Destiny's Hand

“Cut from the same cloth,” was what their friends said about them.

When she met Adam’s family, his mother told her it was as if they’d just been waiting for her to walk through the door—the bond was that instant, that right. It was the same with Adam and her family. Her dad called him the son he’d never had.

The more she knew about Adam, the more she admired and respected him. He was thoughtful and gentle. He opened the car door for her, helped her on with her coat, pulled out her chair when they dined in restaurants. He bought her little gifts and never forgot important dates. He got along with her friends, and she with his. He was even-tempered and goal-oriented. And just like Morgan, he had a plan for his life and was busily on the path to success. His kisses curled her toes and when they eventually made love it felt nice and warm and safe.

Like coming home after a long journey.

Everyone thought they were the perfect match.

But it had been almost too easy. There had been no big dramas, no major conflicts to overcome, no challenges to hurdle.

Sometimes Morgan couldn’t help wondering if Adam had married her simply because their relationship had been so easy. At some point had he felt trapped by the niceness of it all and drifted into the union because it was expected?

She thought quitting her job and taking on the less stressful role of shop owner would strengthen their marriage, but it had not. She’d changed, while Adam had stayed the same. Safe and nice and warm were no longer enough. In her marriage, she ached for the same kind of red hot energy, the throbbing intensity of passion that fable claimed Egmath and Batu had shared.

Weird as is seemed, Morgan felt that if she did not get to see inside that box, she would never know for sure how Adam truly felt about her. The notion was purely emotional. She knew it, yet she could not shake the irrational impulse.

For her peace of mind, she had to find out what was in that box.

Dear Monsieur Renouf, she tapped out on the keyboard. It just so happens I have plans to visit France within the following week….

IN A LAVISH VILLA IN the south of France, Henri Renouf sat back in his plush leather chair in front of his state-of-the-art computer, a sinister smile playing across his sun-weathered face.

The foolish woman had taken the bait.

She was so easy. It was like being a chess champion and condemned to play with a rabbit. But she had brought to his attention a new conquest to add to his collection, and for that he was grateful.

This new discovery of a mysterious box linked with the White Star was exhilarating and only served to fuel his obsession with the amulet and its legend of star-crossed lovers.

He had to possess that box. At all costs. He would risk everything just to get his hands on it. Nothing mattered more to him.

Renouf rubbed his palms together in a quick, excited gesture and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored tile of the wet bar across the room. He was nearly bald, and what hair he had left he vainly dyed jet-black.

Frowning, he pushed back from the chair and tramped to the mirror for a closer look. His eyes were his most striking feature—intense black pupils emphasized by remarkably clear whites. A lover had once told him that his eyes didn’t seem quite human. He’d taken the comment as a compliment, not for the frightened insult the woman had intended.

Henri traced stubby fingers over the lines embedded in his forehead, the furrows running beside his nose to the corners of his mouth. They suggest experience, command, impatience with fools. But he was vain enough to hate the wrinkles and yet he loved the sun too much to stay out of it.

He had other vices, as well. Cigars and cognac and rich food. His indulgences had thickened his waist. Even so, most people thought he was in his fifties, but Henri was nearing seventy. He didn’t have much time left.

He wanted the box and whatever Henri wanted, Henri got. And he didn’t care who had to die in the process. He’d killed before and, if necessary, he would kill again.

Anticipation watered his mouth. It was all he could do to keep from calling up his pilot, telling him to ready the plane and jetting off to Connecticut to take the box away from the woman immediately. But he could not risk such a bold maneuver. Not when the authorities were looking for him.

But he wanted the box so badly because it represented what he’d never been able to have in real life—true love—that it was almost worth the gamble.

Patience, he cautioned himself. Patience.

Knowing when to attack and when to wait in ambush was what had earned him his privileged life. He would wait. Lure her in. She must come to him, on his turf.

And then he would strike.

3

ADAM SAT IN THE BACKSEAT of the mustard-yellow cab, clutching a bouquet of wilting flowers he’d bought at an all-night grocer’s outside the Grand Duchess. Given that it was two o’clock in the morning, the bedraggled combination of roses, daisies, carnations and baby’s breath was the best he had to offer. And he wasn’t happy about it.

The taxi driver pulled to a stop outside his home on Rosemont Circle. Adam paid the fare and got out, swaying a little in the darkness. He had matched Jacobbi scotch for scotch, keeping up with his client in order to seal their new deal.

As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Adam stared up at his house.

The place was everything he’d ever dreamed of when he was a boy. A rambling four-bedroom perched stately on a two-acre lot kept well manicured by a team of pricey landscapers. In their garage sat a late-model top-of-the-line BMW, and stored at the local marina was his latest toy, Plentiful Bounty, a sleek eighteen-foot catamaran that he’d only taken out once.

He was a lucky man and he knew it, but at the back of his mind he couldn’t help thinking that it wasn’t enough. That he needed more. That Morgan needed more. He would simply have to work harder. She deserved the very best he could give her.

Staring at the house, thinking of how he fell short as a man, Adam realized he couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t measuring his intrinsic value in terms of something tangible that other people could see.

There was the used Corvette he’d bought himself when he was seventeen with money earned working two jobs after school and on weekends. With his own hands he’d lovingly restored the car to pristine condition.

Then he had sold it at a huge profit, bought a rundown shack in a neighborhood on the verge of urban renewal in his hometown of Columbus, Ohio. He’d repaired it, flipped it and used that money to pay his parents back for putting him through college.

He was always pushing himself to do better, go higher and achieve more. It came in part, he recognized, from having parents who encouraged their four children to reach for the stars. His oldest sister, Meredith, was a renowned pediatric specialist. Of his two younger sisters, Yvonne was a concert pianist who’d played Carnegie Hall, and Brittany, at age twenty-five, was a mathematical genius on the fast track to a Nobel prize in physics.

Other than that, he’d had a conventional middle-class upbringing, where there had been a lot of talk about love but not much physical contact. He simply didn’t come from a family of huggers and touchers. Achieving became like a horse race, with a limited amount of recognition for him as being special or different from everyone else in the family.

Adam focused on what he could accomplish, because if he didn’t, if he ever got mentally quiet, even for a little bit, the nagging doubts began whispering. You’re not working hard enough. You’re just skating by. You’ve got everyone fooled. You’re a fraud, a fake, a poser. You’re worthless.

A sudden feeling of bleakness washed over him, surprising Adam with the sharpness of its pang. He shook his head. Snap out of it.

Clutching the flowers, he concentrated on negotiating his way up the flagstone path. The autumn night breeze blew cool against his face. He thought of Morgan and how good she’d looked in that sexy little outfit and how much he’d wanted to kiss her right in front of everyone at the Grand Duchess. But he was not the kind of guy who acted on such impulses. He’d spent a lifetime perfecting his image. Unfortunately, what served him well in his public life was the very thing that seemed to trip him up in private.

Tonight his wife had made a bold and daring gesture, communicating to him quite concretely what she desired. And he had let her down. He was home to make amends and he intended on spending the rest of the night showing her exactly how much she meant to him.

He pulled his key chain from his pocket and punched the button that sent the garage door rolling up. The BMW sat in one corner, a gathering of Morgan’s antiques that she was waiting for him to help her haul over to her shop crouched in the other. The overhead light was burned out. Another task he’d been putting off.

Squinting at the unfamiliar shapes skulking in the shadows, Adam weaved his way toward the entryway. His head felt like the green fuzz on outdated refrigerator leftovers, and his stomach rumbled uneasily.

Swear to God, I’m never drinking another scotch as long as I live.

In the darkness, his shin clipped something.

Pain shot up his leg.

Swearing loudly, he jerked his knee up reflexively. The motion caused him to knock his foot into what he thought might be a sideboard—or it could have been a highboy. He wasn’t real clear on the difference, although Morgan had tried to explain it to him several times.

Either way, it hurt like hell.

He let loose with another string of oaths as he lost his balance completely and fell backward into a grouping of dining room chairs. Amidst the screeching of wooden chair legs being propelled across the cement floor, Adam found himself lying flat on his butt, his head spinning.

Dammit, he should have changed that bulb a week ago when Morgan told him it was out.

At that moment, the side door that led into the house jerked open. Adam blinked at the sudden invasion of light and saw his wife standing in the doorway. Her face was grim and she was wielding his softball bat.

Belatedly he realized he hadn’t told her he’d decided to come home.

Her chin was clenched, fingers curled around the bat, eyes narrowed in a rob-my-house-and-you-die glare. She looked darned tough with the bat cocked over her shoulder, ready to grand slam his head.

She was fierce, his Morgan. She’d defend to the death what was hers.

That’s my girl.

Adam’s heart swelled with pride. Tough yet so delicate you would never suspect she had an inner core of pure iron. If he were stranded on a deserted island, she would always be the one person he wanted with him.

“Adam? Is that you?”

“Honey, I’m home,” he said a bit sheepishly.

“You’re drunk,” she said, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Just a little bit,” he slurred. Adam could count on one hand the number of times he’d been drunk during their ten years together. “Jacobbi and his scotches.”

She glanced at the overturned furniture. “Why didn’t you come in through the back door?”

“I forgot you had the garage booby-trapped with antiques. Are you still planning on beaning me with the Louisville Slugger?”

“What? Oh,” Morgan said and lowered the bat.

“Not saying I don’t deserve it. I acted like an ass tonight.”

Cocking her head, she studied him as if she wanted to agree, but after a couple of seconds she said, “You didn’t act like an ass. It was inappropriate for me to show up dressed like that while you were trying to conduct business.”

“You just caught me off guard,” he said, ignoring the throbbing in his knee.

“That was the point. Spice things up. Do the unexpected.”

“My mind was focused on business, and it’s hard for me to shift gears, that’s all. But you looked so damn hot in those sexy boots. I about swallowed my tongue when I looked up and saw you.”

“Really?” she whispered. She sounded happy.

Adam was startled to realize how long it had been since she’d sounded that way. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“But you seemed mad.”

“On the contrary, I was very horny.”

“Oh, Adam.”

“Why didn’t you mention it sooner?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I guess I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That you weren’t attracted to me anymore.”

She ducked her head and looked so darn vulnerable that his chest muscles became a tourniquet squeezing off his air. He hated to think that he had made her feel as if he wasn’t attracted to her.

“Aw, sweetheart, don’t ever be afraid of that. I mean, look at you, Morgan. You’re stunning. Any guy would give his right arm to be with you.”

He raked his gaze over her. She’d changed clothes, ditching the sexy outfit for her normal pajamas. He was sorry to see the micromini go, but she still looked very hot.

“I’ve never felt all that pretty. I mean, my mouth is a little crooked and my chin is too firm and I’m too skinny and…”

“And I find you stunningly captivating, idiosyncrasies and all.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“It’s the truth.”

She gazed at him with hope and longing. “I do appreciate you saying it—I know it seems silly to men, but it’s important for a woman to hear.”

“The flowers are for you.” He extended the bouquet toward her. “I know they don’t look like much, but I wanted you to know that I’m sorry for not inviting you to stay at the hotel with me.”

Morgan accepted the flowers with a quick, gentle smile and lifted the droopy bouquet to her nose. “They smell wonderful, Adam. Thank you.”

He could tell she’d already forgiven him and his spirits lifted. He stared into her treacle-brown eyes and suddenly felt so full of emotion he couldn’t speak.

Something deep inside him whispered, Don’t ever let her go.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” she said in a gentle voice that went straight to his bones and she reached out to help him up off the floor.

Adam took his wife’s hand.

Backlit by the light spilling in from the living room, her blond hair tumbling over her shoulders, Morgan looked more beautiful than she had on their wedding day.

Love for her smashed into his heart, splintering headlong into fragile shards of exquisite tenderness.

There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but he had no idea how to start. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, how his world would no longer spin if she wasn’t in it.

But the words clotted in his throat.

He wasn’t very good at admitting his weaknesses. Never had been. He was a strong guy. He bounced back from adversity. The tender stuff didn’t come easy. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel it. He just didn’t know how to express himself in that way. It was easier to skim by on the surface, say the right things, do what was expected and look good without digging too deep, exposing too much of himself.

She’s your wife. What’s wrong with you? You’re supposed to be able to tell her anything.

Morgan was looking at him with meticulous tenderness, and he couldn’t stand not holding her for one second longer. He tugged her into the curve of his arm, pulling her up tight against his chest. He felt the steady tapping of her heart against his, heard her take a deep, shuddering breath.

She grasped his hand, turned it over and swept her soft fingertips over his hard palm, pushing waves of electricity up his arm.

“You’ve got me in the palm of your hand, Adam Shaw,” she whispered. “You always have.”

He interlaced his fingers with hers and squeezed their palms together.

With their conjoined hands pressed between them, he dipped his head and melted his lips against the underside of her jaw. He’d discovered that particular erogenous zone on their wedding night, and whenever he wanted to fully charge her up, he would nibble that sweet spot.

Moaning softly, Morgan eagerly raised her chin up to give him easier access while she pressed her pelvis against his.

If his legs had felt a little sturdier, he would have picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. As it was, he took her by the hand and led her there.

Their bedroom smelled of the lavender scent she’d always favored. If it hadn’t been so late, if he didn’t have to go work in the morning, if he hadn’t been so drunk, Adam would have lighted candles and placed them around the room and he would have put her favorite mood music on the stereo. He felt guilty then for never having the time to pamper her the way she deserved to be pampered.

Adam promised himself that things were going to change. He would do better, be a better husband.

He looked at his wife, his eyes tracing the round firmness of her chin, accentuated by the luminescent quality of her skin. Never a sun worshipper, she took good care of her complexion, slathering it nightly with mysterious creamy female potions.

She took his face between her palms and kissed him with more fire than she’d kissed him in a very long time. Her mouth was so hot and tasty.

His equilibrium shifted, whether from the scotch or the power of her kiss, he couldn’t say. But he felt it, charging through his center.

Lately their lovemaking had fallen into a familiar rhythm. Nice and steady, regular as clockwork. Nothing deviating. Nothing new or exciting. That’s what she’d been trying to tell him by showing up at the Grand Duchess. She needed more. She needed to feel special. She needed him to show her that he still loved her.

He’d gotten the message loud and clear. He’d been neglecting his wife. He was here. Ready and eager to make amends.

Her dark brown eyes looked almost purple in the glow of the hallway light bleeding into the bedroom, mesmerizing him with their changeable quality.

Morgan snatched him by the front of the shirt and backed him against the wall. Her aggressiveness was unexpected but welcome. He didn’t mind letting her take the lead if that’s what she wanted.

“Yeah, babe,” he murmured. “That’s it. Go ahead. Take control.”

Eagerly her tongue slipped past his parted teeth. Her nimble fingers made quick work of buttons on his business shirt. She jerked the shirt off his shoulders, flung it to the floor and with a gleeful hungry noise she spread her fingers through his chest hairs.

“You are roasting me, woman,” he said, “Cooking my goose with your body heat.”

She laughed.

He loved it when she laughed, which she didn’t do nearly often enough. He wanted to tickle her gently under the rib cage, see if he could coax more of her laughter. That brilliant, low-toned sound was like soft music rousing him from a long sleep.

He watched her nipples harden underneath the soft blue silk of her pajamas. Licking his lips, he waited for his normal masculine response to kick in.

But it did not.

Odd that he wasn’t growing harder by the minute.

She kissed him again, heatedly, anxiously, and he kissed her back, focusing every ounce of his attention on what was happening between them. Trying to generate the internal steam needed to start his engine. She rubbed her breasts along his chest and made a bold growling noise low in her throat.

That’s when Adam got really nervous.

“I want to feel you all over me,” she cooed. “All of you. Around me, against me, inside me. I’ve got to have you.”

“Slow down,” he said, hoping she couldn’t hear the desperation creeping into his voice. This wasn’t funny. Where was his erection?

She moistened the tip of an index finger with her tongue and then reached out to trail that wet finger down the length of his throat. “I don’t know if I can slow down. How ’bout we speed you up?”

He wanted her and he was happy to see that she was so sexed up. Oh, yeah. He wanted to make love to her until she screamed. But there was just one tiny problem. While his mind was willing, apparently his body had been anesthetized with alcohol.

Little Adam simply was not cooperating.

Come on, get hard.

A ripple of panic blasted through him. Not this, not this, not this. Anything but this. He was too young for this.

It’s the booze. Don’t freak.

Alcohol had never rendered him lifeless before. But then again, he’d never downed four scotches in one night either.

Adam closed his eyes and swallowed hard as Morgan took his earlobe between her teeth. He forced himself to dredge up some wild fantasies. He imagined them making love in all kinds of places, doing bold and kinky things that they had never tried in real life, but nothing worked.

His flag was flying at half-mast.

Dammit to hell. What was wrong with him? He remembered a time when all Morgan had to do was walk into a room and he was instantly rock-hard.

No, no. It wasn’t Morgan. She was sexier than she’d ever been. The longer hairstyle she’d been growing out was a super turn-on. She kept her body fit and she was the smartest woman he knew. Any man would be happy to have her in his bed, and Adam was proud she shared hers with him.

The problem was all his.

So what was going on? Why couldn’t he get it up for his smoking-hot wife?

For a man who was driven by the need to succeed, this was a devastating development. He was scared. Totally terrified.

He almost confessed to her what was going on, but he just couldn’t do it. What if she thought it was because he no longer found her attractive? She was having enough self-doubt over that as it was. He would not compound the problem.

His hands trembled with desire as he touched her perky, firm breasts, but his cock would not cooperate. It was his problem and he wasn’t going to burden her with it. But he would not disappoint her. It had been too long since he’d seen this kind of hunger in her eyes. He wasn’t taking it for granted.

She reached for his zipper, but he wrapped a hand around her wrist to stop her before she discovered his shameful secret.

“No, no,” he said and smiled brightly at her, belying the fear rapping against his skull. “Tonight is all about you.”

“What?” She blinked, her eyes glazed with lust.

“Let me take you somewhere you’ve never been,” he said. “Let me spoil you.”

She looked at him, surprised, but then she nodded. “Okay.”

He let out a pent-up breath of relief, guided her to the bed and helped her wriggle out of her pajamas.

She was breathing hard and staring into his eyes as if he was the most wonderful thing she’d ever seen. That reverential look made him feel even lousier.

Suddenly he felt inept and unsure of himself.

Dreamily, she closed her eyes, waiting for him to deliver on his promise. He eased onto the bed from the footboard up. He lowered his head to plant kisses over her toes. She reclined against the pillows, exhaling on adorable, kittenlike purrs.

He took his time, marking a slow pilgrimage up her legs with his tongue. First kissing the pulse point at the back of one knee and then laving his mouth over the outer curve of the other. Inching upward toward her smooth, satiny thighs.

When he was almost there, she quivered and arched her back, thrusting her breasts toward the ceiling, the ivory skin pulling taut against her chest muscles. Such beautiful breasts, sleek and riveting in their economy. Her nipples were hard little pebbles, knotting tightly in the center of her breasts.

How he loved this woman.

So why don’t you make more time for her?

Because there were only so many hours in the day and you had to make choices.

Your priorities are so skewed. Remember what Jacobbi said about paying big prices for success?

She murmured something and he turned his head to listen, waiting for direction, but she wasn’t saying anything in particular, just emitting little sounds of pleasure.