Destiny's Hand

Which was why she was here, dressed like a trollop, treading a groove in Eighty-first Street and woefully second-guessing herself.

She checked her watch.

It was seven forty-five. Not much time. But she didn’t need much time. She just wanted Adam to see what was going to be waiting for him upstairs in his hotel room when his business meeting finished.

“Hey, babe.” A good-looking man in an expensive business suit stopped on the sidewalk beside her. “You interested in a little somethin’, somethin’?”

Morgan blasted him with the coldest stare she could marshal, making a scalding laser of her eyes, and the guy slunk off like a cowed dog, palms raised and mumbling an apology.

Head held high, she swept haughtily past the portly doorman—who was still eyeing her suspiciously—and stepped through the revolving door into the lobby of the Grand Duchess. But then she went and ruined her staged bravado by stumbling in Cass’s stiletto boots.

Aha, exposed for the fraud she was. No femme fatale, Morgan Shaw.

Determined not to let her vulnerability show, she tossed her fake auburn hair and stalked toward the lounge.

Her heels clacked too loudly against the marble floor. The significance of this step weighed importantly upon her heart.

What if her ploy failed?

Prudence whispered inside her head, Morgan, let sleeping dogs lie. Go back home before he sees you. Things aren’t that bad. Adam is a good man. He loves you. You love him. Forget this awful need for something more, something magical. It’s a myth, a fairy tale. Grow up, for God’s sake, and face reality.

How much easier it would be if she could flee, but she possessed the strangest notion that if she turned back now, something inside her would die forever.

Morgan entered the bar and stood in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the darker lighting, her gaze wandering around the room in search of her husband. She spotted him seated in a corner booth, head down, brow furrowed, paperwork spread out on the table in front of him.

Her heart hiccuped, reeling drunkenly on fear and possibilities.

He was so handsome with his sturdy all-American good looks. Thick sandy-blond hair cut short but not severely so. Clean shaven. Affable cheekbones, intelligent blue eyes, strong chin, absolutely perfect nose.

He’d played football in high school. Quarterback, naturally. And Adam had managed to hang on to his lean waist and muscular chest. It came at a price, however. Daily morning jogs, weekends on the weight machines at the gym, no sleeping in late and spooning with her. But he considered the results worth the sacrifice.

Morgan hoped their future children would look exactly like him—that is, if they ever managed to have kids with the way things were going. She’d never thought she was pretty enough for Adam. On the looks meter, her handsome husband was a solid nine, while she considered herself a six at best.

She was on the bony side, small boobs, narrow hips, definitely not the sort of woman that men could sink their hands into. Her own hair was fine and blond and wouldn’t hold a style. She considered her bright brown eyes her best feature. And while friends had told her she resembled the actress Joan Allen, Morgan couldn’t help thinking they were extremely generous with their compliments.

Adam glanced toward the door, no doubt scouting for his client, and quickly flicked his gaze over her, not even recognizing his own wife.

Her pulse spiked and doubt sank its vicious teeth into her. This was bad timing. She’d made a mistake in coming here.

She almost ran away.

But the thought of catching the train back to that big empty house in Connecticut stopped her. She was tired of feeling lonely, tired of feeling disconnected, of feeling as if she’d somehow left her husband behind. She wanted him on her team again, wanted their hearts and minds to meld on a higher plane. She wanted the full extent of the happily-ever-after promise and she wanted it today.

Emboldened by the notion that she could have what she longed for, Morgan stalked across the lounge toward him, purposefully putting a seductive sway into her step.

Her heart beat harder and faster the closer she came to the high-backed conch-shell-shaped private booth where Adam sat.

Steady, steady. Don’t invest the outcome with more significance than it deserves. It’s just one step.

Yes, but in what direction?

Toward reunion?

Or divorce?

Morgan exhaled, unable to believe she had allowed the D word to pop into her head for even a fraction of a second.

Adam had already returned his attention to his paperwork. The booth lamp cast a shadow over his profile. His eyes drank in the words on the page. In his right hand he clutched the expensive ballpoint pen she had bought him as a Christmas present two years ago. His tailored silk suit hugged his shoulders, and he had loosened the tie at his neck.

She slipped into the cushioned seat across from him.

“Buy a girl a drink?” she said in the huskiest voice she could manage and leaned forward to accent her cleavage induced by her new padded push-up bra.

“Huh?” Adam blinked owlishly and stared at her as if she were a stranger.

Her chest tightened at the startled expression in his eyes. A heated flush of awkwardness climbed up her throat and burned her cheeks.

“Morgan?”

“Surprise.” She smiled shakily, scared as a kid on her first roller coaster ride.

She studied him intently, looking for some sign of arousal, of sexual interest, of basic male attraction. But Adam revealed neither delight nor approval. She could see nothing beyond his investment banker’s poker face. Nothing that said he saw her as a sexy, desirable woman.

Come on, what did you expect? For him to throw you down on the table and have his way with you right here in the bar? You of all people should understand what kind of mental stress he’s under. You’ve been there. Cut him some slack.

Yes, she knew what he was going through and that was precisely the reason she was here. To shake things up, to get him to see all the wonderful experiences he was missing out on by focusing so much of his time and energy on work to the exclusion of everything else.

“Um…what are you doing here?” His brow bunched in a frown, and he rubbed the back of his neck with a palm in a gesture she recognized. He was trying to ease the knots of tension wadding up under his skin. “And what is that you’re wearing?”

Adam’s jaw tightened, as if he wanted to say more but was gnawing on the words to keep them from tumbling out. His gaze skated over Morgan’s scandalous attire, but then he averted his eyes as if her being here made him uncomfortable.

The clothes were too much. Over the top. She knew that now. Had known it from the beginning, actually, but she’d let herself be persuaded by Cass. Image mattered a lot to Adam, and she had just embarrassed him at a place where he was well known, where he conducted business.

“I thought…I thought…”

Every silly thought she’d had about surprising him, making him crazy with desire and having wild sex at the Grand Duchess flew right out of her head. Good God, what had she been thinking? Interrupting his work with her lame attempt at seduction? The whole thing seemed cheesy now, ridiculous. This was what happened when she listened to her sister.

She’d been so stupid. This wasn’t the right way to get him to see her point of view.

Ducking her head in shame, she let her hair fall across her face, hoping it would hide the concern in her eyes. She slapped both palms against the smooth, cool marble tabletop and levered her butt up off the padded leather seat.

“I’m just going to go now. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

“Morgan.” Adam reached out to touch her. But just before his hand settled over hers, a bulky man with a pit-bull face sidled up to their table.

“Is this a bad time, Shaw?”

“Robert.” Adam got to his feet and shook his client’s hand. “You’re here.”