Destiny's Hand. Lori Wilde

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СКАЧАТЬ had wanted so badly to share her newfound sense of freedom and inner peace with her beloved husband, but no matter how hard she tried to tell him what she was thinking and feeling, he just couldn’t seem to get it. She felt sorry for herself that she’d lost her teammate, but even sorrier for Adam because he was still running a race that could not be won.

      They were drifting further and further apart and she longed for the carefree teasing of their early days. She missed the easy camaraderie of a lazy Sunday morning spent leisurely strolling hand-in-hand through Central Park. Or piling up on the couch together, legs entwined as they worked the New York Times crossword puzzle and fed each other tidbits of sweet pastries or sectioned fruit.

      Morgan sighed. She was determined to bridge the chasm before it was too late.

      To that end, she had scheduled a romantic two-week vacation in the Loire Valley in France for their tenth wedding anniversary, planning on returning to the country where they had honeymooned. Secretly she’d been learning French as a surprise for Adam. He’d always admired her thirst for knowledge and self-improvement.

      But when Adam had called her that afternoon to say he would be staying in Manhattan because he had an eight o’clock business meeting at the Grand Duchess, Morgan realized she couldn’t wait for the trip to revive their flagging love life. It was the second time this week and the twelfth time in the last month that Adam had chosen to stay in the city overnight.

      No more wishing and hoping things would improve on their own or that Adam would have his own epiphany the way she’d had. She had to take action.

      Now.

      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?”

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