life instead of her company. Britt was just jealous, and she certainly had no trouble accepting the clothes that Riana offered her when she cleaned out her closet at the end of each season.
Riana’s mother, Karleen, who had worked part-time during the summer months at the neighborhood ice-cream shop when her daughters were young, also accused Riana of taking her work much too seriously. Karleen wanted more grandchildren to spoil, a second son-in-law to pamper and another big wedding to plan. In her opinion, Riana was using her work to avoid commitment, afraid that a man would want to come in and take over her business under the guise of relieving her of the stress that comes with owning a demanding franchise.
Even Riana’s father, Sam, now retired from his government job as a city health inspector, concurred. He worried that Riana might be sacrificing too much for the sake of making money. Getting rich was not that important, he often told her. A fancy car, expensive clothes and nice jewelry meant nothing if you didn’t have someone with whom to share and enjoy such perks. Money wouldn’t bring his daughter happiness, he would say, urging her to take a hard look at her priorities.
Riana disagreed with all of them. She was proud of what she’d accomplished, and she thrived on the financial freedom that she had earned. She was content to immerse herself in the world of negotiations, contracts and deal-making to the exclusion of an endless and often frantic round of galas and benefits and shallow happy hours and boring stand-up cocktail parties just to search for Mr. Right. She gave generously to the charities that mattered by writing checks at the end of the year, and had long ago given up worrying about finding a mate. If it happened, fine, but she sure wasn’t going to lie awake at night worrying about when, or if, someone to love—who could fit into her world—would come along.
Now, clicking through her e-mails, Riana saw that two of her professional colleagues had already replied to her request for leads for potential candidates to fill George Allen’s search. The first message, from the president of the American Association of Urban Planners contained the résumés of two of their members who were seeking projects: Sandra Morehouse of Oklahoma City and Robert Fountain from Dallas. Riana closely scrutinized their credentials, made a few notes about Sandra, who had five years of experience and a short list of clients, and then Robert, whose work was starkly simple and not very attractive.
Impressed, but not quite satisfied, Riana moved on to the second message, from the membership chair of the National Association of Builders and Architects. The contact, with whom Riana had worked on two other assignments, was offering up only one name, and when Riana read the e-mail, she froze. Andre Preaux, of A. Preaux and Associates in Houston, winner of the prestigious 2003 Space City Improvement Award for his design of a low-rise complex for marginalized senior citizens in Houston. Heart thumping in her chest, she began to read aloud from the screen.
“‘Andre Preaux, a newcomer to the industrial architectural and design scene, brings twelve years of experience in the construction business and a recent degree in architecture from the University of Houston to his innovative designs. In his award-winning project, Arbor Oaks, he grasped the big-picture demands of the problem of limited housing for elderly seniors on fixed incomes and was able to effectively tie the project to the goals and the needs of an underserved group of citizens. He cut through tangled red tape and finished the complex in record time while honoring city ordinances and following housing guidelines to achieve a final project that surpassed the original plans. His use of innovative design concepts for the handicapped and those with limited mobility, his incorporation of environmentally friendly materials, and his involvement of the local residents allowed him to prove that there can be equitable access to affordable housing for all members of the Houston community.’”
It can’t be the same man, Riana kept telling herself, frowning at the photo of a professionally attired caramel-colored man in a business suit and tie. His hair was longer, his smile seemed brighter, and he looked more mature than the thirty-seven years she knew him to be. He also looked confident and polished, as if he possessed secrets to his rapid rise that he did not plan to reveal. She had never seen Andre wearing anything other than scruffy jeans or slacks and a shirt, never a suit. This man was dressed with ultimate care, sending a message of impressive style. Even the address of his firm was impressive: Prairie Towers, in the high-rent, Main Street, museum-district area. Apparently, he was doing quite well, and he was just as disturbingly handsome as she remembered. Even more so, Riana had to admit, wondering for the thousandth time if they could have made it as a couple.
Frantically, she scrolled through his résumé, eager to read everything she could about his background, his work, his education and his future plans. She was stunned. How could this be the same man who had worn faded jeans and work boots to class, who had swept her into a whirlwind romance before she’d realized what was happening? Was this the same man whose heart she knew she had shattered four years ago when she had left him behind to pursue her career?
Slumping back in her chair, Riana stared at the monitor, not seeing anything, unable to stop the flood of memories she’d been holding back for years easing into her mind. As she sat there, sensations she had struggled to forget swept through her. The feel of his fingers on her skin as he held her chin and kissed her good-night. The clean soapy smell of his skin after they’d bathed together in his bubbly Jacuzzi tub. The scent of their soul-touching bodies after a long night of making love. The taste of his lips, plump, full and warm over hers.
An ache of longing flashed through Riana, tearing into her heart and holding her still. Sitting there, she felt a lump of regret begin to swell, reigniting the misery she’d suffered through during those miserable days after her return home. It hadn’t taken long for Riana to admit that she had miscalculated everything back then: her job security at Sweetwater, the depth of Andre’s feelings for her and her ability to get over him.
Andre had called her once, had e-mailed her twice, but she’d never responded, unable to go back on her decision to put her career first and sidestep the temptation of entering into a long-distance relationship. She had simply eased her way out of his life as smoothly as he had entered hers, fully aware that she had left him feeling confused and disappointed about her actions. However, she’d had little choice at the time, and after weeks of crying herself to sleep at night or lying awake second-guessing her decision to walk away from Andre, she had finally managed to let go of him and put her energy into building her company.
Now, Riana moved her index finger over the delete button on her keyboard, prepared to erase Andre Preaux from her computer screen as well as her life. But she couldn’t press the key. As much as she wanted to push his résumé aside, it was impossible. Dammit! Andre had all of the credentials that George Allen was looking for and there was no way she could exclude him from her short list. In fact he might be the ideal candidate.
Riana clipped one more yellow rose from the chest-high bush in the center of her rose garden, placed it in a basket and decided that the six full blooms she had picked were more than enough for a nice bouquet. She headed into the potting shed at the far end of her compact, well-landscaped yard and put her tools away.
When she had left her office at six o’clock that evening, she hadn’t planned on working in her garden, but when she walked through the door she was too keyed up over having seen Andre’s photo on the Internet to simply flop in her easy chair and watch the evening news on TV as usual. She had to stay busy, keep her mind off him. So she’d put on her jeans, a T-shirt and her leather gardening gloves and headed into her rose garden to shift her thoughts from the ghostly past.
Riana pulled off her gloves, hung them on a hook in the shed and wiped perspiration from her forehead with the back of one hand. The early-July evening was sultry, humid and still pushing ninety degrees even though it was nearing dusk: a typical day in the Alamo city. However, Riana had no complaints. She was used to the steamy summer days that never seemed to cool and knew that grumbling about the heat did no good; it would end in its own time, and that could be as late as mid-October, or even Thanksgiving Day some
