LITMIR.BIZ

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a woman facing the possibility of a terminal illness, but their relationship was more complex than that. He shoved away from the fireplace strewn with Wedgwood knickknacks, strode toward her and stopped just short of the settee.

      He clasped her shoulders. “You said we never talked enough. So let’s talk. Tell me.”

      Henri needed her to talk. To figure this out. Because even now, even with the smudged makeup and tousled brown hair, she was damn beautiful. The heat of her skin beneath his hands was familiar and intoxicating.

      He still wanted her. Cancer or no cancer. Kids or no kids. Though his hands stayed steady on her shoulders, he wanted to send them traveling on her body. To push her back on the bed.

      Their bed—before she’d sent him to his own room after they’d returned from her surgery overseas. She’d said the surgery left her in too much pain to risk being bumped in the night. And somehow over time, she’d kept the separate rooms edict in place. He didn’t know how so much time had slipped away, but day by day, he’d been so damn afraid he would say or do the wrong thing when she was in such a fragile state. He’d gone along with her request for space until the next thing he’d known their lawyer was drawing up papers.

      He was done waiting around. He was a man of action.

      After a moment of hesitation, she shrugged off his hands. “Talking now won’t change us splitting up. You have to understand that.”

      “Then let’s talk to give each other peace when we walk away.” If he could keep her talking, they were still together. She wouldn’t be closing the door in his face.

      She chewed her bottom lip before releasing it slowly, then nodding. “Speak then.”

      He sat on the settee and held her hand, tugging gently. She held back for a moment before surrendering to sit beside him. He shuffled at the last instant so she landed on his lap.

      “That’s not playing fair.”

      “Then move.”

      Indecision shifted across her heart-shaped face, then a spark of something. Pure Fiona spunk. She wriggled once, causing a throbbing ache in his groin an instant before she settled.

      He raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s not playing fair.”

      “I thought you wanted to talk.”

      “I did. Now it’s tough to think.” He tapped her lips. “But I’m trying. We could start with you telling me what really made you cry.”

      She avoided his gaze as she said, “I had a long talk with your grandfather this evening. Seeing him fading away made me sad.” Resting her head on Henri’s chest, she took a ragged breath. Grandpa Leon and Fiona had always been close.

      “I understand that feeling well. It’s hard to watch, hard to think about. I miss him already.” Pulling her closer, Henri softened as she wrapped her arms around him. Lifting a hand, he stroked her dark brown hair, releasing the braid that confined her curls. This was what he missed. Being close like this. Feeling her against him. “Are you really prepared to walk away from this family? My brothers, Adelaide...everyone?”

      Fiona stayed against his chest, fingers twirling around the back of his neck. Shocks of electric energy tingled along his spine. His hand slid down the side of her body, gingerly touching the silky fabric of her dress, making him itch for more. The light smell of her perfume worked his nerves. It had grown silent between them. The only audible noise was the click-click-click of the ceiling fan.

      “Perhaps they will still like me afterward.” The words came out like a whisper.

      “Of course they will.” It was impossible not to like her.

      “But I understand it could be awkward for everyone, especially for you when you move on.” Again, she cut into his core.

      “You already have me in a relationship with someone else? That’s cold.” He hadn’t had eyes for anyone but her since they’d met. He’d been head over heels for her from the get-go.

      “I imagine the women will be flocking to you the instant they hear you’re free.”

      Fiona’s face was close to his now. Her mouth inches from his. The breath from her words warmed his lips.

      “But I only want you.” He tilted his head, touched the bottom of her chin and kissed her fully, his tongue meeting and sweeping against hers.

      The familiar texture of her lips, the taste of her, awakened a deep need in him. They knew each other’s bodies and needs. He knew just where to stroke behind her ears to make her purr.

      Fiona kissed him back, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close against her. Her fingers slid into his hair, caressing along his scalp and grazing lower, her nails lightly trailing along his neck, then digging into his shoulders with need.

      His hands roved down her back, the ridge of her zipper reminding him of earlier when he’d slid it up, link by link. Every time, touching her set him on fire. The silk of her dress was every bit as soft as her skin.

      And he had once made it his personal mission to learn the terrain of every inch of that skin.

      His fingers played down to her hips, digging in as he tugged her even closer on his lap. The curve of her ass pressed against the swelling ache of his erection, making him throb even harder. He nipped along her ear, then soothed the love bite with the tip of his tongue. Her head fell back and her lips parted with a breathy sigh that prompted his growl of approval in response. He kissed down her neck, to the sweet curve of her shoulder. His hand skimmed up her side—

      And just as quickly as it had started, she pulled back, sliding off his lap and stumbling to her feet. Her hands shaky, she smoothed the lines in her dress.

      What the hell? He struggled to pull his thoughts together but all the blood in his body was surging south hard and fast.

      She stared at him, eyes full of confusion. “You need to go.” Before he could speak, she made fast tracks to the door, holding it open even wider. “You need to go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

      And even with the lack of blood to his brain, he knew. There was no arguing with his wife tonight.

      * * *

      Kicking at the cover, Fiona tossed in her king-size bed, trapped in the twilight hell between having a nightmare and being half-awake. The torture of knowing she should be able to grapple back to consciousness but unable to haul herself from the dream that felt all too real.

      In the fog of her dream, Fiona pushed open the door of her childhood home, making her way across the kitchen and into the living room. Her father, a dignified-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair, sat on the overstuffed chair in the corner of the room, clutching the newspaper in his hand.

      Something was wrong. She could hear it in the rattle of those papers clutched in his shaky grip. See it on his face when his gaze met hers over the top of the New Orleans Times.

      “Dad?” The voice that puffed from her lips seemed distant. Younger.

      He shook his head, his mouth tight as if holding back words was an ungodly tough effort. Panic filled her chest. She needed to find her mother.

      Spinning away, she started roaming the halls of the three-story house, opening the doors. Searching for her mother. Chasing shadows that crooked their fingers, beckoning, then fading. Again and again.

      At the last door, she was sure she would find her mother, a willowy woman, a society leader who stayed busy, so busy Fiona had attended boarding school during the week to be kept out of the way.

      On her weekends at home, there just hadn’t been enough hours to spend together. Her memories of her mom were few and far between.

      Fiona opened that very last door, the one to the garden where her mother held the very best of parties. The doorknob slipped from her hand, the mahogany panel swinging wide and slamming against the wall so fast she had to jump back.

      Petals

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