just hadn’t been enough hours to spend together. Her memories of her mom were few and far between.

  Fiona opened that very last door, the one to the garden where her mother held the very best of parties. The doorknob slipped from her hand, the mahogany panel swinging wide and slamming against the wall so fast she had to jump back.

  Petals swirled outside, pink from azaleas, purple from hydrangeas and white from larger magnolia blooms, all spiraling through the air so thickly they created a hurricane swirl she couldn’t see through. Her mother must be beyond the storm.

  Fiona pushed forward, into the whirlwind, flower petals beating at her body in silken slices that cut her skin. Left her with scars on her body and soul.

  The deeper she pushed, the more the realization seeped in through those cuts. The painful truth sank in deep inside her. Her mother was gone. The cancerous hurricane had taken her mom, her grandmother, her aunt, leaving Fiona alone. The world rattled around her, the flap of petals, the crackle of newspapers, the roar of screaming denial.

  Water dripped down her cheeks. Tears? Or rain? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter because it didn’t change the ache of loss.

  The garden shifted from her childhood home to the historic house she shared with Henri. Grandpa Leon sat in a wrought-iron chair, his fading memory darkening the storm clouds slowly into night. No matter how much time passed, she felt the pain of her shrinking family. The pain of so many losses. The loss of her unborn children. All of her failed attempts at stability and happiness paraded down the pathway. Losing her mother young, her aunt and grandmother, too, until there were no motherly figures left to steer her through her shaky marriage. Hopelessness pushed at her, wound her up as the darkness of the windswept garden became too oppressive. She catapulted herself forward, sitting upright in her bed.

  It took a moment for Fiona to gain her bearings and to realize she was in New Orleans.

  Sleep was anything but peaceful these days.

  Taking a deep breath, she considered calling her father. They’d never been close and it had been a while since they’d spoken. But still, the nightmare had left her completely rattled. All of the pressures of her current situation were bubbling over.

  She had to leave, sooner rather than later. She realized that even though she’d been protecting herself from the pain of having Henri stay with her out of pity, she was also protecting him from watching her fade away if the worst happened.

  Her dad had never been the same after her mother died. The loss of her mother had shattered him. Though there was distance between Fiona and Henri, she still cared about him.

  It was best to walk away. It was simpler to walk away than get more attached.

  * * *

  Morning runs had a way of clearing Henri’s mind. And man, did he need some perspective after last night.

  Sweat cooled on his neck as he pulled into his driveway, the muggy, verdant air mixing with the funk of his own need of a shower. He’d driven to the Hurricanes’ workout facility and ran harder than he had in weeks. There was a renewed energy in his steps. Something that felt a bit like hope. Which was exactly why he was back at their restored Garden District house now. He’d been in such a rush to make it home before Fiona woke up that he hadn’t even bothered with a shower. He’d simply discarded his sweaty clothes in favor of a clean T-shirt and basketball shorts.

  Deep down, he knew he had to focus on the upcoming home game. It was huge for the team in a year that could net them a championship. But everything that was going on in his personal life was taking his head out of this season.

  Henri shoved out of his car, waving at the security guards who were on duty. The two nondescript but well-trained men responded with a curt nod as he entered the old home through the back entrance.

  As he turned the knob on the door, thoughts of Fiona filled his brain. There was something between them still. The kiss confirmed that. There had been passion on both ends of their kiss last night. Having her pressed against him felt so right. Natural. Normal. He needed to get her to see that they fit together. Bring her back to his bed, back to him.

  Stepping into the kitchen, he found Fiona cooking, the scents of butter and caramel in the air. Her chocolate-brown hair was piled in a messy bun. Her sleep shorts hugged her curves, revving his interest. Glancing over her shoulder, she flashed him a small smile.

  He wanted her now more than ever. But how to convince her that they needed to get back to what they had?

  “You don’t have to cook for me. I do want you for more than your body and awesome culinary skills.” He eyed the Waterford crystal bowl of fresh blueberries next to her. An intriguing—undeniable—notion filled his mind, and he pressed himself against her as he reached for them. They’d always done best when they kept things light. That might well be the way to go with her today.

  With slow deliberation, he popped a few blueberries into his mouth, eyebrows arching.

  For a moment, she looked visibly riled. Damn, she was sexy.

  Then she glanced away quickly and kept her focus on the task at hand. “I don’t mind. I love to cook. At some point soon, I’m going to have to figure out what to do with my life.”

  “If you insist on going through with the divorce, you know I’ll take care of you.” It was all he wanted to do. To be the one to support her no matter what.

  Setting a plate down on the island, she gestured for him to sit. He looked at her handiwork—a whole-wheat crepe filled with various fruits. A protein shake was already there, waiting for him.

  “Eat your breakfast and stop talking before I pour cayenne pepper in your protein shake.” She shook the spice at him before she carried over her own plate and the cut-crystal bowl of blueberries and sat down at the island.

  Sunlight streamed into the room, filling the space with warmth.

  “I’m a bad guy if I say I want to provide a generous alimony settlement?”

  “I appreciate the offer. It’s the verbiage about taking care of me that rubs the wrong way. Like I’m...”

  “You’re far from a child. Believe me, I get that.” He scooped up another hand
ful of berries, pitching one at a time into his mouth, the sweet juice bursting along his taste buds.

  “I have a degree.”

  Henri nodded. “And you’ve sacrificed your career so we could travel together. I appreciate that. I thought you enjoyed our time on the road—”

  She held up the cayenne.

  He yanked his shake away, nudging her playfully with his shoulder. To win his way back into her bed, he needed to keep things light. “Changing the subject.”

  “Thank you.” She set down the red pepper. “Enjoy your breakfast. I certainly intend to.”

  “As do I.” He tapped the bowl of berries. “These are incredibly fresh.”

  “I haven’t tried them yet.” Fiona reached for the berries, but Henri snatched them away, that devilish smile playing on his lips.

  Nudging the bowl toward her, he stepped closer, closer still. He plucked up a particularly fat berry and fed it to her. Her lips nipped at his fingertips, sparking his awareness. And she seemed to be enjoying herself, as well.

  “That kiss last night—”

  She coughed as the food went down the wrong way. Once she cleared her throat, she asked half-jokingly, “Are you trying to choke me to death to avoid alimony?”

  “That’s not funny. At all.”

  “You’re right. Bad joke born out of nerves.” She looked down, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Your breakfast deserves to be enjoyed.”

  “Thank you. We’ve had some incredible meals together, just us. I’m going to miss these times with you.”

  “You’re accepting it’s over?”

  “You’re making it tough not to.” He eyed her over his fork. Frustrated. Determined. “Any chance we could have one more night together for old times’ sake?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  He wished he understood why. The doctors had told him to give her space to process the shock of learning she carried the cancer gene, time to accept the long-term implications. They’d claimed that she would get over the self-consciousness, the grief over what she’d lost. But God, they’d spent so much of their marriage on a roller coaster of emotions. Trying for a baby. Miscarriages. Losing a baby in the second trimester. Then when the doctor pointed out how the fertility treatments could put her at risk with her maternal family’s history of cancer.