‘Hello, Morgan, Charlotte here.’
Charlotte. He slowly lifted his head, eyes staring out across his office but seeing nothing.
‘I think we should talk ... We need to talk. I've wanted to call you so many times but I dial your number and hang up before I ever leave a message. ‘
She drew a small breath and the sound of it was captured on the recording. Morgan's gut hurt. He held his breath waiting for her to finish.
‘I'm sorry about the wedding, our wedding, I mean.
I've always been sorry, but maybe it's for the best. I don't know. Call me. Please. Soon as you can.’ She rattled off her number before hanging up.
Morgan scrawled the number on a tablet on his desk, numbly deleted the message and played the next.
The next call was from Winnie's parents and they were rather frantic about their daughter's whereabouts as they hadn't heard from her since the day after the wedding that didn't happen.
Mrs. Graham gave him a number where they were staying, said it was a vacation house they'd rented for a couple weeks in the mountains and asked him to make sure Winnie phoned as soon as possible.
Morgan wrote this one down, too, but his thoughts were chaotic and it wasn't until all messages were played, that he hung up the phone and really studied Charlotte's number.
For a long moment he didn't move. She'd called him. She wanted to see him.
He looked away, stared at the shadowed wall, but he could still hear her voice, imagine her face. Glacier blond, glacier beautiful. Impatient, imperious Charlotte.
He'd loved her so much. He'd loved her too much.
He'd waited years to speak to her, years to hear from her, but now that she'd finally called, and now that he had her number, he wasn't sure he had anything to say to her.
Abruptly Morgan turned off the lamp on his desk. As a matter of fact, he was certain he had nothing to say to her.
Morgan did not sleep well that night. It had less to do with Charlotte's call than knowing Winnie was in his house, sleeping just down the hall.
He hated not sleeping with her. He hated not being with her. But he also hated not knowing what she wanted from him.
He was still wide awake two hours later when his bedroom door creaked open and he heard a timid voice say, "Who broke into my apartment? What did that person want?"
Morgan propped himself up. "I don't know."
She stood there in the shadows, hanging on to the doorknob, her long hair half hiding her face. "Mr. Foley said that it might have been someone who wanted to know about us. Someone curious about... you."
Morgan silently cursed taciturn Mr. Foley for finally speaking and definitely saying too much. "Maybe."
He heard her sniff. "You know, someone should tell the media that you're really not worth the trouble, and definitely not worth all this fuss." Her voice grew thinner, higher. She was close to breaking down. "People should know that you're not all that interesting, that you prefer numbers and mergers to love and affection, and that you proposed to me because I'm dependable and convenient.'
He smiled despite himself and shook his head. She was such a handful. How could he have ever thought her easy, sensible, convenient?
"Someone should tell them, and I think it should be you," he agreed, happy to pacify her. "However, it's three in the morning and not even the most tenacious journalist will be at his desk for another hour or two. So let's go back to bed and get some sleep."
But she didn't move. "I can't sleep. I'm scared."
He slid out of bed and walked across the room and gently but firmly closed the bedroom door behind her. 'There's nothing to be scared about, at least not here, in this house."
Then he scooped her into his arms, carried her back to his bed, and set her down in the middle. "We both sleep better when we sleep together," he added, throwing himself down next to her and punching the pillow beneath his cheek. "So close your eyes. Get some sleep. "
Easy for him to say, she thought, lying stiff and miserable next to him. She couldn't sleep. Her mind was going a mile a minute. She couldn't forget the mess in her apartment. She couldn't forget the police's indifference. She couldn't forget that Morgan had shown up like a knight on a white stallion.
Suddenly Morgan reached out and scooped her up, bringing her closer against him. "Stop thinking so much," he whispered, his voice raspy in the dark. "Turn your brain off."
"I can't."
"You can. I order you to turn your brain off."
She grimaced at the irony. "You can't order me, Morgan. I don't work for you, remember?"
He groaned and dragged her even closer. "Well, I don't want you to work for me. I don't want to be your boss, not when you're my equal." He kissed the back of her head, cupped his hand over her tummy, and immediately relaxed. In less than a minute he began to breathe deeply, evenly.
Winnie turned her head to look at him. His eyes were closed, and his long, dense black lashes rested against his cheek. Even half asleep he was impossibly beautiful.
She felt his breath fan her cheek as he sighed the sigh of a man whose patience was sorely tried. "Close your eyes, Winnie. Please?"
"How did you know?" she asked, trying not to laugh.
"Because I know you. Now sleep."
And this time, when she closed her eyes, she did sleep, snuggled deep against Morgan's side.
As tired as he was, Morgan just couldn't sleep. He didn't know how, when he felt completely fatigued, he could still respond to Winnie like this.
She was nestled against him, her cheek on his chest, her hand clenched and buried beneath his ribs. She slept as if he were a mountain, a fortress, her favorite place of refuge and even though he couldn't explain it, it gave him peace. It was nice to be wanted. He liked being needed. He might even someday grow comfortable with the word love.
For nearly the rest of the night he watched her sleep, and his desire changed as the hours crept by, the hard arousal giving way to something else, a tenderness, a protective instinct. This, he thought, gently kissing the top of her head, was Winnie, his Winnie. She belonged with him.
Just before five, Morgan finally dragged himself out of bed. He took a cold shower to wake up, then did a cursory shave. The face in the mirror had bloodshot eyes and blue shadows beneath those distinguished red eyes but Morgan felt good. No, he felt great.
But his good feeling didn't last very long. Returning to work was even worse than he expected. The market was down, really down, the big investors were panicking, the traders were running ragged trying to get all the sell orders in. Morgan was just trying to calm the masses, reminding the skittish that markets are cyclical and that even down markets turn around.
But by eleven Morgan couldn't manage his phone and his nonfunctioning executive assistant's. She was on her third coffee break of the morning-although during one break he could have sworn she was in the ladies rest room painting her nails.
No, he couldn't manage the phones, the e-mails, the massive stack of market reports and the portfolio managers asking him advice on every new market move.
Morgan dialed his home number. Mr. Foley answered and Morgan asked to speak to Winnie.
Morgan didn't waste any time once she got on the line. "I'm sending the car," he said. "I need you down here, Winnie. I have a one o' clock lunch, a three o'clock meeting, and the office is on the brink of disaster. Can you come immediately?"
CHAPTER TWELVE
"YOU'LL be all right here, while I'm gone’?" Morgan asked, slipping his black blazer back on and quickly adjusting his tie.
Winnie couldn't help rolling her eyes. "Of course I will," she said, from her position next to Morgan's desk. She'd spent the last twenty minutes sorting through the papers stacked six inches deep on the comer of his desk.
She'd never seen such an untidy, disorganized collection of phone messages, market reports, printed e-mails and travel itineraries before. Morgan's new assistant was desperately in need of a better filing system. Actually, Morgan was desperat
ely in need of a better assistant.
She lifted a handful of pink phone messages. "So where are you going now?"
"A meeting. Lunch meeting." He lifted his black briefcase from the floor. "I'm not sure how long this will take, but I'll be back by three, in time for the conference call."
He headed out and she continued gathering the pink phone slips before putting them into chronological order. On the bottom went the oldest messages, on the top the newest messages, including everything that had come in today.
The third message from the top caught Winnie's eye.
Charlotte called, confirming lunch. She'll meet you at the Russian Tea Room, one o'clock.
Winnie read the message again. Charlotte called, confirming lunch.
It can't be, she told herself. It's not Morgan's Charlotte. It wouldn't be Morgan's Charlotte.
Nonplussed, Winnie stacked the other two messages on top of the one from Charlotte. Her hands shook slightly as she gathered the rest of the messages. She didn't want her imagination to run wild, but she did feel fear. Tremendous fear.
The only woman Morgan had ever loved had been Charlotte. And if Charlotte was back in his life...?
But it's not Charlotte.
Don't do this to yourself. Don't make this something it's not.
But her hands were still shaking as she moved on to the next task.