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  Reminding herself that she has no business longing for something that can never be, Annie tells him, “Look, I know you assume that because Andre is . . . gone . . . he has no say in what I do. But . . .” She takes a deep breath, opens her mouth, then realizes what she’s on the verge of confiding.

  She really has lost her mind if she thinks she can tell him about the phone calls.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Never mind.”

  He watches her for a moment.

  If he pushes, she tells herself, I swear I’ll get up and leave without looking back. Because I don’t owe him anything.

  “Okay,” he says unexpectedly. “Let’s just have dinner. I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

  She wants to tell him that she isn’t. That she hasn’t been hungry in a year. That they should just call it a night now.

  But, looking into a gaze that’s bluer than summer dusk and far more patient than she deserves, she hears herself saying, “Yes, I’m famished, actually.”

  For food.

  For more than food.

  But food will have to suffice for now.

  Forever, Annie reminds herself firmly.

  Chapter 15

  And that,” Thom says, gesturing at the French doors and beyond, the sweeping view of Central Park in the distance, “is the terrace.”

  Annie steps closer to the doors, checking out the teak chaises, the table and chairs, the flowering trees in terra-cotta urns. “Don’t you ever use it?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “It just looks kind of . . . untouched.”

  Thom nods, loosening the knot on his silk tie. “Well, I don’t spend a lot of time here.”

  “But this is your home.”

  “I work a lot. And weekends, I spend out on the island, so . . .”

  “It seems like a waste,” Annie murmurs.

  “The terrace?”

  “The terrace and . . . well, all of it.” She waves a hand around at the living room worthy of a magazine spread, the adjacent formal dining room, the marble entry hall. “I mean, it’s beautiful. It just doesn’t feel . . . lived in.”

  “Like your place?”

  For an instant, she looks offended.

  Dammit. How could he go and stick his foot in his mouth, just when they were getting along so well?

  Dinner was a pleasant surprise once they got past their rocky start, and so was Annie’s acceptance of his spontaneous invitation to come back here for coffee. He didn’t dare suggest a nightcap, lest she think he had something more intimate on the agenda.

  Coffee sounded safe, both to him and apparently to Annie, so here they are, complete with a bag of pastries they picked up along the way from the bakery around the corner.

  And now, just when he assumes he’s hurt her pride with his innocently intended comment about the comfortable state of her house, she smiles.

  “I guess ‘lived in’ is a polite way to put it. Another would be ‘messy.’ Or how about, ‘disaster area’?”

  “Annie, I told you before, I think your house is great. It has character. Unlike this place.”

  She opens her mouth to protest, but apparently thinks better of it. “This is beautiful, Thom. I love the decor. You have nice taste. And, um, where did you get that antique spittoon? It’s really . . . interesting.”

  “Annie, thanks, but this isn’t my taste, it’s the interior decorator’s taste,” he says with a laugh. “And I have no idea where I got the spittoon.”

  “You forgot?”

  “I never knew. The decorator did everything—all the shopping, the art, the color scheme.”

  Yeah, right. Color scheme? What color scheme? The whole damned place is monochromatic.

  “Oh,” is all Annie says, seemingly at a loss for words. She obviously can’t fathom being so busy that you can’t even make decisions about your apartment’s decor.

  Not just busy, Thom concludes after a moment’s thought.

  Detached.

  And that, he realizes with a pang of regret, is almost . . . sad.

  Suddenly feeling sorry for himself, he tells Annie, “You know, it’s all a little too blah for my taste. I always meant to liven it up with some splashes of color, but I haven’t had a chance yet.”

  “How long have you been living here?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Oh,” she says again.

  “How about that coffee?” he asks abruptly, sensing that he’d better get them back on common ground.

  “Oh, you know what? Maybe I should just—”

  “Annie, you have to stay for coffee,” he cuts in. “You can’t leave me alone with all those pastries because I’ll feel obligated to eat them.”

  She laughs. “All right, but just a quick cup.”

  “Great. I’ll be right back,” he says, relieved, heading for the kitchen. He calls over his shoulder, “Make yourself at home,” his voice echoing in the marble-tiled, high-ceilinged room.

  Make yourself at home?

  Yeah, right. He never has. In the decade he’s lived here, he’s never made himself at home. Not really.

  But it never bothered him until now. Walking through the dining room and the study on the way to the kitchen, he sees his apartment through Annie’s eyes.

  It’s all he can do not to pluck a few petals from the fresh flower arrangement in the center of the mahogany table, or muss the perfectly placed cushions on the couch.

  In the kitchen, with its glossy black stone countertop and gleaming stainless-steel, restaurant-quality appliances, including a European espresso machine, he debates making her a cappuccino, but only briefly.

  Coffee. He promised her plain old coffee, nothing fancy, and coffee is what he should deliver.

  As he waits for it to brew, he takes off his suit jacket and tie, draping them over the back of a chair, unfastens his French cuffs and the top few buttons of his dress shirt. After tucking his monogrammed gold cuff links into a drawer, he rolls up his sleeves. There. That’s better.

  He opens the white paper bag from the bakery and arranges the pastries on the plainest white plate he can find in the cupboard. It’s Lenox, but she wouldn’t know that unless she turned it over.

  It shouldn’t matter, Thom tells himself, hunting through the cabinet for mugs instead of porcelain cups. The differences between their lifestyles are the least of the obstacles between them.

  So what if ten square feet of his recently re-remodeled kitchen probably cost him more than she paid for her entire house?

  That wouldn’t matter in the end, as long as . . .

  What end? Thom interrupts his own thoughts to ask. This is the end, buddy. Tonight. Right here. This is all you get.

  No future.

  No strings.

  “No fair,” he whispers aloud, to himself—and to the ghost of Annie’s dead husband, whom he almost expects to see lurking in the shadows beside the Sub-Zero.

  If only he could convince Annie that it makes no sense to sacrifice her own happiness out of misguided loyalty to a mere marital memory.

  Happiness?

  Pretty confident, aren’t you, there? Thom asks himself.

  Who’s to say that he’s capable of making Annie any happier than she is on her own—or will be, once her grief subsides?

  Honeysuckle perfume and fine china aside, is there anything worthwhile Thom can give her that she doesn’t already possess?

  A home, a family, a creative career . . . she has all of those things.

  What else is there?

  The coffeemaker hisses to a halt, none too soon. Another few minutes of musing, and Thom might have convinced himself that Annie needs a new husband—and that Thomas Brannock IV fits the bill.

  He fills two cups and sets them on a tray with creamer, sugar, and the pastries. He adds the rose-filled bud vase that’s sitting on the counter, courtesy of his weekly fresh floral delivery service. Then he transports the whole thing back to the living room, where he finds Annie surveying a framed row of
family photos on the mantel.

  Leave it to her to zoom in on the one personal touch in the room.

  “So you found my life in pictures.” Thom sets the tray on the coffee table and walks over to join her.

  “Is this your father?” she asks, holding up a silver frame containing a formal portrait of Thom III.

  “That’s him. How’d you know?”

  “You look just like him.”

  That might be true, but every time Thom hears it, he holds back a shudder. He might resemble his father physically, but this apple fell miles from the tree in every other way.

  Annie sets the photograph carefully back on the mantel and points to another: a recent shot of Thom and Susan arm in arm at a charity ball up in Scarsdale. It appeared in the Westchester Wag magazine’s society pages, but Thom knows Annie is as likely to have seen that as she is to have spent May Day picking daisies with the Queen of England.

  “Who is this in the picture with you?” she asks casually—too casually, to Thom’s delight.

  It would be fun to prolong the answer, just to enjoy this intriguing hint of a jealous streak, but that wouldn’t be fair.

  “That’s my sister, Susan,” he admits.

  “Oh! Your sister!”

  “Why? Did you think she was a wife I forgot to tell you about?” he asks with a wink.

  A wink?

  A wife?

  Who does he think he is, his father?

  Annie’s smile fades. “No. I didn’t know who she was. I forgot you had a sister.”

  “Well speaking of Susan, guess what? I’m going to be an uncle,” Thom says quickly, sensing that coffee and conversation could change to “Taxi!” any second.

  “An uncle?”

  “Susan’s pregnant. She told me last night.”

  Annie’s face lights up. “How exciting! When is she due?”

  Nice save, Brannock.

  “She’s due around the end of the year,” he says, leading the way back to the couch.

  Annie follows him, sits beside him, and begins spooning sugar into her mug. “Maybe it’ll be the city’s first New Year’s baby. They always get a bunch of great prizes.”

  “That would be nice.” And largely unnecessary, considering that Susan and Wade’s son will undoubtedly already be showered with everything money can buy.

  “Here,” he says, picking up an apple turnover and placing it into her hand. “Try a pastry.”

  She takes a little bite. “It’s good.”

  “Can I taste?” He leans in, all but forcing her to feed him a bite. “Mmm. Not as good as your molasses cookies, but good.”

  “Oh, don’t remind me. I’ve got to go home tomorrow and make another twelve dozen of those for a party Merlin’s doing this weekend.”

  “You bake cookies for Merlin?”

  “Lately, yes. Why?”

  “Did you make those sugar cookie flags for my party?”

  “Oh, those . . . yup,” she says with a laugh. “I resented you the whole time I was doing all those little frosting stars.”

  “No wonder . . .”

  “No wonder what?”

  “I was addicted to those cookies,” he tells her, shaking his head in wonder. “There was something about them . . . I just couldn’t stop eating them.”

  “Well, they are pretty rich . . . I use real butter, a lot of it, and always put a few drops of heavy cream in the dough. That’s why they’re so good.”

  “It wasn’t just that they were good,” Thom tells her, knowing he’s not making sense. How can he explain that those cookies seemed to have awakened some decadent yearning in his soul? That it isn’t just about his sudden sweet tooth, but about something far more meaningful?

  He can’t explain it. Not without her concluding that he’s some kind of New Age freak masquerading as a sensible businessman.

  He watches Annie pour a generous splash of cream into her mug, then stir, sip, and add more sugar.

  “Not sweet enough?” he asks, amused.

  “I like a lot of sugar. Do you always drink yours black?”

  He nods.

  Annie wrinkles her nose. “How can you stand it?”

  “It’s good. Really,” he insists when she throws him a doubtful glance. “I’m used to it.” He sips to punctuate the point and finds himself wondering why his coffee suddenly seems so bitter.

  “Well, have you ever tried it with cream and sugar?”

  “No.”

  Annie slides the sugar bowl and creamer toward him. “Go ahead. Live a little.”

  He hesitates only a moment before adding a heaping spoonful of sugar and liberal dollop of cream to his cup. He stirs, sips . . . smiles.

  “Good, isn’t it?” Annie smiles back at him. “Life is too short to drink black coffee.”

  Talk about bittersweet. Coming from her, that comment is enough to bring a lump to Thom’s throat.

  He puts down his mug and takes Annie’s hand.

  “Yes, and life is too short,” he says meaningfully, “not to grab every opportunity you get for happiness.”

  “Thom—”

  “Shh.” He brushes a wisp of hair back from her face and leans closer, taking the cup from her trembling hand and setting it on the table.

  “Thom, I told you that we can’t—”

  “Have from now on. I know. But we can at least have now, Annie.”

  He kisses her before she can protest again, and with that kiss, glimpses all that could be between them, if only . . .

  If only she could let go of her past.

  If only he could see into the future, and know that he isn’t going to hurt Annie or the children.

  If only he could validate his motives . . . or be guaranteed that he isn’t going to turn into his father . . .

  “We can have now,” Annie breaks off the kiss to whisper. “But that’s all. Wouldn’t it be easier if I just left, before this goes any—”

  “No.” He lays a finger against her lips to still them, vainly searching Annie’s eyes for the promise of something he knows he’ll never see there.

  “But—”

  “Don’t leave, Annie. That wouldn’t be easy.” He takes her into his arms, lowering her back against the cushions of the couch.

  The tantalizing scent of honeysuckle swirls around him, almost seeming to become stronger than it was before.

  “Your leaving right now would be torture,” he tells her, kissing her lips, her neck, her shoulder. “It would be easier to let this happen, even if we both know that it’s just one last time.”

  “Okay,” she whispers, kicking off her sandals and sinking back in his arms.

  She laughs as he, too, kicks his shoes with abandon over the arm of the couch, then tilts her head to give him access to the sweet, tender skin at the base of her throat.

  He nuzzles her there, and she purrs with pleasure, sparking intense desire within him.

  He traces the graceful line of her collarbone with his fingertip, then again with his lips, feeling her quake as his mouth gradually slides across again, and then lower and his fingers expertly ease off her dress, and then her bra.

  With a throaty moan she guides his searching mouth to her bared breast, surprising and enthralling him.

  This time, there are no sleeping children nearby to worry about, there is no chance of being spotted out in the open. This time it’s just Thom and Annie, utterly alone together, utterly captivated by each other.

  He lifts himself away just long enough to shed his shirt, trousers, and boxers as Annie wriggles out of her panties. Then he settles his weight against her once again, savoring the exquisite way the length of their bodies fit together, skin to skin, rigid peak to pliant valley.

  Holding Annie in his arms, kissing her deeply, endlessly, Thom relishes every sensation: her floral scent, the sweet remnants of cream and sugar on her lips, the low moan of pleasure that escapes her when his fingers slide down over the gentle slope of her hip, and again when they wander brazenly into more intimate
territory.

  If this one last night together is all they’re ever meant to have, he’ll memorize everything about it, so that it can last him a lifetime, knowing, even now, that it will never be enough.

  A week, a month, a year . . . would any of it sustain him through the remainder of a life without her?

  Another moan, higher pitched, slips from Annie’s lips as their bodies meld, then move together in effortless rhythm. At last, with a gasp and a shudder, she calls out his name.

  He will never tire of hearing her say it; never tire of holding her, kissing her.

  She opens her eyes to gaze up at him, radiating intense emotion, and in that instant, Thom glimpses the promise he never expected to see there.

  It’s fleeting, so fleeting that when her eyelids flutter closed again and she snuggles her face into his shoulder, he isn’t entirely certain it was there at all.

  But if it really was . . .

  Something has clicked into place in his brain.

  It’s time, he thinks fervently.

  Time to grow up, time to give up, time to give in.

  Time to recognize that nothing in his life will ever matter without her.

  Time to stop fooling himself, and Annie, searching for reasons he might be feeling the way he does—reasons that have nothing to do with love.

  Love?

  Is that what this is?

  Love.

  Shaking his head in wonder, Thom feels as though he’s been handed a missing puzzle piece, a golden key, a winning ticket.

  What can you give her that she doesn’t already have?

  Willing to embrace the answer to that question at last, Thom impulsively opens his mouth to tell her.

  But before he can say it, his name is on her lips once again, only this time, it isn’t accompanied by a sigh of pleasure, but one of regret.

  “I hate that I have to leave,” she says, stretching, trailing her fingers along his bare back. “But I’ve got to get back to Erica’s.”

  “Stay,” he urges, kissing her.

  She laughs. “I can’t. It’s too late.”

  Too late?

  No, Thom wants to tell her. It isn’t too late. Thank God, it isn’t too late. He might have let her slip away, but now . . .

  “Can I see you tomorrow night? Before you go back to the island?”