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.”
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
