Reunited With The Rebel Billionaire. Catherine Mann

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      In front of him was the first gift he’d ever bought Fiona. It was a handsome jewelry armoire that doubled as a full-length mirror. It was a one-of-a-kind antique piece. Whimsical and light. Just like Fiona in her jewel-colored dress. Looking at the gilded mirror framing the reflection of his exquisite wife reminded him of how far they’d fallen. Damn.

      This whole room was a mausoleum to what had been.

      He wanted her to lean on him. Even if it was just a little bit. This wasn’t what he wanted. “Anything else I can do to help?”

      “I’ve got it under control.” Finality colored her words.

      “You always do.” It came out harsher than he intended. But dammit, he was trying. Couldn’t she see that?

      She spun around to face him, her petite frame filling with rigid rage as the silk of her gown whirled against his shins. Raising her chin and her brow, she pressed her lips tight, primly. “No need to be snarky.”

      Sticking his hands in his pants pockets, he shrugged, his Brioni tuxedo jacket sliding along his shoulders. “I am completely serious.”

      Fiona’s sherry eyes softened, the amber depths intoxicating. She took a deep breath and stared at him. A breeze stirred the stale air of the room, filtering through the window with the sounds of foot traffic and car horns. It was a grounding sound, reminding him of when they’d first bought this house—when they’d been a team. They’d spent months working together on every detail of restoring the historic Victorian home, a celebrated building that had once been a schoolhouse, then a convent.

      And they’d done it together. They’d transformed this deteriorating five-thousand-square-foot house into a home.

      “Sorry, I didn’t mean to start a fight. Adelaide was a huge help during a really long day. Let’s just get through the evening. It’s harder and harder to pretend there’s nothing wrong between us.”

      Something was off with her today, but he couldn’t tell what. It was clear enough, though, that she was trying to pick a fight with him.

      “I don’t want to fight with you, either.” He didn’t know what the hell he wanted anymore other than to have things the way they were.

      “You used to love a good argument with me. Only me. You get along with everyone else. I never understood that.”

      “We had fire, you and I.” It had been a sizzling love. One that warmed him to his damn core. And he knew there was still a spark in the embers. He couldn’t believe it was all gone.

      “Had, Henri. That’s my point. It’s over, and you need to quit making excuses to delay the final step.” Ferocity returned to her fairylike features. A warrior in blue silk and sequins.

      “Not excuses. You needed to recover. Then we agreed we wouldn’t do anything that would disrupt the start of the season. Then with my brother’s wedding on the horizon—”

      “Excuses. Divorce isn’t the end of the world.” She pinned up a curl that had escaped the confines of the delicate braid binding the others into place.

      Everything about her these days was carefully put together so that no one saw a hint of the turmoil beneath. For months he’d respected that. Understood she was the one calling the shots with her health issues. But how could she deny herself any help? Ever? She’d made it clear he didn’t know how to be the least bit of assistance.

      And now, divorce was the recurring refrain.

      “Our family is in the spotlight. A split between us would eat up positive oxygen in the press.” He needed her to take a deep breath. They needed to figure out everything. He needed to stall.

      She turned back around, using the mirror to smooth her dress. “No one is going to think poorly of you for leaving me. I will make it clear I’m the one who asked for the divorce.”

      Anger boiled, heating his cheeks. “I don’t give a damn what people think about me.”

      “But you do care about your team. I understand.” He picked up on the implication of her words. That he didn’t care about her. And that couldn’t be farther off base. She was still trying to pick a fight. To widen the gap between them.

      “We’re going to be late.” The tone of his voice was soft. Almost like a whisper. He wanted to calm her down, to stop this from turning into an unnecessary fight. Something was upsetting her. Something major.

      As much as he wanted to understand her, he couldn’t. The party was about to start and he didn’t have the time to unwrap the subtle meaning of all her words.

      All he wanted was to have their old life back instead of silently cohabitating and putting on a front for the world. He longed for her to look at him the way she used to, with that smile that said as much as she enjoyed the party, she savored their time alone together even more. He ached for their relationship to be as uncomplicated as it once was when they traveled the country for the season, traveled the world in the off-season. They both enjoyed history and art. Sightseeing on hikes, whether to see Stonehenge or the Great Wall of China.

      Tapping the back of her dress, he met her gaze in the mirror, holding her tawny eyes and reveling in the way her pupils widened with unmistakable desire. Settling his hands back on her shoulders, he breathed against her ear and neck. “Unless you would like me to take the zipper back down again.”

      Her lashes fluttered shut for a second and a softness entered her normally clenched jaw. In that brief moment, he thought this might be how they closed the gap.

      Instead, her eyelids flew open and she shimmied out from underneath his hands. “No, thank you. I have a fund-raiser to oversee. And then make no mistake, we need to set a firm date to see our attorney and end the marriage.”

       Two

      Fiona picked at sequins on her dress as Henri steered their Maserati through the gates and toward the huge Greek Revival mansion on the hill. She’d lived just down the road from that house once, she and Henri in their wing and his youngest brother, Jean-Pierre, in another. Both wings were large enough for privacy. Both easily big enough to fit four of the homes she’d grown up in, and her family had been wealthy enough to impress, with her father owning a midsize accounting firm.

      But once her honeymoon phase had worn off with Henri and she’d realized she wasn’t pregnant, they’d begun trying for a baby in earnest. That mammoth mansion had grown more claustrophobic with each failed attempt. Then with each fertility treatment. There’d been miscarriages they hadn’t even told the family about. So many more health heartaches they hadn’t shared with his family.

      After her very public miscarriage in her second trimester, he’d bought them the house in the Garden District to give them both space from the Reynaud fishbowl lifestyle. Their emotions had been bubbling over far too often, in good and bad ways.

      Living here? It was just too difficult. Spanish moss trailed like bridal veils from live oak trees on either side of the private driveway leading into the Reynaud estate on Lake Pontchartrain. It was in an exclusive section of Metairie, Louisiana, west of the city. Pontoon boats were moored in shallow waters while long docks stretched into the low-lying mist that often settled on the surface, sea grass spiking through and hiding local creatures. The gardens were lush and verdant, the ground fertile. Gardeners had to work overtime to hold back the Louisiana undergrowth that could take over in no time. The place was large, looming—alive.

      She glanced at her too-damn-handsome husband as he steered their sports car up the winding drive toward the original home on the family complex, the place where Henri and his brothers had spent time in their youth. Gervais, the oldest brother, and his fiancée lived here now, and the couple had allowed Fiona to host her event on the property.

      Henri’s tailored Brioni tuxedo fit his hard, muscled body well. His square jaw was cleanly shaved, his handsome face the kind that could