LITMIR.BIZ

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for Henri Reynaud, she rolled the silk socking up her other leg. Henri had chased her relentlessly until she’d begun to believe him when he said he adored her mind every bit as much as her body.

      Her body.

      Hands shaking, she tugged the band on her thigh into place. She couldn’t afford to think about those days before their marriage turned rocky, only to have him stay with her because of her health. She respected his honor, even as it hurt her to the core to lose his love. But she couldn’t accept anything less than honest emotion.

      Which meant she had to keep her secret. She tugged a wrinkle from her stocking and continued her phone conversation with Adelaide. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me out with tonight’s fund-raiser.”

      “Glad to lend my help. I wish you would ask more often.”

      “I didn’t want to impose or make you feel pressured before when Dempsey was your boss.” She’d known Adelaide for years, but only recently had they all learned of her romance with Dempsey Reynaud.

      “But now that we’re going to be sisters-in-law, I’m fair game?”

      “Oh, um, I’m sorry.” Her mind was so jumbled today. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

      “No need to apologize,” Adelaide said, laughing softly. “Truly. I was just teasing. I’m really glad to lend a hand. It’s a great cause. You do so much for charity—it’s an inspiration.”

      “Well, I would have been an inspiring failure if not for your help today setting up the party at the compound.” The main family compound on Lake Pontchartrain was larger and more ornate than Fiona and Henri’s personal getaway. They’d purchased the place for privacy, a space she could decorate in her own antique, airy style in contrast to the palatial Greek Revival and Italianate mansions that made up the bulk of the family compound. She was grateful for the privacy right now as she readied herself for the party and steadied her nerves.

      “Emergencies crop up for everyone. Did you sort things out with your car?” Traces of concern laced Adelaide’s voice.

      Fiona winced. She didn’t like lying to people, but if she admitted to seeing the doctor today that would trigger questions she was still too shaken to answer. After years of fertility treatments, she was used to keeping her medical history and heartbreak secret. “All is well, Adelaide. Thank you.”

      Or at least she hoped all was well. The doctor told her she shouldn’t worry.

      Easier said than done after all she had been through. Worrying had become her natural state, her automatic reflex lately.

      “Glad to hear it. I emailed you the changes made to the menu so you can cross-check with the receipts.”

      “Changes?” Anxiety coiled in Fiona’s chest. Normally she rolled with last-minute changes. They presented her with an opportunity to become more creative in the execution of the event. Every event she’d ever run had called for an adjustment or two. But her mind was elsewhere and her deeply introspective state made dealing with these external changes difficult.

      “There were some last-minute problems with getting fresh mushrooms, so I made substitutions. Do you want me to go over them now?” Keys clicked in the background.

      “Of course not. I trust your taste and experience.” And she did.

      “If you need my help with anything else, let me know.” Adelaide hesitated until the sound of someone else speaking then leaving the room faded. “I’m comfortable in my work world, but my future role and responsibilities as a Reynaud spouse will be new territory to me.”

      And Fiona’s time as a Reynaud wife was drawing to an end, even if the family didn’t know it yet. Her heart sank. “You are a professional at this. You could take any event to a whole new level. Just make sure to find what you want your niche to be. The men in this family can steamroll right over a person.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, and her cool, collected front began to crumble.

      “Fiona...” Concern tinged her voice. “Are you okay?”

      “Don’t mind me. I’m fine. I’ll see you soon. I need to get changed.” She couldn’t attend the event in stockings, a thong and a bra. No matter how fine the imported Italian lace. “Thanks again.” She disconnected and slid her sapphire-blue gown from the end of the bed.

      She stepped into the floor-length dress, the silk chiffon a cool glide over her skin, the dress and underwear strategically designed. The fabric fit snugly in a swathe around her breasts and hips, with a looser pleated skirt grazing her ankles. A sequin-studded belt complemented her glinting diamond chandelier earrings.

      No one would see her scars. No one other than her husband and doctors knew.

      Double mastectomy.

      Reconstruction.

      Prophylactic—preventative. In hopes of evading the disease that had claimed her mother, her aunt and her grandmother.

      Fiona had never had breast cancer. But with her genetics, she couldn’t afford to take the risk. She pressed the dress to her chest and tried not to think of the doctor’s words today about a suspicious reading on her breast MRI that could be nothing. The doctor said the lump was almost certainly benign fat necrosis. But just to be safe he wanted to biopsy...

      The creaking of the opening door startled her. Her dress slid down and she grabbed it by the embellished straps, pressing it back to her chest even though she knew only one person would walk in unannounced.

      Her husband.

      America’s hottest athlete for two years running.

      And the man she hadn’t slept with since her surgery six months ago.

      Henri’s hands fell to rest on her shoulders, his breath caressing her neck. “Need help with the zipper?”

      * * *

      Henri took risks in his job on a regular basis. Sure, his teammates worked their asses off to prevent a hard tackle from his blind side, but he understood and accepted that every time he stepped onto the field, he could suffer a career-ending injury.

      Fans called him brave. Sports analysts sometimes labeled him reckless. The press branded him fearless.

      They were all wrong.

      He’d been scared as hell every day since the doctors declared Fiona had inherited her family’s cancer gene. It didn’t matter that their marriage had been on the rocks. He’d been rocked to his foundation. Still was.

      Henri clenched her shoulders so his hands wouldn’t shake. Even the smallest touch between them was filled with tension. And not in the way that made him weak in the knees. “Your zipper?”

      With a will of their own, his eyes took in the long exposed line of her neck, her deep brown hair corralled by a thin braid so that lengthy, loose curls cascaded in a narrow path down her back. He looked farther down her spine to the small of her back that called to him to touch, to kiss in a lingering, familiar way. But he’d lost the right. She’d made that clear when he’d tried to reconcile after the doctor’s prognosis.

      “Thank you. Yes, please,” she said, glancing over her shoulder nervously and pulling her hair aside, the strands so dark they almost appeared black at night. He hated seeing that sort of distance in her amber-colored eyes. “I’m running late because of, um, a last-minute snafu with the caterer.”

      “Adelaide said you were having trouble with your car, so I came home early. But I see it’s in the garage. What was wrong?”

      Whipping her head away from his gaze, she muttered, “Doesn’t matter.”

      It was becoming her trademark response. It didn’t matter.

      That was a lie. He could tell by the way her mouth thinned as she spoke.

      He let out a deep sigh as his gaze traced over their room. Or should he say—their former room. He’d taken to

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