Henri needed to touch her, to wrap her in his arms.

She was sexy—a tangle of tousled hair and pure fire. And in this setting—in the middle of the garden in that peach dress—she looked like a nymph those classical artists were always capturing.

He could sense the answering awareness in her, a heat she’d denied too often these past months. Now, extending a hand, he trailed it along the length of her lithe arm. Gentle pressure, the kind that used to drive her wild with anticipation. She turned to face him, leaning into his light touch.

Reaching for her hand, he threaded his fingers through hers, locking them together in that one, small way. He was holding on to her.

Could he hold on to them?

* * *

Reunited with the Rebel Billionaire is part of the Bayou Billionaires series: Secrets and scandal are a Cajun family legacy for the Reynaud brothers!

Reunited with

the Rebel

Billionaire

Catherine Mann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling author CATHERINE MANN has penned over fifty novels, released in more than twenty countries. A RITA® Award winner, she holds a master’s degree in theater and enjoys bringing that dramatic flair to her stories. Catherine and her military husband live in Florida, where they brought up their four children. Their nest didn’t stay empty long, though, as Catherine is president of the Sunshine State Animal Rescue. For more information, visit www.catherinemann.com.

To Dannielle—a strong, proactive survivor with one of the most generous hearts I’ve ever encountered. You inspire me.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Extract

Copyright

One

Fiona Harper-Reynaud was married to American Sports magazine’s “Hottest Athlete of the Year” for two years running.

She hadn’t married the New Orleans Hurricanes’ star quarterback for his looks. In fact, she’d always been drawn to the academic sort more than the jock type. But when that jock happened to be visiting an art gallery fund-raiser she’d been hosting for her father, she’d been intrigued. When Henri Reynaud had shown an appreciation and understanding of the nuances of botanic versus scenic art, she’d fallen hook, line and sinker into those dreamy, intelligent dark eyes of his. His eyes were the color of coffee and carried just as strong a jolt.

Still, she’d held back because of her own history with relationships, and yes, two broken engagements. Held back for all of a couple of weeks. And ever since then her life hadn’t stopped spiraling out of control.

Sure, they’d eloped because they’d thought she was pregnant. But she’d loved him so intensely, so passionately, reason scattered like petals from a windswept azalea. They hadn’t realized until it was too late they had no substantive foundation in their marriage when difficult times came their way. And what little base they’d built upon had crumbled quickly.

Especially right now.

In two short hours, Fiona would be greeting the elite community of New Orleans for her latest fund-raiser, purely in a volunteer capacity. Any time a foundation offered to pay, she donated the funds back to the charity. She believed deeply in the causes she supported and was grateful to have the wealth and time to help.

But the pressure of the high-glitz affair wasn’t what rattled her. The doctor visit today had her scared, and more determined than ever she couldn’t continue a marriage built on anything but love. Certainly not built only on obligation.

She switched her phone to speaker and placed it on the antique dresser, one of many beautiful pieces in the home she shared with Henri in New Orleans’s gracious and historic Garden District. Her eyes lingered on the crystal-framed photograph of her with Henri from a trip they’d taken to Paris a few years back. Their smiles caught her off guard.

Had her life ever been that happy? The version of herself in the photograph felt like a stranger now.

She’d been so focused on the photograph, she almost forgot she was on the phone with Adelaide, her future sister-in-law and longtime personal assistant to Henri’s half brother Dempsey. At long last the two were engaged. Their love had taken longer to bloom, unlike Henri’s impulsive proposal to Fiona.

Blinking, Fiona shifted her attention back to the conversation. To her family. She internally laughed at that thought. Family implied closeness and solidarity. Instead of that, she felt numbingly alone and isolated.

And there was no reason for that. The Reynaud family was large and the majority of them resided right here in New Orleans. Two of her husband’s brothers lived in a private compound of homes on Lake Pontchartrain. And they’d be at that compound tonight for the fund-raiser.

Star athletes, celebrities and politicians would gather and mingle for Fiona’s newest cause. Conversation would fill the air. And if her past events were any indication, she would raise the funds necessary to open up the new animal shelter.

She perched on the delicate Victorian settee at the end of her four-poster bed. She pulled on one thigh-high stocking as she listened to her future sister-in-law rattle off the wines, liquors and other beverages delivered.

Still caught in the past, when she’d fallen hard for Henri Reynaud, she rolled the silk socking up her other leg. Henri had chased her relentlessly until she’d begun to believe him when he said he adored her mind every bit as much as her body.

Her body.

Hands shaking, she tugged the band on her thigh into place. She couldn’t afford to think about those days before their marriage turned rocky, only to have him stay with her because of her health. She respected his honor, even as it hurt her to the core to lose his love. But she couldn’t accept anything less than honest emotion.

Which meant she had to keep her secret. She tugged a wrinkle from her stocking and continued her phone conversation with Adelaide. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me out with tonight’s fund-raiser.”

“Glad to lend my help. I wish you would ask more often.”

“I didn’t want to impose or make you feel pressured before when Dempsey was your boss.” She’d known Adelaide for years, but only recently had they all learned of her romance with Dempsey Reynaud.

“But now that we’re going to be sisters-in-law, I’m fair game?”

“Oh, um, I’m sorry.” Her mind was so jumbled today. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

“No need to apologize,” Adelaide said, laughing softly. “Truly. I was just teasing. I’m really glad to lend a hand. It’s a great cause. You do so much for charity—it’s an inspiration.”

“Well, I would have been an inspiring failure if not for your help today setting up the party at the compound.” The main family compound on Lake Pontchartrain was larger and more ornate than Fiona and Henri’s personal getaway. They’d purchased the place for privacy, a space she could decorate in her own antique, airy style in contrast to the palatial Greek Revival and Italianate mansions that made up the bulk of the family compound. She was grateful for the privacy right now as she readied herself for the party and steadied her nerves.

“Emergencies crop up for everyone. Did you sort things out with your car?” Traces of concern laced Adelaide’s voice.

Fiona winced. She didn’t like lying to people, but if she admitted to seeing the doctor today that would trigger questions she was still too shaken to answer. After years of fertility treatments, she was used to keeping her medical history and heartbreak secret. “All is well, Adelaide. Thank you.”

Or at least she hoped all was well. The doctor told her she shouldn’t worry.

Easier said than done after all she had been through. Worrying had become her natural state, her automatic reflex lately.

“Glad to hear it. I emailed you the changes made to the menu so you can cross-check with the receipts.”

“Changes?” Anxiety coiled in Fiona’s chest. Normally she rolled with last-minute changes. They presented her with an opportunity to become more creative in the execution of the event. Every event she’d ever run had called for an adjustment or two. But her mind was elsewhere and her deeply introspective state made dealing with these external changes difficult.

“There were some last-minute problems with getting fresh mushrooms, so I made substitutions. Do you want me to go over them now?” Keys clicked in the background.

“Of course not. I trust your taste and experience.” And she did.

“If you need my help with anything else, let me know.” Adelaide hesitated until the sound of someone else speaking then leaving the room faded. “I’m comfortable in my work world, but my future role and responsibilities as a Reynaud spouse will be new territory to me.”

And Fiona’s time as a Reynaud wife was drawing to an end, even if the family didn’t know it yet. Her heart sank. “You are a professional at this. You could take any event to a whole new level. Just make sure to find what you want your niche to be. The men in this family can steamroll right over a person.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, and her cool, collected front began to crumble.

“Fiona...” Concern tinged her voice. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t mind me. I’m fine. I’ll see you soon. I need to get changed.” She couldn’t attend the event in stockings, a thong and a bra. No matter how fine the imported Italian lace. “Thanks again.” She disconnected and slid her sapphire-blue gown from the end of the bed.

She stepped into the floor-length dress, the silk chiffon a cool glide over her skin, the dress and underwear strategically designed. The fabric fit snugly in a swathe around her breasts and hips, with a looser pleated skirt grazing her ankles. A sequin-studded belt complemented her glinting diamond chandelier earrings.

No one would see her scars. No one other than her husband and doctors knew.

Double mastectomy.

Reconstruction.

Prophylactic—preventative. In hopes of evading the disease that had claimed her mother, her aunt and her grandmother.

Fiona had never had breast cancer. But with her genetics, she couldn’t afford to take the risk. She pressed the dress to her chest and tried not to think of the doctor’s words today about a suspicious reading on her breast MRI that could be nothing. The doctor said the lump was almost certainly benign fat necrosis. But just to be safe he wanted to biopsy...

The creaking of the opening door startled her. Her dress slid down and she grabbed it by the embellished straps, pressing it back to her chest even though she knew only one person would walk in unannounced.

Her husband.

America’s hottest athlete for two years running.

And the man she hadn’t slept with since her surgery six months ago.

Henri’s hands fell to rest on her shoulders, his breath caressing her neck. “Need help with the zipper?”

* * *

Henri took risks in his job on a regular basis. Sure, his teammates worked their asses off to prevent a hard tackle from his blind side, but he understood and accepted that every time he stepped onto the field, he could suffer a career-ending injury.

Fans called him brave. Sports analysts sometimes labeled him reckless. The press branded him fearless.

They were all wrong.

He’d been scared as hell every day since the doctors declared Fiona had inherited her family’s cancer gene. It didn’t matter that their marriage had been on the rocks. He’d been rocked to his foundation. Still was.

Henri clenched her shoulders so his hands wouldn’t shake. Even the smallest touch between them was filled with tension. And not in the way that made him weak in the knees. “Your zipper?”

With a will of their own, his eyes took in the long exposed line of her neck, her deep brown hair corralled by a thin braid so that lengthy, loose curls cascaded in a narrow path down her back. He looked farther down her spine to the small of her back that called to him to touch, to kiss in a lingering, familiar way. But he’d lost the right. She’d made that clear when he’d tried to reconcile after the doctor’s prognosis.

“Thank you. Yes, please,” she said, glancing over her shoulder nervously and pulling her hair aside, the strands so dark they almost appeared black at night. He hated seeing that sort of distance in her amber-colored eyes. “I’m running late because of, um, a last-minute snafu with the caterer.”

“Adelaide said you were having trouble with your car, so I came home early. But I see it’s in the garage. What was wrong?”

Whipping her head away from his gaze, she muttered, “Doesn’t matter.”

It was becoming her trademark response. It didn’t matter.

That was a lie. He could tell by the way her mouth thinned as she spoke.

He let out a deep sigh as his gaze traced over their room. Or should he say—their former room. He’d taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom of the restored home. Away from her. They’d even lost the ability to lie next to each other at night. To show up for each other in that simple way.

In front of him was the first gift he’d ever bought Fiona. It was a handsome jewelry armoire that doubled as a full-length mirror. It was a one-of-a-kind antique piece. Whimsical and light. Just like Fiona in her jewel-colored dress. Looking at the gilded mirror framing the reflection of his exquisite wife reminded him of how far they’d fallen. Damn.

This whole room was a mausoleum to what had been.

He wanted her to lean on him. Even if it was just a little bit. This wasn’t what he wanted. “Anything else I can do to help?”

“I’ve got it under control.” Finality colored her words.

“You always do.” It came out harsher than he intended. But dammit, he was trying. Couldn’t she see that?

She spun around to face him, her petite frame filling with rigid rage as the silk of her gown whirled against his shins. Raising her chin and her brow, she pressed her lips tight, primly. “No need to be snarky.”

Sticking his hands in his pants pockets, he shrugged, his Brioni tuxedo jacket sliding along his shoulders. “I am completely serious.”

Fiona’s sherry eyes softened, the amber depths intoxicating. She took a deep breath and stared at him. A breeze stirred the stale air of the room, filtering through the window with the sounds of foot traffic and car horns. It was a grounding sound, reminding him of when they’d first bought this house—when they’d been a team. They’d spent months working together on every detail of restoring the historic Victorian home, a celebrated building that had once been a schoolhouse, then a convent.

And they’d done it together. They’d transformed this deteriorating five-thousand-square-foot house into a home.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to start a fight. Adelaide was a huge help during a really long day. Let’s just get through the evening. It’s harder and harder to pretend there’s nothing wrong between us.”

Something was off with her today, but he couldn’t tell what. It was clear enough, though, that she was trying to pick a fight with him.

“I don’t want to fight with you, either.” He didn’t know what the hell he wanted anymore other than to have things the way they were.

“You used to love a good argument with me. Only me. You get along with everyone else. I never understood that.”

“We had fire, you and I.” It had been a sizzling love. One that warmed him to his damn core. And he knew there was still a spark in the embers. He couldn’t believe it was all gone.

“Had, Henri. That’s my point. It’s over, and you need to quit making excuses to delay the final step.” Ferocity returned to her fairylike features. A warrior in blue silk and sequins.

“Not excuses. You needed to recover. Then we agreed we wouldn’t do anything that would disrupt the start of the season. Then with my brother’s wedding on the horizon—”

“Excuses. Divorce isn’t the end of the world.” She pinned up a curl that had escaped the confines of the delicate braid binding the others into place.

Everything about her these days was carefully put together so that no one saw a hint of the turmoil beneath. For months he’d respected that. Understood she was the one calling the shots with her health issues. But how could she deny herself any help? Ever? She’d made it clear he didn’t know how to be the least bit of assistance.

And now, divorce was the recurring refrain.

“Our family is in the spotlight. A split between us would eat up positive oxygen in the press.” He needed her to take a deep breath. They needed to figure out everything. He needed to stall.

She turned back around, using the mirror to smooth her dress. “No one is going to think poorly of you for leaving me. I will make it clear I’m the one who asked for the divorce.”

Anger boiled, heating his cheeks. “I don’t give a damn what people think about me.”

“But you do care about your team. I understand.” He picked up on the implication of her words. That he didn’t care about her. And that couldn’t be farther off base. She was still trying to pick a fight. To widen the gap between them.

“We’re going to be late.” The tone of his voice was soft. Almost like a whisper. He wanted to calm her down, to stop this from turning into an unnecessary fight. Something was upsetting her. Something major.

As much as he wanted to understand her, he couldn’t. The party was about to start and he didn’t have the time to unwrap the subtle meaning of all her words.

All he wanted was to have their old life back instead of silently cohabitating and putting on a front for the world. He longed for her to look at him the way she used to, with that smile that said as much as she enjoyed the party, she savored their time alone together even more. He ached for their relationship to be as uncomplicated as it once was when they traveled the country for the season, traveled the world in the off-season. They both enjoyed history and art. Sightseeing on hikes, whether to see Stonehenge or the Great Wall of China.

Tapping the back of her dress, he met her gaze in the mirror, holding her tawny eyes and reveling in the way her pupils widened with unmistakable desire. Settling his hands back on her shoulders, he breathed against her ear and neck. “Unless you would like me to take the zipper back down again.”

Her lashes fluttered shut for a second and a softness entered her normally clenched jaw. In that brief moment, he thought this might be how they closed the gap.

Instead, her eyelids flew open and she shimmied out from underneath his hands. “No, thank you. I have a fund-raiser to oversee. And then make no mistake, we need to set a firm date to see our attorney and end the marriage.”

Two

Fiona picked at sequins on her dress as Henri steered their Maserati through the gates and toward the huge Greek Revival mansion on the hill. She’d lived just down the road from that house once, she and Henri in their wing and his youngest brother, Jean-Pierre, in another. Both wings were large enough for privacy. Both easily big enough to fit four of the homes she’d grown up in, and her family had been wealthy enough to impress, with her father owning a midsize accounting firm.

But once her honeymoon phase had worn off with Henri and she’d realized she wasn’t pregnant, they’d begun trying for a baby in earnest. That mammoth mansion had grown more claustrophobic with each failed attempt. Then with each fertility treatment. There’d been miscarriages they hadn’t even told the family about. So many more health heartaches they hadn’t shared with his family.

After her very public miscarriage in her second trimester, he’d bought them the house in the Garden District to give them both space from the Reynaud fishbowl lifestyle. Their emotions had been bubbling over far too often, in good and bad ways.

Living here? It was just too difficult. Spanish moss trailed like bridal veils from live oak trees on either side of the private driveway leading into the Reynaud estate on Lake Pontchartrain. It was in an exclusive section of Metairie, Louisiana, west of the city. Pontoon boats were moored in shallow waters while long docks stretched into the low-lying mist that often settled on the surface, sea grass spiking through and hiding local creatures. The gardens were lush and verdant, the ground fertile. Gardeners had to work overtime to hold back the Louisiana undergrowth that could take over in no time. The place was large, looming—alive.

She glanced at her too-damn-handsome husband as he steered their sports car up the winding drive toward the original home on the family complex, the place where Henri and his brothers had spent time in their youth. Gervais, the oldest brother, and his fiancée lived here now, and the couple had allowed Fiona to host her event on the property.

Henri’s tailored Brioni tuxedo fit his hard, muscled body well. His square jaw was cleanly shaved, his handsome face the kind that could have graced a GQ cover. Her attraction to him hadn’t changed, but so much had shifted between them since their impulsive elopement three years ago. While she didn’t care about missing out on a large wedding, she did wonder if things might have turned out differently if they’d waited longer, gotten to know each other better before the stress piled on.

Now they would never know.

He bypassed the valet and opted to park in the family garage. The steel door slid open to reveal a black Range Rover and a Ferrari facing forward, shiny with polish, grills glistening. He backed into an open space, the massive garage stretching off to the side filled with recreational vehicles. The boats and Jet Skis were down in the boathouse at the dock. This family loved their toys. They played hard. Lived large. And loved full-out.

Losing Henri already left a hole in her life. Losing this family would leave another.

She swallowed down a lump as the garage door slid closed and he shut off the vehicle.

“Fiona?” He thumbed the top of the steering wheel. “Thank you for keeping up the happy couple act in public. I know things haven’t been easy between us.”

“This fund-raiser means a lot to me.”

“Of course it does.” His mouth went tight and she realized she’d hurt him.

How could they be so certain things were over and still have the power to hurt each other with a stray word? “I appreciate that your connections make this possible.”

He glanced at her, smoothing his lapel. “You throw a great party that wins over a crowd not easily wowed.”

“I owe Adelaide for her help today.”

“When your car broke down.”

She nodded tightly, the lie sticking in her throat.

He reached out to touch a curl and let it loosely wrap around his finger as if with a will of its own. “You look incredible tonight. Gorgeous.”

“Thank you.”

“Any chance you’re interested in indulging in some make-up sex, even if only temporary?”

The offer was tempting, mouthwateringly so, as she took in the sight of her husband’s broad shoulders, was seduced by the gentle touch of his fingers rubbing just one curl.

“We need to get inside.”

His mocha-colored eyes lingered on her mouth as tangibly as any kiss, setting her senses on fire. “Of course. Just know the offer stands.”

He winked before smoothly sliding out of the car and moving around to the passenger side with the speed and grace that served him well on the ball field. Her skin still tingled from the thought of having sex with him again. They’d been so very good together in bed, with a chemistry that was off the charts.

Would that change because of her surgery? It was a risk she’d never been able to bring herself to take.

Just the thought had her gut knotting with nerves. But the next thing she knew, her silver Jimmy Choo heels were clicking along to the side entrance and across the foyer’s marble floors. The space was filled with people from corner to corner, chatter and music from the grand piano echoing up to the high ceiling. The party was in full swing. The place was packed, people standing so close together they were pushed up against walls with hand-painted murals depicting a fox hunt.

Once upon a time she’d lived for these parties. But right now, she wanted to grab the banister and run up the huge staircase with a landing so large it fit a small sofa for casual chitchat in the corner.

Her hand tucked in Henri’s arm, she went on autopilot party mode, nodding and answering people’s greetings. She and Henri had played this game often, fooling others. She had to admit that while women chased him unabashedly, his gaze never strayed. He was a man of honor. His father’s infidelities had left a mark on him. Henri had made it clear he would never cheat—even when the love had left their marriage.

No, she couldn’t let her thoughts go there. To the end of love and of them. At least, not while they were in public. Too many people were counting on her. While planning this fund-raiser had served as a distraction from the widening gap between her and Henri, the whole event still had to be properly executed.

Time to investigate her handiwork. Excusing herself, Fiona walked over to the favor table. Turquoise boxes with silver calligraphic font reading “Love at First Woof” lined the table. Laughing inwardly, she picked up one of the boxes. This one was wrapped in a white ribbon. She opened the box, pleased to find the pewter dog earrings staring back at her. Satisfied, she retied the bow, set the box on the table, and picked up a box wrapped with black ribbon. To her relief, the pewter paw tie tacks were in there, as well. Good. The favors were even cuter than she had remembered.

Fiona’s gaze flicked to the service dogs from a rescue organization. They sat at attention, eyes watchful and warm. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the plates of food in the dining room. People were gathered around the food, scooping crab cakes and chicken skewers onto their plates.

Convinced that everything was more than in order, she surveyed further, walking into a more casual family space with an entertainment bar and Palladian windows overlooking the pool and grounds.

No detail had been missed thanks to the highly efficient catering staff she’d hired and Adelaide had overseen. Smiling faintly, Fiona peered outside at the twinkling doghouse situated just beyond the luxurious in-ground pool. The doghouse was a scale replica of the Reynaud mansion, and it was going to the shelter after tonight. But for now, it lit the grounds and housed hand-painted water bowls for the shelter dogs. Four of the shelter dogs walked around the pool, enjoying all the attention and affection from the guests.

People were spread out. Laughter floated on the breeze, and so did snippets of conversation. A small Jack Russell terrier was lazily stretched on Mrs. Daniza’s lap. A fuzzy white dog was curled up, fast asleep, beneath Jack Rani’s chair. The dogs were winning over friends with deep pockets.

Everything appeared to be in order. But then again, Fiona knew firsthand the difference between appearances and actual reality.

Sadness washed over her. Grabbing a glass of water from a nearby beverage station, she continued on as Henri went to speak to his brothers. Movement was good. Movement was necessary. The busier she stayed, the less her emotions would sting through her veins.

And it was as if the world knew she needed a distraction. As she slipped out onto the pool deck, she saw two of her favorite Hurricanes’ players—wide receiver “Wild Card” Wade and “Freight Train” Freddy. Not only did they inspire her with how much of their time they donated to worthwhile causes, the two men always made her laugh.

It seemed that tonight would be no exception. Freight Train was in a black suit, but his tie had dog butts all over it and his belt buckle was a silver paw print. He and Wild Card were posing for pictures with two of the shelter dogs. Their energy was contagious.

Directly across from Freight Train and Wild Card were the Texas branch of the Reynaud clan. When fund-raisers or troubles arose, despite the complicated and sometimes strained relationships, they jumped in. The two Texas boys were sipping wine and talking to a Louisiana senator. The cousins were supporting their relative who played for the Hurricanes. Brant Reynaud wore his ever-present small yellow rosebud on his lapel.

Everyone was out in full force to support her latest cause. She would miss this sense of family.

Landscape lighting highlighted ornamental plantings and statues. She checked the outdoor kitchen to one side of the pool to make sure all was in order. The hearth area was unmistakably popular, a fire already ablaze in the stone surround. Built-in stone seating was covered with thick cushions and protected by a pergola with a casual wrought-iron framework. The Reynaud brothers were there. Well, at least two of them. Fiona watched as Gervais waved Henri over.

One of the things that amused Fiona was the sheer amount of posturing the boys did when they were around each other. They loved each other—there was no doubt about that. But the brothers were all driven and natural-born competitors.

They were all tall, with athletic builds, dark eyes and even darker hair, thick and lush. While Gervais, Henri and Jean-Pierre were full brothers, Dempsey was the result of one of their father’s affairs. The brothers had each gotten their mother’s hair coloring, while their father had donated his size and strength.

The semicircle of the Reynaud clan was an elegant one. Gervais, the most refined of the brothers, was at ease in his role as oldest, leader of the pack. Erika, his fiancée, laid a gentle hand on Gervais’s forearm as she leaned into the conversation. The light from the hearth caught on her silver rings and cushion-cut diamond engagement ring. One would likely never guess Erika had served in her home country’s military, although her princess bearing was entirely clear.

To Gervais’s immediate left stood Dempsey, ever-present football pin on the lapel of his tuxedo, with lovely, efficient Adelaide at his side.

Fiona told herself that she was lucky not to have to work. That she made a positive impact in the world with her volunteer philanthropic efforts. Not holding down a regular job outside the home also enabled her to travel with her husband. She helped organize outings for the other family members who traveled with the Hurricanes, as well. Keeping the players and their families happy kept the team focused and out of trouble.

She looked around at the packed event, a total success. Anyone would think she had a full life.

Except she couldn’t bring herself to have sex with her husband. She’d been so certain the surgery was the right decision. She’d gone to counseling before and after. Her husband had been completely supportive.

And still the distance between them had grown wider and wider these past months, emphasizing how little they knew about each other. They’d married because of infatuation, great sex, a shared love of art and a pregnancy scare that sped up the wedding date.

Now that the initial glow of infatuation had passed and they didn’t even have sex to carry them through the rough patches, a common love for gallery showings wasn’t enough to hold them together. Their marriage was floundering. Badly. She needed to keep in mind how dangerous it would be to let her guard down around a man who had worked hard to take care of her through her decision.

And with a cancer scare looming over her today, she couldn’t bear the thought that he would stay with her out of sympathy.

* * *

Henri wasn’t in much of a party mood, no matter how much his brothers elbowed him and teased him about his latest fumble. His Texas cousins weren’t cutting him any slack, either.

He’d been thinking about the divorce his wife insisted on pursuing.

While the love had left their marriage, he’d heard plenty say that marriage had ups and downs. He wasn’t a quitter. And damn it all, he still burned to have her.

His gaze skimmed the guests around the pool, landing on his wife. Her trailing curls and slim curves called to him, reminding him of the enticing feel of her back as he’d tugged her zipper up.

She smiled at whomever she spoke to—a man with his back to the rest of the crowd—and nodded as she walked away. The man turned and Henri’s breath froze in his chest. He knew the man well. Dr. Carlson was a partner in the practice Fiona used to see before they’d transferred her to another physician for the surgery.

Fear jelling in his gut, Henri charged away from his brothers and cousins, shouldering through the crowd to his wife.

“Henri—”

He grasped her arm and guided her toward the shore of Lake Pontchartrain. “In a moment. When no one can overhear us.”

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 family 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?”

“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.

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