very much.”
“So much loss.” He shook his head. “Life can be cruel.”
“Yes.” She ate a bite of her steak, taking her time about it, savoring the taste and tenderness of the meat, unaccountably happy that he hadn’t remarked on her vibrating BlackBerry, that he hadn’t said he was “sorry,” the way people always did when she told them she’d grown up without her parents, when she confessed how much she missed her grandmother.
He watched her some more, his dark head tipped to the side in way that had her thinking again how he reminded her of someone. “Have you ever been married?”
“No. I’m Catholic—somewhat lapsed, yes, but nonetheless, I do believe that marriage is forever. I’ve never found the man I want forever with. But I’ve had a couple of serious relationships. They … didn’t work out.” Understatement of the year. But he didn’t need to hear it and she didn’t need to say it. She’d done enough over-sharing for now, thank you very much. She added, “And I’m thirty-three. Does that seem … dire to you?”
“Absolutely.” He put on a stern expression. On him, sternness was sexy. But then, on him, everything was sexy. “You should be married immediately. And then have nine children. At the very least. You should marry a wealthy man, Sydney. One who adores you.”
“Hmm. A rich man who adores me. I wouldn’t mind that. But the nine children? More than I planned on. Significantly more.”
“You don’t want children?” He looked honestly surprised.
She almost told him about Trevor right then. But no. This was a fantasy lunch with a fantasy man. Trevor was her real life. The most beautiful, perfect, meaningful, joyful part of her real life. “I didn’t say I didn’t want children. I do. But I’m not sure I’m ready for nine of them. Nine seems like a lot.”
“Well. Perhaps we would have to settle for fewer than nine. I can be reasonable.”
“We?”
“A man and a woman have to work together. Decisions should be jointly made.”
“Rule.” She put a hand to her breast, widened her eyes and asked him dramatically, “Could this be … oh, I can’t believe it. Is it possible that you’re proposing to me?”
He answered matter-of-factly, “As it happens, I’m wealthy. And it would be very easy for me to adore you.” His dark eyes shone.
What was this feeling? Magical, this feeling. Magical and foolish. And that was the beauty of it. It was one of those things that happen when you least expect it. Something to remind her that life could still be surprising. That it wasn’t all about winning and staying on top—and coming home too late to tuck her own sweet boy into bed.
Sometimes even the most driven woman might just take a long lunch. A long lunch with a stranger who made her feel not only brilliant and clever, but beautiful and desired, as well.
She put on a tragic face. “I’m sorry. It could never work.”
He played it stricken. “But why not?”
“You live in Montedoro.” Grave. Melancholy. “My career—my whole life—is here.”
“You might change careers. You might even decide to try a different kind of life.”
Hah. Exactly what men always said. She wasn’t letting him get away with it. “Or you might move to Texas.”
“For you, Sydney, I might do anything.”
“Perfect answer.”
A moment ensued. Golden. Fine. A moment with only the two of them in it. A moment of complete accord.
Sydney let herself enjoy that moment. She refused to be guarded or dubious. It was only lunch, after all. Lunch with an attractive man. She was giving herself full permission to enjoy every minute of it.
Chapter Two
The meeting on the Binnelab case was half over when Sydney slipped in at two-fifteen.
“Excuse me,” she said as she eased through the conference room doors and they all turned to stare at her. “So sorry. I had … something of an emergency.”
Her colleagues made sympathetic noises and went back to arguing strategy. No one was the least angry that she was late.
Because she was never late—which meant that of course there had to be a good reason for her tardiness. She was Sydney O’Shea, who graduated college at twenty, passed the bar at twenty-four and had been made partner at thirty—exactly one year before her son was born. Sydney O’Shea, who knew how to make demands and how to return a favor, who had a talent for forging strong professional relationships and who never slacked. She racked up the billable hours with the best of them.
If she’d told them all that she’d been sidetracked in Macy’s housewares by a handsome orange salesman from Montedoro and allowed him to talk her into blowing off half of the Binnelab meeting, they’d have had zero doubt that she was joking.
She knew the case backward and forward. She only had to listen to the discussion for a few minutes to get up to speed on the direction her colleagues were taking.
By the end of the meeting, she’d nudged them in a slightly different direction and everyone seemed pleased with the result. She returned to her corner office to find her so-capable assistant, the usually unflappable Magda, standing in the middle of the room holding an orchid in a gorgeous purple pot. Magda stared in dismay at the credenza along the side wall where no less than twelve spectacular flower arrangements sprouted from a variety of crystal vases.
The credenza was not the only surface in the room overflowing with flowers. There were two vases on the coffee table and one each on the end tables in the sitting area.
Her desk had six of them. And the windowsill was likewise overrun with exotic blooms. Each arrangement had a small white card attached. The room smelled like a greenhouse.
Rule. She knew instantly. Who else could it be? And a quick glance at one of the cards confirmed it.
Please share dinner with me tonight. The Mansion at Turtle Creek. Eight o’clock. Yours, Rule
She’d never told him the name of her firm. But then again, it wouldn’t have been that hard to find out. Just her name typed into a search engine would have done it.
“Smothered in flowers. Literally,” she said to her nonplussed assistant. She felt that delicious glow again, that sense of wonder and limitless possibility. She was crushing on him, big-time. He made her feel innocent and free.
And beautiful. And desired …
Was there anything wrong with that? If there was, she was having trouble remembering what.
“They started arriving about half an hour ago,” said Magda. “I think this orchid is the last of them. But I have nowhere left to put it.”
“It would look great on your desk,” Sydney suggested. “In fact, take the cards off and leave them with me. And then let’s share the wealth.”
Magda arched a brow. “Give them away, you mean?”
“Start with the data entry crew. Just leave me the two vases of yellow roses.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.” She didn’t think Rule would mind at all if she shared. And she wanted to share. This feeling of hope and wonder and beauty, well, it was too fabulous to keep to herself. “Tell everyone to enjoy them. And to take them home, if they want to—and hurry. We have Calista’s party at four.”
“I really like this orchid,” said Magda, holding out the pot, admiring the deep purple lips suspended from the velvety pale pink petals. “It looks rare.”
“Good. Enjoy. A nice start to the weekend,