Читать книгу Reunited With The Rebel Billionaire - Catherine Mann - Страница 9

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?”

“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 all 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.