call her mother. She didn’t think the gaping hole in her heart would ever close from that traumatic loss. The loneliness had been unbearable during her marriage to James, when she’d longed to call her mother for advice. Now a sharp twist constricted her heart. She couldn’t share her pregnancy with her mother, either.
He paused for a moment as if to pay tribute to her long-ago buried mother. When he next spoke, his tone had hardened. “And then you married your old boyfriend.”
“Yes. James.”
His mouth pulled to the side as if he couldn’t make himself say the name. Several moments passed as they each concentrated on their sandwiches. Then he pinned her with a fine-pointed stare. “Has he made you happy, Jillian?”
Startled by the question, by the concern in his voice, her mind spun. Happy? Had James made her happy? Words clogged her throat. Her engagement had made her dying mother happy. The match had pleased James’s folks. She wasn’t sure what James had wanted. Another conquest? A Stepford wife to help him climb the ladder of success?
And her? What had she wanted? Security? Comfort? Escape from memories…and gnawing pains of regret and loneliness. Had it brought her happiness? No. Her marriage had only made things worse.
It was an answer she couldn’t readily admit. Especially to Brody. Her marriage to James had been a mistake from the start. But still the admission tasted bitter.
Instead, she skirted the topic completely with, “James is dead.”
Jillian Hart Tanner. A widow?
That description didn’t compute. Brody’s mind replayed her words over and over, as if trying to make sense of an illogical equation. It seemed simple. But the implications were mind-boggling. Finally the answer clicked and shifted his universe.
She’s not married.
She doesn’t have a husband.
She’s available!
A surge of unreserved, unabashed optimism flooded his soul. His pulse quickened, his blood pumped, hot and fast.
He stared at her, seeing her as he once had, beautiful, intelligent, single. But something in her eyes had changed. Sadness darkened, swirled in those aqua depths like storm clouds. He imagined her tears as she cried for her dead husband. Those tears poured over him, dousing his inappropriate excitement.
You fool, can’t you see she’s hurting? Can’t you be sensitive, instead of thinking of yourself?
Guilt saturated him, made him focus on Jillian. Her pain. Her loss.
“I’m sorry, Jillie.” Not sorry that James was dead. He’d never liked James Tanner. Hell, he hadn’t even met the bloke. But he’d despised him for taking Jillian away…for marrying the only woman he’d ever loved. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s not something I talk much about.”
He nodded. “Doesn’t come up in conversations easily, does it?”
She shook her head and stared down at her hands. Her fingers turned white. He wondered if it was a struggle every day for her to wrestle her composure, to combat the anguish.
Like a slap, the truth hit him, the sting resonating through him, making a part of him he’d thought long dead tremble. She’d chosen James. Not him. No matter how sharp the truth, he couldn’t forget or ignore that fact.
He looked at her from across the desk and read the shadowy pain darkening her eyes. So many questions spun around his mind. How long had she been alone? What had happened to James, a young man of their own age? Too young to die. Too young to leave a beautiful wife.
“When did he…?”
“Two months ago.”
“Hell, Jillie.” Shock brought the words too fast. “What happened?”
Daintily, thoughtfully, she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “An accident. On the road. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.”
Lifting his hand, he wanted to go to her, reach out to her, hold her. But he knew he shouldn’t. He searched his soul but could find no words that might offer solace. He understood the need to turn inward, to protect the shaky walls of dignity.
Slowly he nodded his understanding and cursed himself for causing her more pain. His chest constricted with a raw burning agony for the heartache she must be suffering. He wished he could give her something to cling to for support—his hand, his arms, maybe. But he knew there was no comfort for a broken heart.
And damn if he ever wanted to be Jillian’s second choice.
It was the right thing to do, Jillian told herself over the next few days as they entered the last week of September. It was best if everyone, especially Brody, thought she mourned James’s loss. She wanted others to think she was a grieving widow. Even if the image she’d created was a blatant lie.
There was no reason to disparage James’s memory. No reason to let her wounds from her marriage ooze. She could clean them in private. But she felt as if she were keeping a dark, ugly secret, which made her feel isolated, alone.
And the feeling only grew worse.
Brody was to blame. Every day she worked with him in close quarters, analyzing reports, scheduling meetings. His rugged accent coiled her insides. She caught herself watching him, noticing his hands, his eyes, his smile. Glimpses of her past crept into her unconscious, reminded her of better days, of a time when Brody had made her feel special. It became a constant struggle to remember how he’d also made her feel used, how he’d broken her heart. And why she no longer trusted him.
With long, ambitious strides, Brody walked into his office, a grin as broad as the Palo Duro Canyon lighting up the sharp angles of his face. “You did good, Jillie. Damn good.”
Pushing up from her desk she followed him, carrying his phone messages in her hand. “The report helped your meeting with the attorneys?”
“It laid out the strategy perfectly.” He set his fawn-colored briefcase on his desk and popped the brackets. “This may end up being the smoothest merger in history.”
Pride surged within her. “I’m glad.” She handed him his messages. Their fingers brushed, sending an electrical current through her. Crossing her arms, she focused on work. “So what’s the next step?”
His gaze softened, making his eyes smoky. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Her enthusiasm kicked into gear. She liked the challenges her new position created for her, taking her mind off her own personal problems. “Whatever I can do—”
“What are you doing this weekend?” His question stopped her short.
Had she mistaken his intent? “Excuse me?”
“This weekend,” he repeated. “What are you doing?”
Oh, God! He’s asking me out.
Her pulse thrummed at the possibility—at the impropriety, she corrected. Her mind
