DESTINY’S HAND
Lori Wilde

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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To Betty Werner, a fabulous artist.

Thank you for your talent and the gifts from your heart.

THE LEGEND CONCLUDES

Egmath knew he was dying.

His vision was gone, his limbs numb and useless, his blood seeping away from him, soaking into the hot desert sand. But the wicked sword that had mortally pierced his heart in the heat of fierce battle had not destroyed his soul.

One thought. One single precious thought dominated his essence.

Batu.

His beloved.

He thought of her sweet voice, her delicate scent, the feel of her soft lips upon his. How silky was her hair. How creamy her skin. But those were not the reasons he loved her. He loved her sharp mind and her tender laugh and the way she made him feel special. He loved her courage and her determination. He loved the way she had respected his code of honor and had not asked him to violate it. Not even so they could be together.

Batu.

He thought of the way they’d played in the cypress grove as children, laughing and teasing each other. He recalled how their love had grown as they’d grown older. The first kiss they’d shared. The love they’d made. He remembered the pain of learning that he must marry her sister, that in this life Batu could never be his. For that reason alone he was glad this incarnation was over.

Egmath had known her and loved her from a time beyond time. She was his soul mate. They were fused. One. It did not matter that duty demanded he marry her sister, Anan. Batu was forever his and he was hers. They were two halves of a whole. Nothing could tear them asunder.

Not even death.

He felt no pain, for his love for Batu sustained him as he left the world, his spirit flying far above the battlefield. Taking him to a place of quiet peace, a place where he knew the truth.

Only love was real.

The one eternal constant.

Finally he let go, completely severing the thin silver thread anchoring his soul to his body. Knowing everything was all right. Knowing that one day, he and his beloved would be together again.

For she was his destiny.

Arik, Egmath’s second in command, was wounded, but not mortally so. Bleeding and in pain, he staggered through the horror of the battlefield. He examined the bodies, searching for his leader and praying to the gods that Egmath, the greatest warrior who’d ever lived, had somehow managed to survive the carnage.

“Egmath,” he shouted over and over, but the only sounds that met his call were the sounds of men dying.

After a long search, his heart tightened in his chest when he caught sight of Egmath’s familiar tunic fluttering in the wind. He dropped onto his knees in the sand beside Egmath’s body, grief twisting tears from his eyes. Egmath stared sightlessly at the sky, but he had a beatific smile on his face, as if he’d seen something glorious calling to him from the other side.

Egmath had been not only Arik’s leader, but his best friend, confiding things to him that he confided to no one else. Arik knew about Batu. He knew about the White Star amulet.

The amulet. Where was the amulet? Egmath would want him to take it back to Batu. But the amulet was no longer around his neck where he normally wore it. Arik checked Egmath’s tunic to see if the White Star had been torn from the leather strap and fallen into his clothing but he could not find it. Feeling almost frantic, as if he were letting down his friend in the one time he needed him most, Arik rolled Egmath’s body over and searched the ground beneath him.

No amulet.

He gently rolled him back over. “I’m sorry, my old friend. I let you down.”

And then something caught his eye.

Egmath was clutching something tightly in his hands.

Arik slowly pried Egmath’s fingers open. What he saw there was not the White Star amulet.

But something far more valuable to Egmath’s beloved Batu.

Arik knew what he must do. He would take this to Batu and protect it with his life.

Contents

The Legend Concludes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

Coming Next Month

1

“ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY certain this is the way to get the magic back?” Morgan Shaw whispered urgently into her slim black flip phone.

On the sidewalk outside the Grand Duchess, a fashionable boutique hotel located on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, Morgan paced in the gentle breeze of an early September evening. In her estimation, she was dressed, to put it quite succinctly, like a hooker. Tight black leather miniskirt, stretchy red Lycra top with a plunging neckline and Julia Roberts’ Pretty Woman thigh-high boots. She wore too much makeup, not nearly enough lingerie and an auburn wig that made her scalp itch.

And every time she stalked past the discreet front entrance of the Grand Duchess, the top-hat-wearing doorman shot her a one-wrong-move-doxy-and-I’ll-sic-the-cops-on-you glower.

Morgan tugged at the hem of her miniskirt in a desperate attempt to make it look longer, to make herself feel less mortified.

“Stoking sexual desire is the first step in recapturing the magic,” lectured her younger sister, Cass, who was on the other end of the cell phone conversation. “Ultimately it’s all about the hot sex.”

“There’s hot sex and then there’s—” Morgan peered down at her skimpy attire and shook her head “—just plain hot to trot.”

“Hey, hey.” Cass read her thoughts. “Those were my best going-out clothes before I met Sam.”

“Exactly. That’s what terrifies me.”

“Need I remind you, sister dearest, that you were the one who came to me for advice?”

“No, you’re right. I can do this,” Morgan said, feeling as jittery as if someone had forcibly injected her with pure Colombian coffee-bean extract.

“Sure you can. Be bold, be brave, be bewitching.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re already all those things.”

“You can be, too.”

“I don’t know about that,” Morgan mumbled. She stepped back against the wall of a nearby residential building to get out of the way of foot traffic. “Decking out like a Victoria’s Secret model seems so overstated.”

“You’ve tried understated and it really hasn’t had the desired effect you were going for now, has it? Do you want the magic back or not?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then for crying out loud, if you want to snag Adam’s attention, you’re going to have to do something big and dramatic.”

The concept sounded so sensible when Cass vocalized it, but to Morgan it seemed the emotional equivalent of using a flamethrower to light a votive candle. Serious overkill.

“But exactly how do I go about doing that?”

“Fantasy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, work with me here. Imagine that Adam is a lonesome cowpoke who aches to learn how to read and you’re the new schoolmarm who’s going to tutor him all night long. And I do mean all night long.”

“Ugh.”

“Okay, so that’s one of my fantasies. Pick your own. Pirate and captive. Biker dude and uptight socialite. Stable boy and countess. Whatever gets your juices flowing.”

What did get her juices flowing? It was an important question to which Morgan had no immediate answer. She hadn’t really thought about it all that much. As a practical woman, she wasn’t big on unrealistic fantasies and she said as much to her sister.

“That’s why they’re called fantasies, precisely because they are unrealistic. Jeez, Morg, don’t you ever just let yourself have a little fun?”

“But if I have to go to such crazy lengths to snag my husband’s attention, doesn’t it mean that he’s no longer attracted to me? What if it’s just the wig and the clothes that jump-start his spark plugs? Or worse yet, what if he resents me trying to seduce him?” That idea had Morgan pulling her bottom lip, painted Serious Scarlet, between her teeth in consternation.

“You’re overthinking this. Men are simple creatures. Give ’em hot sex and cold beer and competitive sports and they’re happy. Now go blow your man’s mind,” Cass said and hung up.

It was a sad state of affairs when you had to ask your unmarried baby sister for advice on how to revive your sex life.

Morgan’s palms were so slick with nervous sweat she fumbled her cell phone, almost dropping it before finally getting the clasp open and slipping it into her vintage beaded handbag. She ran her palms over her hips to dry them.

A little over a year ago she’d been just like Adam, working eighty hours a week, reaching for the brass ring, striving to make their financial goals a reality so they could buy their dream home and start a family. They’d been a team then, both so enmeshed in their climb to the top of the corporate ladder that there had been little time to consider the personal sacrifices they’d been making in order to achieve their objectives.

And then two things had happened.

First, she’d driven by a charming antique store in Fairfield, Connecticut, where she and Adam were looking to buy their first home and spied a For Sale sign in the window. Excitement, fresh and unexpected, had pushed through her as a little voice in the back of her head whispered, buy it.

She ignored the voice, tamped down the excitement. Owning an antique store was not part of the plan. But still, she couldn’t forget the unbridled joy she’d felt at the thought of it. She always had an affinity for both history and objets d’art and her mind spun cozy fantasies of finding just the right pieces for her customers who she would get to know on a first-name basis. She would make the shop homey and inviting, serve complimentary coffee and hot tea. She liked the idea of being part of a smaller community, of being connected to the past in such a tangible way.

The second thing that caused Morgan to revaluate her life in a significant way was a major accounting scandal that rocked the financial world. Her firm, where she managed multimillion-dollar mutual funds, ended up being probed during a federal investigation. Her company had been signing off on accounts without really doing the mandatory auditing work, allowing creative cheating to slip past unnoticed. Morgan was not involved, but some of her colleagues had been. Their excuse was that they’d been stretched too thin to adequately monitor every account. Her firm was levied a huge fine and several people lost their jobs. While her company hadn’t done anything outright criminal, they’d been negligent in their practices.

The scandal affected her far more deeply than she realized. She had trouble sleeping and she spent hours questioning her morals, values and long held beliefs. How could she, in good conscience, continue to work for a corporation that didn’t serve their clients with the due diligence they deserved?

She discussed her concerns with Adam and then she’d sprung the idea of buying the antique shop. She was heartened when he said he was behind her one hundred percent. His support gave her the courage to turn in her resignation, buy the antique shop and pursue her dream.

Leaving the job she’d held for nine years had not been easy. She felt scared and uncertain, especially in the beginning when she had a lot of money going out and none coming in, but ultimately the trade-off had been more than worth it. She’d grown in ways she couldn’t have imagined and she’d come to treasure the extra time her new job afforded her.

But while the shop was now turning a profit and their new home in Connecticut was everything she’d ever hoped for, her relationship with Adam was faltering. They were no longer a team. Adam was still climbing. Reaching, ever reaching for that elusive dream of “enough” that Morgan had already discovered by giving up the chase.

She 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?”

“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.”

“Eight o’clock right on the money, punctual as always. But you look as if you’ve been caught unaware.” Robert stared at Morgan with frank approval.

Dammit. That’s the way she wanted her husband to look at her, not this overweight, middle-aged stranger.

Adam cleared his throat, rubbed the flat of one hand against the back of his neck again. “Um, Robert, this is my wife, Morgan. Morgan, this is Robert Jacobbi of Jacobbi Enterprises.”

Pasting a civilized smile on her lips, Morgan shook the man’s hand.

“So this is your wife.” Jacobbi wriggled his eyebrows. They were so thick and bushy they looked like gray caterpillars dancing the conga. “Shaw, if you don’t mind my saying, you’re one lucky guy.”

“If you could give us just a second, Robert, I’ll be right with you. Have a seat. Order a drink.”

“You’re not joining us, Morgan?” Jacobbi’s eyes glistened as he settled himself into the seat she had just vacated.

“I was on my way home.”

“Well, it was my absolute pleasure to have met you, Mrs. Shaw,” he said.

Adam took her hand and guided her out of Jacobbi’s earshot. His eyes held hers, his body stiffened, his whisper was rough. “What’s going on? Where did you get those clothes?”

“Cass.”

“Ah, so that explains it.”

“This isn’t Cass’s fault,” she snapped. “I had a silly idea that it would be romantic to spend the night with you in the city, and my sister loaned me something sexy to wear.”

His hand stole along her bare arm tenderly and his tone softened. “And you look exceptional, but you know how it is. You’ve been through this before. If I ace this deal with Jacobbi I’m a shoo-in for my promotion. But if I blow it, I’ll be passed over.”

“I realize that. It’s just…” She stopped, at a loss as to how to tell him how much she missed him, how afraid she was that the magic had gone out of their marriage and how terrified she was that they were on the verge of losing each other.

But this wasn’t the time or the place. She had embarrassed them both enough for one day.

“Just what?” he asked, sounding impatient.

“We’ll talk later. Go back to your client.” She waved a wrist, trying not to let him see her eyes, trying not to reveal her fragility.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” There was real concern in his voice. “This is totally out of character for you.”

I know! she wanted to scream.

Didn’t he get it? That was the point. To step out of character. To be someone else, someone new, someone wild and adventuresome and sexy.

Adam took off his suit jacket and held it out to her. “Here, you can’t go walking around the city at night alone dressed like that.”

She slipped her arms through the jacket. He hadn’t criticized her, but the expression on his face seemed to say it all: I hope this behavior isn’t going to become a habit. I chose you as my wife because you’re calm and reliable and sensible. Don’t go pulling any purple rabbits out of a hat on me at this late date.

“Jacobbi’s waiting,” she said, her chest squeezing sorrowfully.

“You be careful going home.” He gave her a perfunctory kiss.

The brushing of his lips against her skin felt so damned brotherly she could barely stand it. Quickly she turned away, glad that she wasn’t the kind of woman who cried at the drop of a hat.

Her humiliation was quite complete enough without tears.

WHAT THE HELL HAD THAT been about?

Stunned by his restrained wife’s unexpected conduct, Adam slipped into the booth across from Robert Jacobbi. He was rattled, thrown off his game and fretful at the thought of Morgan taking the train home dressed in those high-heeled boots and skimpy clothes.

At least she had on his coat. He used the rationalization to placate his concern, but his gut torqued.

His gaze lingered on the exit where Morgan had just disappeared. He wished he’d handled things differently, wished he hadn’t been so worried that everyone in the bar was thinking that he had ordered himself up a high-class escort.

“I’ll have a scotch, no ice,” Jacobbi told the cocktail waitress who wandered over.

“Make that two,” Adam said.

He would have preferred mineral water. He didn’t drink much. He felt that alcohol clouded his concentration. And when he did imbibe, he preferred beer to hard liquor. But liquor was an elementary ingredient in the art of sealing a deal. Adam had learned to drink whatever his client was having whether he liked it or not.

“Your wife seems very nice,” Jacobbi said. “I liked her.”

“She is wonderful and she’s unlike any woman I’ve ever known. Understanding, patient.”

“And very sexy.”

“Yeah,” Adam smiled. “That, too.”

He thought of Morgan and his heart immediately warmed. Her features possessed plenty of character, with brown eyes too big for her face that underscored her natural curiosity about the world. Her bottom lip was full, but her top lip was so narrow it almost disappeared whenever she smiled, and he adored that sweet disappearing act.

But it was her chin that Adam loved most.

Small and rounded but prominent, and when Morgan hardened it, you could be sure you were in for a protracted argument. I might be all dainty and ladylike on the outside, but inside, I’m pure steel, her stubborn chin seemed to say.

Adam remembered the first time he laid eyes on her. He’d walked into his senior-level economics class in business school and there she’d been. Sitting in the first row, where he preferred to sit. The other students were talking and joking, waiting for class to begin. But Morgan sat perfectly still.

She was an island, untouched by the chaotic sea around her. Quiet, serene.

Her calm reserve had captured him immediately. Adam was not a particularly deep or spiritual person. He realized this about himself, and his rather surface approach to life didn’t bother him. In fact, the trait was an asset in his line of work. But something about Morgan caused a voice inside his head to whisper, Here it is, the thing you never even knew was missing.

He admired her neat and tidy methods. The way she preferred everything clean and organized. On the surface, she was very controlled, his Morgan, but underneath her composure, at times like tonight, he would catch a glimpse of her inner vixen.

“To be frank,” Jacobbi commented, “if she were my wife, willing to dress up like that for me, I’d be spending every night of the week with her. But then, I shouldn’t be talking about your wife that way. Excuse me. It’s none of my business what shape your marriage is in.”

“My marriage isn’t in bad shape,” Adam denied.

“No?”

Vehemently he shook his head. “No.”

“So why are you here with me instead of at home with her?”

“Because you asked for a late meeting.”

“Ever consider telling me to shove it and meet at a time that didn’t disrupt your family life?”

“Would you be my client if I did?”

“Maybe not. The point is that you have to make choices in this world, Shaw. And it’s clear you’ve chosen business over family. Nothing wrong with that. Just make no mistake—you’ll pay top dollar for your sacrifices.”

“Speaking from experience, Jacobbi?”

“I’m on wife number three, my kids won’t speak to me, but I’m a millionaire several times over. You figure it out.”

“Two scotches for the gentlemen,” the waitress said and settled their drinks in front of them.

Adam signed the drinks to his hotel room. Pensively he sipped from his glass. Was Jacobbi right? Was he paying too high of a price for success?

But I’m doing it for Morgan, so she can have her antique shop. For our home. For the kids we don’t yet have.

He looked across the table at the older man and suddenly flashed fifteen years in the future. Would he still be doing this job at Jacobbi’s age—accommodating big-fish clients by meeting them late at night, even when it wasn’t conducive to his home life, simply to make more money?

The thought unsettled him.

So do something about it.

Now?

Adam glanced around as if someone was watching him, gauging his response, critiquing his choices.

His heart urged him to make his excuses to Jacobbi, reschedule their meeting and go home to his wife. But he was so very close to being made vice president. If he pissed off Jacobbi, he could jeopardize the promotion he had been working his entire life to snag. If he was going to distinguish himself above the other VP candidates, he had to go above and beyond the call of duty, not wimp out at the last moment.

Not even for the sake of your marriage?

Come on. His marriage was fine. No matter what Jacobbi had said. Sure, maybe their sex life had slowed down over the years, but hell, he and Morgan had been married a decade. It was normal and natural for the excitement to wax and wane.

Yet no matter how much Adam tried to convince himself that things were perfectly fine at home, he couldn’t stop remembering the look in Morgan’s eyes when he’d asked her what she was doing there. He’d hurt her feelings, and that had not been his intention.

Should he stay or should he go?

“Let’s get down to business,” Jacobbi said, rubbing his palms together and launching into details about his plans for taking his company public.

The next thing Adam knew, he was caught up in the minutiae, talking shop. But in the back of his head he made a decision. He wouldn’t stay at the Grand Duchess tonight as he’d planned. Even if the meeting ran so late that he missed the last train out of the city, he would spring for taxi fare to Connecticut. One way or the other, he was going to make love to his wife tonight.

He was determined to prove to them both that their marriage was one hundred percent okay.

2

MORGAN ARRIVED HOME TO find the green light on the answering machine blinking provocatively. Could it be Adam calling to say that he’d changed his mind and was coming home tonight after all? Her heart cartwheeled with hope.

Please let it be him, she prayed.

Unzipping Cass’s slut-puppy boots, Morgan kicked them across the entryway floor. She stripped off the itchy red wig, tossed it onto the foyer table and ran her fingers through her damp hair. She still wore Adam’s jacket, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips.

While pulling up one sleeve, she reached over to press the play button on the machine. Blood drained from her legs and pooled throbbing into her toes. Whether from anticipation of the message on the machine or from spending several hours in those unaccustomed high-heeled boots, she did not know for sure, but probably it was a bit of both.

“Hello, Morgan, this is Sam Mason returning your call.”

Her hopes took a sucker punch.

Detective Sergeant Sam Mason was Cass’s new boyfriend. Down-to-earth Sam was good for her flighty baby sister, and for that fact alone Morgan adored him. It was the first serious relationship Cass had ever had, and whenever Morgan saw the two of them together, she couldn’t help longing for the kind of fire-blazing passion they shared.

“In answer to your inquiry, no, I’m afraid the White Star amulet is no longer in the possession of the NYPD,” Sam’s voice spun out into the room.

Morgan had telephoned Sam that afternoon, before heading over to the Grand Duchess, in response to information she had received the previous morning from an archaeologist named Cate Wells. Several months ago Morgan had found an intriguing antique box in the basement of her antique shop, along with an ancient French text about an amulet that had belonged to star-crossed lovers.

At first, Morgan had found the box merely intriguing, but as time passed and she unearthed bits and pieces of the legend, she had become obsessed with finding out the truth about the box, the book and the White Star amulet, which had been stolen last April from the Stanhope auction house.

Sam had been assigned to the case and that was how he’d gotten involved with her sister. Cass had taken the book to him when she and Morgan had realized the stolen amulet was the same one pictured in the book. Morgan had found the tome among the antiques she’d purchased in a lot along with her shop.

Pieces of the puzzle had slowly started to come together, revealing a fascinating legend of star-crossed lovers and the magical power of true love.

Cate Wells had taken photos of the box and then shown them to an expert in the field. He had confirmed the connection, speculating that indeed the star-shaped design on the box correlated with a star-shaped key.

It was in that moment it occurred to Morgan that the White Star amulet was probably the key that opened the box. The key, that last Morgan had heard, was locked up in the evidence room at the Thirty-ninth Precinct, where Sam worked.

“No one knows where the amulet is,” Sam’s taped message continued. “There’s an investigation under way, but it’s looking like a dirty cop took a bribe to steal it for someone else. That’s all I can tell you right now. The station is in an uproar.”

Darn it. Morgan sighed and swallowed her second big disappointment of the day. Another dead end.

Still, she wasn’t a quitter. Once she sank her teeth into something, she hung on until there was absolutely no possibility of victory.

She belonged to an online message board for antique dealers, and there was a thread about stolen antiquities. What would it hurt to make a few discreet inquiries? She’d already posted about the box once before when she was trying to learn precisely what it might be and who its previous owners could have been.

All she would have to do was leave a message saying she’d discovered that a very unique key opened the box. She would try dangling the box as bait for the person who now possessed the amulet.

It was a long shot and she knew it, but Morgan was glad to have something to focus on besides her failed seduction.

She stripped off her sexy clothes—which seemed particularly pathetic in light of what had not happened at the Grand Duchess—scrubbed the heavy makeup off her face and slipped into her favorite pair of silk pajamas. Feeling more like herself again, she poured herself a glass of wine, padded into her home office and booted up her computer.

Logging on to the message board took a few minutes. Then she spent a long while getting the wording of her e-mail just right before she was satisfied enough to post it to the group.

She signed the missive Curious in Connecticut and entered “Special Gem” in the subject line. Satisfied, she depressed the send button, leaned back in her plush leather chair and took a long sip of Pinot Grigio. The slightly sweet liquid flowed warmly through her body, easing her tension.

A few minutes later her post popped up on the message board.

“It’ll probably be months before I get a response,” she muttered gloomily.

She searched through other threads, looking for posts of interest, but found nothing related to ancient amulets or long-lost boxes. Melancholy weighted her shoulders. She wrapped her sadness around her like a cloak, drank it in with the wine until her body pulsed, encompassed by the feeling.

Here it was again, the blue funk that whispered darkly to her in moments of doubt and shame. These feelings did not express who she thought she should be. What was wrong with her? She adored her husband. Why this desperate wish for something deeper?

Why? Because while she had transformed herself from an overworked, overachiever into a woman who was finally satisfied with her own life, it tortured her not to be able to share her personal growth with Adam. She wanted him to join her on this exciting path of liberation. She wanted him to understand how much more fulfilled he could be if he would just slow down and reconnect with the world around him. She longed for a more spiritual bond between them.

Picking up the box that she kept displayed on her desk, she studied it carefully as she had every day since she’d found it.

Intricate hand-carved symbols and designs that looked as if they could be some kind of hieroglyphics whiskered the box made from bubinga wood and darkened with age. The faint fragrance of some rich, exotic spice emanated from it. Morgan traced her fingers across the lid, over elaborate grooves where the expert archaeologist had said was the likely place to open the box with a star-shaped key.

Now that she had learned fresh details about the legend, she was even more fascinated than before. Between translating the old French tome with her new language skills and talking to experts in several disciplines, she had slowly pieced together the legend of the star-crossed lovers.

Three thousand years ago, in a now-vanished desert kingdom, Egmath and Batu had secretly been meeting every evening under the midnight stars near a grove of cypress trees. They shared their dreams, ambitions, lives and eventually their real feelings for one another. Theirs was a pure love, a true love. But alas, it could never be. In accordance with ancient custom, the kingdom’s bravest warrior, Egmath, was chosen to marry Batu’s older sister, Princess Anan, who had become queen.

Egmath spent the evening before his wedding to Anan with his beloved Batu, when she presented him with an amulet she had secretly commissioned. It was made of ivory and fashioned in the shape of a five-pointed star with a hollowed-out center.

With the amulet tightly pressed between their entwined hands, Egmath and Batu vowed their everlasting love to each other. That night, beneath the magic of the moon and the optimism of the stars, Egmath and Batu made love for the first and only time. The amulet blazed brightly. According to the fable, it now held the power of true love for whoever possessed it and was pure of heart.

The story was so sad. Soul mates destined to be together but torn asunder by their culture’s tradition and Egmath’s sense of honor.

Wasn’t that just like a man? Placing duty over love. Morgan snorted.

And poor Anan? What about her? Hadn’t the woman deserved a man who loved her the way that Egmath had loved Batu?

If Morgan closed her eyes, she could see Anan in her marriage, believing it was solid, knowing that she had a good man in Egmath. But somewhere in the back of her mind, as Anan went about her royal duties, she was bound to have nagging doubts. She was certain to realize the connection between herself and her new husband was not as it should be.

Did Anan wonder what he was thinking when she caught Egmath staring longingly out across the desert? Did she question his love for her when he wouldn’t tell her where he’d gotten the amulet that he wore around his neck and never took off? Did she doubt herself as a woman when he would kiss her perfunctorily, sweetly but without any real hint of passion?

Morgan sighed and opened her eyes.

Maybe she was obsessed with the box and the legend because it represented the magic that was sorely missing from her own marriage. It wasn’t the first time she’d had such thoughts.

And what if she located the amulet and opened the box only to find nothing there? That it was as empty inside as she was?

What then?

The thought startled her.

What on earth was she doing? Posting that message had been a bad idea. She should forget about the legend and just concentrate on building a stronger marriage. She had to stop using the mystery of the box as a buffer for her feelings, as a barrier to keep from facing what was going on in her own life.

Quick, delete the post before it’s too late.

Morgan leaned forward and was about to zap the message into cyberspace when another post popped up in the Special Gem thread.

“Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” read the enigmatic subject line.

Morgan’s breath caught and her stomach staggered. Desire rose in her, the famished need to have her curiosity sated. Whether she wanted to admit her compulsion or not, she had to find out what was in that box.

Her hand hovered over the mouse. She’d never expected a response so swiftly.

Or one so cagey.

It appeared that someone knew the special gem she had written about was the White Star. Could the electronic posting possibly be from the person who currently possessed the amulet?

She was surprised to find her fingers trembling as she clicked the cursor on the read tab.

Dear Curious in Connecticut,

I might have access to what you’re looking for. If I may ask, what is the nature of your interest in the piece? Please answer through private e-mail.

It was unsigned.

Morgan’s heart stilled and a strange sense of calm came over her, even as the rational voice in the back of her head warned her not to get too excited or jump to erroneous conclusions.

After months of searching, was she within days of opening the box?

Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she poured out her findings into the e-mail. She launched into detail, describing how she believed the amulet might be the key that opened the box. Her breath came in raspy backward gasps as she signed her real name and hit Send.

Morgan got up and walked back and forth in front of the computer screen, thrill pumping a shower of tingles throughout her body. “Come on, come on, please answer me back.”

Five minutes passed, then ten. She paced the room, one hand splayed against the hollow of her throat. It wasn’t until she began to feel light-headed that Morgan realized she wasn’t exhaling.

Breathe.

She took a deep, cleansing yoga breath. Why did it feel as if the key to her future lay in this stranger’s response?

Finally after several long, agonizing minutes, the cheery digitized voice on her computer announced, “You’ve got mail.”

Morgan flung herself back into the chair and opened the letter.

All wariness had vanished from the sender’s earlier post.

Dear Morgan,

It sounds as if you have the same obsession with unique antiques as I. If you are willing to make your intriguing box available to me, then I’ll provide the amulet and we could open the box together. When would it be possible for us to meet? I live on the Mediterranean Sea in a small fishing village not far from Nice, but I am not in the best of health and unable to travel abroad. If you would consider a trip to France, you are welcome to stay at my villa. I would much enjoy a long chat with a kindred spirit.

Sincerely yours,

Henri Renouf

The hairs on Morgan’s forearm lifted and a chill chased up her spine. Could this guy be on the up-and-up? Did he really have access to the White Star? Or was he some weirdo who surfed the Net looking to lure unsuspecting women to France?

Morgan composed another post, telling him that she hoped he wouldn’t be offended by her inquiry, but a woman couldn’t be too cautious and she would require some reassurance that he was a legitimate dealer and that he had actually seen the White Star. She asked him to describe the amulet.

Minutes later his reply came back.

I appreciate your hesitation. It is only prudent in this electronic age to question the identity and motive of the person behind the post. I have been dealing in antiquities for many years and across many continents. My specialties are antique firearms, rare talismans with intriguing histories and unique North African objets d’art, which is how the White Star came into my possession. The amulet is very lovely. It is a five-pointed star made of the purest snow-white ivory and it is about the size of a petite woman’s palm, with a hollow center. However, anyone could know this if he or she had done the research, so let me suggest that you check my credentials. Perhaps that would convince you that I am genuine.

Morgan inhaled sharply. His description accurately matched the illustration of the White Star that she and Cass had stumbled across in the old French tome and then read about in an article in the New York Times when it had been stolen from the Stanhope auction house. The amulet had been recovered, but then it had been stolen from a museum, found again and was now currently missing from the evidence room at Sam’s precinct. She couldn’t help but wonder if Henri Renouf knew something about the thefts that he wasn’t telling.

Had he obtained the White Star through illegal means? It seemed likely. Yet everyone was innocent until proven guilty. Who was she to judge? She wanted to believe that he was a trustworthy man who’d gained access to the White Star honestly and that he was a legitimate collector, but she had to know for sure.

Quickly, she googled him and learned that yes, Henri Renouf was indeed a legitimate collector who had been in business for many, many years. She scoured the information that she downloaded, looking for anything incriminating, but found nothing alarming.

Still, did she dare trust him?

Throw caution to the wind for once in your life. Take a chance.

But she’d just done that by trying to seduce Adam, and look how miserably that impulse had played out.

Yes, but her gut had told her that going to the Grand Duchess was wrong. She had acted on Cass’s advice, not her own instinct. She had to ask herself this question: did she truly believe Renouf had the White Star?

In her mind’s eye she could see Egmath and Batu, meeting clandestinely in the cypress grove, their love for each other eternal and pure. The story that had held her spellbound for months would not let go of her.

She couldn’t help comparing the legendary lovers to her relationship. Morgan sighed with longing and cast her mind back to her courtship days with Adam.

They’d been in a study group together in college and after the group ended they just kept meeting for coffee every Thursday night. She liked him from the very beginning, their eyes meeting across the table, their smiles lingering on each other. They’d gotten the best grades in the class. Two high achievers in a mutual admiration society.

Their goals had been so closely aligned back then, their values so similar it was little wonder that they got along so well. It was breezy being with him, light and fun and hopeful. When he asked her to the symphony to hear her favorite composer she’d eagerly accepted his invitation. It turned out that they liked the same music, read the same books and enjoyed the same kind of movies.

“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.

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