Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow

But nine months ago, after years of lingering hope, Clea had received the proof she’d dreaded.

Brand’s wedding ring. Stolen off one of the corpses by a member of the burial team and later turning up in a pawnbroker’s stall at the local village market.

Brand would never have taken his ring off. Never. Finally, no choice remained but to face the truth: Brand had died in that wreck in the desert. He was not coming back.

Her beloved husband was dead.

There’d been nothing left for her to do but complete the formalities.

The court accepted what her father, the investigating team and the lawyers dispassionately called “the facts” and made an order confirming that Brand was dead, authorizing a death certificate to be issued.

The day she’d received the death certificate, the final document charting Brand’s life, Clea’s heart had shattered into glass-sharp fragments. She’d believed she would never come to terms with the harsh finality of it.

Harry’s familiar features became a blur as her vision teared up. Yet amid the ashes of despair she’d found a way to combat her loneliness …

“Now I’ve upset you.” Harry looked more wretched than ever. “I never meant to do that.”

“It’s not you.”

Clea blinked furiously. How could she explain that everything made her feel tearful? The doctor said that was normal—it would pass.

“It’s me. I’m just all over the place right now.”

That caused Harry to take a hurried step back.

Patting the front of his dinner jacket, Clea gave a wan smile. “It’s okay, I promise I won’t bawl my eyes out.”

Harry gave a hasty glance around, then said gamely, “You can cry on my shoulder anytime you want.”

Her throat ached. “I’m done crying. I know—and accept—that Brand is dead. I know that I have to move on. Everything is going to be all right.” If she told herself that often enough she might one day start believing it. For good measure she added, “And I’ve got something to live for.”

“Clea, if you need me—I’ll be there for you. You know that.”

Yet despite his brave words Harry looked so alarmed by the prospect of her falling apart here, in front of New York’s high society, that Clea couldn’t help smiling. “Harry, thank you. You’re the best.”

Relief lit Harry’s expression. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

In the foyer of the Museum of Ancient Antiquities, Brand paused midstep and looked around. It was different from the last time he’d been here … yet still very familiar.

Dated black-and-white tiles had given way to glossy white marble. And the flooring wasn’t the only change. An imposing, curved marble staircase with an ornate bronze balustrade wound upward in the space once occupied by creaky wooden stairs covered in threadbare, mustard-colored carpeting from the 1950s. To the right of the stairs, a magnificent bronze immortalized a pre-Christian goddess. The wreath of corn she wore allowed Brand to identify her as Inanna, the ancient Mesopotamian goddess of love, fertility and war.

The dark, old-fashioned entrance hall had been transformed into a sophisticated, inviting space just as Clea had sketched one snowy winter’s evening while they’d reclined beside the glowing fire at home. Brand had listened as she’d shared a vision of how the museum could become New York’s most exciting collection of ancient treasures.

Brand moved forward slowly.

A rush of pride filled him. His wife had clearly accomplished what she’d once only dreamed of. The museum was no longer a somewhat dowdy haunt of scholars and art aficionados. It was thriving … alive … exactly as she’d envisaged.

At the foot of the stairs a flock of women in high heels and designer frocks were being served oversize cosmopolitans by a white-jacketed waiter.

There was a buzz of excitement in the air.

Brand’s gaze searched the group.

No Clea. Beyond the fashionistas lurked more clusters of people. His gaze sharpened. Men. All of them. Formally clad in black-and-white and scattered beneath the bronze of Inanna.

Where was his wife?

His heart hammering, Brand advanced, passing under a gilded chandelier, its iridescent crystals dispersing flecks of light across the domed arch of the ceiling far above. He made for the spectacular staircase he knew must lead to the second floor and the upper galleries. He couldn’t wait to watch Clea’s incredible green eyes light up with unrestrained joy when she saw him, couldn’t wait to touch her, feel her soft warmth, her femininity within his arms. How he’d dreamed of that.

His wife. His lover. His lodestar. Every minute away from her had almost killed him.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Brand paused. The long gallery was crowded. The sparkle of jewels and riot of color was blinding. He fought an unexpected wave of claustrophobia as the crowd enveloped him.

Perhaps he should’ve called ahead, let her know he was coming home….

But with the worst of the long and dangerous trek through the mountains bordering northern Iraq behind him, he’d wanted to get the less risky journey back to the United States done. Sure, there’d still been the chance that he could be arrested for carrying a fake passport. And, beneath reason, there’d lurked the blind terror that calling Clea might jinx everything.

Too late for second thoughts now.

Brand scanned the throng crammed between glass display cases holding priceless ancient treasures and tables loaded with canapеs. Still no sight of the woman he sought. He edged past a trio of gossiping older women, their hungry eyes incessantly sweeping the packed room for fresh fodder before they turned to each other and cackled. His lips started to curl … then relaxed into a rusty smile. In the past he would’ve dismissed them as social hyenas; but now, after his months of deprivation, any laughter was a welcome sound.

He met the heavily mascaraed eyes of one of the group. Saw the disbelief as recognition dawned. Marcia Mercer. Brand remembered that she used to pen an influential society column. Perhaps she still did.

“Brand … Brand Noble?”

He gave her a nod in brief acknowledgment before advancing with ruthless determination, ignoring the turning heads, the growing babble that followed in his wake.

And then he saw her.

Brand’s mouth went dry. The cacophony of rising voices faded. There was only Clea …

She was smiling.

Her mouth curved up, and her eyes sparkled. A shimmering ball gown clung to her curves, her arms bare except for a gold cuff that glowed in the light from the opulent chandeliers … and on her left hand the wedding band he’d chosen for her glinted.

Brand sucked in his breath.

For an instant he thought she’d cut off the riot of curls he loved. But as she turned her head he caught a glimpse of curls escaping down behind her back from where the dark tresses had been pulled away from her face. He let out the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding in a jagged groan. She looked so vital, so alive and so stunningly beautiful.

Longing surged through him and his chest expanded into an ache too complex to identify.

Clea’s hand reached out and touched a jacketed arm. Brand’s gaze followed. The sight of the bronze-haired man she was touching caused Brand’s eyes to narrow dangerously. So Harry Hall-Lewis was still around. When she tipped her face up and directed the full blast of her smile at the man, Brand wanted to yank Clea away. To pull her to him, hold her, never let her go.

Mine.

The response roared through him. Basic, primal … and very, very male.

“Champagne, sir?”