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He chose India.
In his ridiculously sophisticated penthouse, she learned the meaning of passion. Farris was insatiable. He taught her things she had never imagined.
But a man and a woman couldn’t have sex 24/7. Inevitably, his business demanded attention. There had been no mention of a honeymoon. India hadn’t minded. Living in one of Manhattan’s wealthiest zip codes and being spoiled by an incredibly sexy husband was more than a fantasy. It was her new life.
At Farris’s insistence, India gave up her job. Not long after that, the Wyoming ranch came up for sale. Soon, they were on a plane headed west. They split their time between Jackson and New York.
India had been blissfully happy. The only thing that could have made her life any more wonderful was a baby. But she was patient. Perhaps Farris was right. They needed time to get to know each other, to learn how to be husband and wife.
Everything had been perfect until Farris began to pull away emotionally. Once, in desperation, India had even asked Dottie if her son had a mistress in Manhattan. Dottie’s chortling laughter had convinced India her fears were unfounded, but something was wrong. That much was true. Unfortunately, India had lost control of the situation.
She felt her marriage unraveling, but she had been unable to stop the momentum.
“Would you like more wine?”
The prosaic question, uttered in a deep, masculine voice, disturbed her painful reminiscing. “Yes, thank you,” she said. The words came out husky, almost hoarse. The pain was still there. Muted, of course, with the passage of time, but no less real.
As Farris lifted the bottle and poured, his hands were a thing of beauty. Long fingers, masculine grace. His tanned skin was sprinkled with dark hair. India had always thought a man’s hands were one of the sexiest parts of his body.
Hands could caress a woman, comfort a hurting child, pen a letter or do manual labor if need be. India knew Farris worked hard when he was here at the ranch. She had often thought the physical exertion helped clear his head after the pressures of his life back in New York.
When he handed her the crystal goblet, she was careful not to let their hands touch. She couldn’t bear it. Her nerves were shot, her emotions on edge.
Why had Farris not remarried? Sometimes she wished he had. Then she would have finally understood that she simply wasn’t the right woman for him.
But he had remained single, his life a monastic one on the surface. When she combed the society tabloids for news of him, she often saw his picture at one charity gala or another. In every instance, he was either alone or had his mother on his arm.
What did it mean? The ambiguity made her restless. She wanted to have a huge lay-it-all-on-the-table confrontation.
That wasn’t Farris’s style, though. And besides, he hadn’t summoned her here to rehash the past. His only focus was his mother.
The dinner wasn’t over. There was still the dessert course to come. India couldn’t bear the awkward silence any longer. “What do you expect from me?” she asked. “How am I supposed to care for Dottie?”
At long last, Farris looked at her, face-to-face, his gaze assessing, but oddly emotionless. “She needs company. Even when I am here, I’m often out on the property taking care of things, lining up work for my men. In the old days, my mother was never at a loss for something to do. She’s one of the most self-sufficient women I know. But her life is different now. I want you to be with her as much as possible. Talk to her. Listen to her. Make her feel loved and appreciated. I do what I can, but I think she’s looking forward to the idea of having another woman in the house.”
“And what about you, Farris? Are you glad I’m here?”
Something flashed in his eyes, something dark and dangerous. “My wishes are immaterial,” he said, the words blunt.
India flinched inwardly. Why had she asked the question? Why had she poked the beast? Was she really trying to make him crack? It hadn’t worked half a decade ago, and it definitely wouldn’t work now.
Farris Quinn had had five long years to seal up any weaknesses in his armor. He was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle. She would have described him as a stone-cold man, but she knew that wasn’t accurate. The Farris she first fell in love with exhibited deep emotions. He was reserved—that much was true. But when they were alone together, he had been passionate, tender, playful and fun.
He cared deeply about injustice. He was a strict boss, but incredibly fair. He rewarded hard work. He gave offenders a second chance, but rarely a third.
In his personal life, India had seen a side of Farris she suspected no one else did, save Dottie. He enjoyed giving presents. He had a wry sense of humor. And he was happiest spoiling the woman he loved.
Or he’d seemed to be.
Her eyes burned suddenly. As a young bride, she had found her happy-ever-after, but it had been snatched away from her. To this day, she didn’t understand why. Not knowing had haunted her all the years since.
In the beginning, she’d had to heal. To remind herself that she was more than Farris’s wife. Her personal growth had been a struggle. The eventual inner peace she’d claimed had been hard-won.
It wasn’t entirely surprising that she’d had trouble trusting men. She dated occasionally, but in those early days, she hadn’t let any man get too close. Her female friends enriched her life—high school chums, college buddies. And then there was her work family at the TV station. She loved them all.
She surrounded herself with good people, and she gave generously to those relationships. The lack of actual family members in her life was a pain she buried deep. No one knew how much she had lost.
And as for romance? Well, a girl could always get by with a vivid fantasy life and a few toys. At least that was what she told herself.
