Artist in Plane Crash, read one of the headlines. His face was in the newspapers, and so was his whole sordid story. His failed marriage to Lana, his castle, his solitary state of mind—everything except the thing that meant the most to him in the world, his work. They brushed over his finest sculptures in a half sentence, then devoted endless paragraphs to speculating about the American woman who’d been in the plane crash with him.
Even Lana had been interviewed on movie location in Africa. She hadn’t said much but had cleverly managed to mention the name of her newest film at least three times. She was as beautiful and cruel as ever, the woman he’d loved once. Lana had married two more times since their divorce and was about to try for number four. He marveled at her optimism. He had none left. She had made certain of that when she left.
The American lass did him a favor, he thought, as he climbed into the Land Rover he kept parked behind the stables. They’d been naked in soul and body that afternoon by the lake. He would have told her everything if she’d stayed with him, would have offered up his heart—or at least what little heart he had to offer. He supposed he should be grateful because, by walking out on him the way she did, she’d saved him from making another mistake.
Houston, Texas, that same day
“You don't have to snap my head off, Ms. Wilde.” Jack, her administrative assistant, faced her across her desk. “You’ve been in a bad mood since you came home from that mystery trip, and I’m tired of taking the blame.”
Samantha looked up from a stack of papers a foot high. “What was that, Jack?” she asked. Lately she seemed to be having a terrible time concentrating. No matter what she was doing, no matter how hard she tried, all thoughts led to Duncan Stewart.
Jack gave her a baleful look then turned and left her office. He’d get over it, whatever it was. People always did. Anger vanished. Annoyance faded. Even lust cooled.
Or at least she hoped it did. She only thought about Duncan Stewart eight or ten times a day now, instead of a dozen times an hour. Progress, she told herself. Definitely progress.
She’d just gone over third-quarter projections for Wilde & Daughters Ltd. and the prognosis was grim. Her sister Martie was one of the best jewelry designers in the country, but jewelry wasn’t enough. Not if the company was going to survive. Besides, Martie was getting married soon and heading off on her honeymoon. Who knew what would happen once her little sister got a taste of domestic life? What if she got pregnant and decided she’d rather change diapers than dream up new and exotic jewelry designs for the rich and privileged?
Marriage did strange things to people. Her parents’ Byzantine marital histories were proof of that.
The company needed to go in a new direction, and she’d been dead certain Duncan Stewart was the creative genius who could take them there. Now she’d never have the chance to find out if she’d been right.
Never mix business and great sex. Isn’t that what they’d taught her at Harvard Business? If they hadn’t, they should have. The moment a woman let down her guard and became a woman, the game was over. At least when it came to the dollars-and-cents business of making money. She’d lost her advantage with the first kiss, and now she could never get it back.
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. It seemed like she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in years. Since her return from Scotland, she felt as if she were operating underwater, moving through her day in a hazy kind of slow motion that made her feel out of sync with the entire universe.
She’d thought she was doing a pretty good job of covering up, but apparently she was wrong. Her father, Lucky, his assistant, Estelle, even her about-to- be-married sister, Martie, had all commented on the circles under her eyes and her shortness of temper. “Thanks,” she’d growled at Martie just yesterday. “Next time you have a bad hair day, I’ll be sure to point it out.”
And now Jack told her she’d been in a bad mood since her mystery trip.
She tried to tell herself it was spring fever, but it was already mid-June, with summer right around the corner.
Tears burned behind her lids but she’d be darned if she would let them fall. If she gave in to tears for even a second, she’d be lost. Her emotions were right there at the surface, and it took every ounce of strength to keep them from getting the better of her. The most bizarre things made her cry—garbage bag commercials on television, rock videos, the theme song from Friends. Last week, in a fit of sentiment, she’d even picked up the telephone and called her mother in London.
Julia had sounded her usual self, glad to hear from Sam but not particularly curious about the details of her daughter’s life. Julia prattled on about the wonderful play she’d seen and the marvelous man who was taking her to dinner that night and never once asked Sam why she’d called. By the time Sam hung up, she felt worse than ever. All weepy and wishing she could have had a mother instead of a pal. She would never do that to a child, blur the lines between them. She would never abandon a child to grow up without her. And then she wondered why she was thinking about any of this when having a baby was the furthest thing from her mind. She was either suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder or losing her mind.
This was what happened when you let your heart rule your head. Cool, controlled
