eyebrows pulled together and he tossed aside the stack of papers he’d brought into the office with him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Brandon just stared at him for a moment, then gestured lamely at his desk. Noah picked up the telegram, read it once, twice, then let it drop.
“She’s coming back?” Noah shook his head. “My God, how long has it been?”
“I’m not sure,” Brandon said. But he knew. He knew exactly.
“What are you going to do?” Noah asked.
Brandon shrugged. “Do? Why would I do anything?”
“She’s been gone all this time without a word—not a single word—and suddenly she’s returning? You have to do something.”
“She’s my wife.”
“Barely.”
Brandon turned toward the window again. He couldn’t argue with Noah. Everything he said was true.
After three months of marriage, Jana had left. Simply packed her belongings and disappeared. No warning, no notice, no explanation. He heard from her only once in a telegram a few days after her abrupt departure. She’d gone home to her aunt in San Francisco. They were leaving for Europe to visit a cousin.
And now she was coming home.
Brandon’s stomach tightened with anticipation.
His wife was coming home. After one year, two months and six days, she was coming home.
Thank God.
“I think we’re all settled now,” Jana Sayer reported as she entered the parlor of the hotel suite and gestured behind her at the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
Her aunt, Maureen Armstrong, reclined on the chaise. Tall, her dark hair showing only a hint of gray, Maureen possessed a gentle, artistic soul. She preferred her own company to that of most everyone else.
“Everything’s unpacked,” Jana said. She’d taken care of the important matters herself, then supervised the staff of servants who’d accompanied them on their transatlantic and transcontinental journeys.
“Should we order supper?” Maureen asked, looking up from the newspaper on her lap.
Jana tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear and sank into the wingback chair by the window. A heavy sigh slipped from her lips. The trip had been arduous, the day was late and she was tired.
“Nothing for me,” Jana said.
Outside, the Los Angeles rooftops darkened in the fading light. The Morgan Hotel was among the best in the city. This suite, with its lavish maroon-and-ivory decor, marble, etched glass and silk linens was its finest.
“Perhaps I’ll order a little something for myself,” Maureen mused. A moment passed before she spoke again, changing the subject. “Is it tomorrow, then?”
Jana’s heart fluttered, charging her with an unexpected surge of emotion, or energy—or something. She forced it down and drew in a calming breath.
“Yes, tomorrow,” she said. “I’m going tomorrow.”
“So soon? You’re sure you’ll be up to it?” Maureen asked in the kindly fashion of hers that always reminded Jana of brief childhood sicknesses or rainy days when her aunt stayed at her side, seemingly reading her thoughts and always making her feel better.
Maureen Armstrong had been doing just that for the past sixteen years since Jana’s parents had been killed when she was five. Never married, Maureen had raised Jana in her San Francisco mansion as her own, long-awaited child. Both had flourished in the arrangement.
“I want to handle it right away.” Jana rose from the chair and walked closer to the window. “I want to get it over with.”
Maureen folded her hands in her lap. “He’ll be angry,” she said softly.
The first three hellish months of her marriage flashed in Jana’s mind. Whatever Brandon’s feelings might be tomorrow weren’t her primary concern.
Really, she didn’t know what to expect from him—because he’d never expressed any emotion whatsoever about her departure. She’d received only one telegram from him, and that had been sent to Aunt Maureen shortly after Jana’s departure, asking if Jana had gone home. She’d gotten nothing else from her husband. Nothing. Until three months ago. Then a letter arrived at their London town house telling—not asking—her to come home.
So here she was.
“I know it will be difficult for you to break the news,” Maureen said.
Jana turned, a knot of determination tightening around her heart. “What news? I have no news for Brandon.”
“No news?” Maureen frowned. “But surely you’re going to tell him—”
“No.”
“Jana, you can’t allow him to believe—” Maureen paused. “When we were in Europe all these months, I understood why you didn’t…tell him. But now that we’re here?”
“He doesn’t need to know.”
“Then why did you agree to come here?” Maureen asked.
Jana drew in a breath. “To tell Brandon that I want a divorce.”
Chapter Two
H ome.
Or so she’d believed.
Jana gazed out the window of the hansom cab as it turned onto West Adams Boulevard, the place that had been her home for three months. The first time she’d laid eyes on this neighborhood of wide streets, swaying palms, wrought-iron and stone fences that fronted extravagant mansions, she’d been married but two days, and her husband had been at her side.
Fourteen months ago.
A lifetime ago.
He had built the house for her. Without really wanting to, Jana smiled as she recalled the day Brandon had told her that his wedding gift to her would be a new home in the prestigious West Adams District of Los Angeles. She’d been absolutely thrilled. But everything about Brandon was thrilling…back then.
Handsome, wealthy, successful, Brandon Sayer had instantly become the talk of the San Francisco social scene when he’d come to the city on business and been introduced into polite society. All the young women had vied for his attention. Mothers had sized him up as husband material for their daughters. Fathers had known of his business successes and wanted a part of it.
But Brandon had had eyes for only one young woman.
Jana shifted on the carriage seat, the leather creaking beneath her, as she recalled Aunt Maureen’s pleasure that Brandon had asked if he could call on her. Never leaving anything to chance—especially where Jana was concerned—her aunt had paid
