Reunited With The Rebel Billionaire. Catherine Mann
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