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  “Very well,” Tess Blackwell answered her. “These artists are all very talented, and I’m certain they have promising futures ahead of them.”

  Heart barely let her finish the sentence. Around them people turned to look. While the woman she was targeting spoke calmly, quietly, Heart’s voice was a winning shrill. But she didn’t notice. Nothing else mattered. “Interesting though, I see that you are here by yourself. Does Ian Blackwell not care enough to spend time with his wife?” She stressed the words cruelly.

  Tess Blackwell looked down at her, slight amusement in her eyes, in the smile that played on her lips. “And you are?”

  “I’m Cecilia Heart,” Heart said, looking around her. She had her now, in front of all these people.

  “Heart.” Tess Blackwell contemplated her. “Heart. Didn’t you used to be . . .” She paused for just the right length of time. “Used to be,” she then said with a quiet finality, and continued down the stairs without giving her another look.

  Heart paled and looked around her in embarrassment as the realization of what had just happened hit her. Tess Blackwell had just said it all without actually saying anything.

  Jeremy Alster tried to keep his attention on the art, but that wasn't an easy thing to do. He didn't want to be here, he had only agreed to come to this exhibition for his wife. He would do anything for her, it was that simple. Nothing was more important than his marriage. For him, that was what love meant.

  She was standing beside him now, speaking with one of the young artists who had their paintings on show, and Jeremy looked around him, distracted. This was an interesting building, built in a way that allowed anyone standing in any of the two levels to see into the other one and created the illusion of an open space that was bigger than the gallery actually was. He looked up, at the open spiral that made up the—

  The identity of the woman coming down the stairs could not be mistaken. Tess Blackwell. His eyes searched around her. Was Ian Blackwell here? He didn’t want to meet him. Blackwell was enough on his mind as it was, he wasn’t ready to face him, not now. His conundrum as to what to do with his company, how to save his employees, was nowhere near diminished, even after all this time.

  It was Blackwell's offer, his plan, that he wanted to go with, which was why he still hadn’t sold Alster Industries to anyone else. Even after he had told Blackwell he couldn’t imagine handing over his company to him, he couldn’t get past the simple fact that the man’s plan was the best one for it, that it was his employees’ last chance. But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, he couldn’t bring himself to trust the man. Yes, Blackwell was a brilliant businessman, Jeremy couldn’t argue with that, and if he stood behind his offer Ian Blackwell Holdings would be a stable home to Alster Industries’ businesses, and to its employees. But that exactly was the problem—would Blackwell keep his promise?

  Jeremy knew he was thinking about it too emotionally, which was exactly what had brought his company to financial ruin in the first place, but for him there was simply no other way. He was thinking in terms of a home for his employees, with a home life Ian Blackwell would be responsible for. And Ian Blackwell was a ruthless, driven man who took what he wanted and whose lifestyle Jeremy did not approve of. And that went a long way toward making him uneasy.

  True, Blackwell had gotten married. And initially this had made Jeremy think he might have been wrong about the man. But he knew marriage, and he knew love. And from what he had seen—and he had taken care to look—there was nothing of the sort between that man and the woman he claimed was his wife, and that alone was enough to make Jeremy wonder if the rumors about the marriage were true. And if that was the case, how could he put his employees' lives in the hands of this man, a man whom he could not at all relate to, whose eyes never let on what was in the mind behind them. Who married, it seemed, to, what, manipulate public opinion? To get what he wanted? What kind of a man did that?

  He sighed and touched his wife's arm, indicating, when she turned to him, the woman who was coming down the stairs. They shared a look.

  Putting the encounter with Heart behind her, Tess walked over to a couple she recognized. Recognized, but had never personally met. All she knew about them was what her husband had told her in their library talks, once the trust between them had grown enough.

  She came toward them with a smile. A genuine one, Jeremy thought. Funny, he wasn't expecting that from the woman who had married Ian Blackwell for God knows what reasons. Still, the easiness with which she had dealt with that pushy woman reminded him of the other Blackwell, her husband, and he was wary.

  “You’re Jeremy Alster,” she stated, stopping before them, the smile still on her face, then turned her gaze to his wife. “And you must be Margaret.”

  “And you,” Jeremy said, “are Ian Blackwell’s wife.”

  “You handled that woman extremely well, Mrs. Blackwell,” Margaret Alster said. “She was clearly trying to get a reaction for the crowd. A fight, I think.”

  “That is not who I am,” Tess said simply. “And please, call me Tess. There’s far too much formality around me as it is, and you, at least, I feel I know.” She turned her gaze to Jeremy.

  “Oh?” He was obviously suspicious, not forgetting even for a moment who she was. But he had to admit he was also intrigued.

  “My husband has told me quite a bit about you.”

  He was taken aback by her frankness. “I assume he told you I’m a pain in his—”

  “Jeremy!” His wife struck his arm lightly, appalled. “This is a young woman you’re talking to! Behave.”

  Tess laughed softly. “As a matter of fact, he said you are a rare man. An honorable one.”

  Jeremy sighed. “I wish I could say the same about him.”

  “Jeremy Alster!” Margaret was flabbergasted. “You are talking about her husband!”

  “Margaret, her husband is—”

  “I know very well who her husband is,” Margaret chided him, not without affection. “But she is no more at fault for who he is than I am at fault for who you are!”

  Tess looked at Jeremy Alster with the slightest furrow in her brow. Her husband, when he had spoken of this man, had told her what he thought the problem was. It was true, he did tell her that Alster was a rare man, a man who cared more about his employees and their families than about success or money. He had also told her he thought Alster was comparing himself with him, that he was comparing his own home life, his marriage of decades out of love and with unfailing dedication, with theirs.

  “If I may be forward, you’ve been married for a long time, happily so, haven’t you?” she asked him. It was this man’s heart that was making the decisions, and she would speak to him with hers.

  Jeremy nodded, and Tess glanced at his wife. “And it seems to me, looking at the two of you, that you have learned to trust the judgment of a good woman.”

  “That I have,” Jeremy said.

  “Then trust the judgment of this good woman,” Tess said, her eyes on his, her voice soft. “The man I married is a good man.”

  Jeremy was awed by this young woman, young enough to be his daughter. Awed that he believed her, completely and entirely so. “You are not quite what I expected,” he said.

  “Nor I,” Margaret said, remembering everything her husband had told her. She put a hand on his arm. “Jeremy, I love you to bits, you know that. But I do believe you may have erred on the side of misconception.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ian was walking into the house after a day that had been far too long when his phone rang. Impatient, he pulled it out of his jacket pocket and looked at it. Jeremy Alster. He took the call.

  “Alster Industries is yours,” Jeremy Alster said without preamble.

  Ian halted in the doorway.

  “Your company, your plan for it. Forget the money, you’re going to have to invest a whole lot in what I’m giving you, we both know it’s a mess. And I have enough money to last my wife and me for what remains
of our lives, and beyond, frankly. It was never about the money anyway.”

  “You’re simply giving me Alster Industries? After all this time?”

  “Nothing simple about it, there’s much to be done there. But I have it on good authority that you are a man of your word and that you will take care of my people.”

  “I will. But they’ll need you there too.”

  “I am also a man of my word,” Jeremy Alster grumbled. “I will work with you on this, do all that is needed. One thing, though, Blackwell.”

  Here it comes, Ian sighed inwardly. There had to be something. This offer, this call, was, after all, an impossibility. These things never happened.

  “You don’t strike me as being a fool, Blackwell,” Jeremy Alster was saying to him. “Whatever you’re doing there, don’t mess it up.”

  “I’m sorry?” Ian had no idea what Alster was talking about.

  “That’s one hell of a woman you’ve got. And if you don’t, if they’re right and you don’t, then make sure you do.”

  Ian ended the call and stood rooted in place. He was completely and entirely at a loss.

  He found his wife in the library‘s first floor, searching the section on painters and their art. She was still in the clothes she had worn to the gallery opening. She had opted for a pant set this time, with a lace knee-length open jacket that attempted, without quite succeeding, to lightly conceal just how perfectly the pants and top she was wearing hugged her body. Her hair was half pulled back, revealing a delicate pair of earrings, the only jewelry she wore. She was a picture of beauty and elegance, and he wondered if she knew it.

  “Mrs. Blackwell.”

  She glanced at him and then turned back to the shelves, looking for a book about a painter one of the paintings she had seen that evening reminded her of. “Mr. Blackwell. How was your meeting?”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “To whom?”

  “Jeremy Alster.”

  “Jeremy and Margaret? I met them at the gallery opening,” she said. “We talked. They’re nice, I like Margaret.”

  “Jeremy and Margaret?”

  She nodded, her eyes still on the books.

  “Mrs. Blackwell,” he said again to focus her, and she finally turned to him. “Jeremy Alster just handed me his company. He just gave me Alster Industries.”

  “He did?” She smiled. “Nice.”

  “Nice?” Ian stared at her. “I’ve been trying to get Alster Industries since before you and I ever met. Before I even bought InSyn. And you got it for me after meeting Jeremy Alster once? At a gallery opening?”

  “No, you got it. It was your proposal, your plan that he believed in. I just . . . sealed the deal, I guess.” She shrugged.

  “What the hell did you say to him?”

  “I just told him the truth,” she said and walked back to her reading chair.

  He followed her, wanting to know more. But she wasn’t about to give it to him, couldn’t, found she was embarrassed to tell him what she had said to Jeremy Alster. “I met Cecilia Heart, by the way.” She changed the subject.

  “Yes, I know. I saw.”

  “You saw?” It was her turn to be surprised.

  “Someone filmed it on his phone and posted it online. My public relations department sent it to me, Robert sent it to me, Muriel sent it to me, and Graham, of course, sent it to me. As did too many others to count.”

  He pulled a tablet out of his briefcase and turned it on, then brought up what he wanted to show her before handing it to her. The Art and Style magazine feature about the gallery opening was playing on it. He’d fast-forwarded the video to where she could see her encounter with Heart just before the Art and Style reporter spoke on screen.

  “Well, Tess Blackwell certainly seems to have taken care of that once and for all,” the reporter said while in the background the gossip blogger made a feeble attempt to regain her footing, with Tess already walking away, never once looking back.

  “Impressive,” Ian said, stopping the video. He really was impressed, and not for the first time. No matter what any of them did or said, the woman he had thought would be eaten alive by them simply would not be rattled. And this time, she’d finished what he’d started. She’d finished Cecilia Heart.

  “I can’t say I liked to belittle her that way.”

  “It was the best way to stop her. And I assure you she wouldn’t think twice about doing the same to you, in fact she didn’t.” He contemplated her. “But then, that’s why you are you and she’s not.”

  After a bit of hesitation, she acknowledged the compliment with a nod.

  “You’re good with them. All of them. You always seem to know what to say.”

  “You were there in the beginning to give me the confidence,” she said. “And you told me what I needed to know about them. The rest, I guess, comes from seeing or reading items about you. Business news, gossip. Lots of social media posts from before you and I were married. I probably read everything ever written about you and saw everything you’ve ever appeared in.”

  “Why?” He was nonplussed.

  “To understand. I came here knowing nothing about you, about the life you lead, about the people around you or the ones who are watching you, media or otherwise. That first time we were out, remember?”

  He certainly did.

  “I told you then that it put things in a context I didn’t have before, and that I needed to know more.”

  She had asked him, from that day on, every time they went out, about the people she would meet, about what would be expected of her. But he had no idea that she hadn’t just asked him, no idea that she had gone as far as she had. “You’re thorough.”

  “You need me to be.”

  “Still, I’m not sure how I feel about being studied that way.” He said it with humor, but there was some truth in it. She had quite a unique mind.

  “I’m not studying you,” she said. “I’m studying them.”

  “Right. Well, just don’t believe everything you’ve heard about me. Especially the gossip.” He wasn’t entirely sure why it mattered to him to say that. But it did.

  “I don’t automatically believe everything I hear.” She looked at him quizzically. He was uncomfortable, she realized with astonishment. Embarrassed, even. Ian Blackwell, the man whose conglomerate had gotten from huge to huger just moments earlier, was embarrassed. “I like to check for myself. And I especially don’t believe gossip. In fact, before you I never watched or read any.” She smiled a little. “But I did hear a bit here and there from Jayden and his wife, they’re avid gossip followers, they know everything about celebrities. Although you’d never get Jayden to admit it.”

  “Graham follows every single item about me, and that includes gossip, which I think he enjoys most.”

  “No way. Graham?”

  “Yes, our Graham.” He laughed. “If you’re lucky, you might catch him shouting at the television because he doesn’t like something he sees.”

  “Well, I can tell you that some of these items are quite . . . entertaining.” She tapped her finger on the screen of his tablet, as if bringing up something on the browser, and turned away from him. “It does seem you’ve dated an impressive range of women.”

  “It’s not as playboyish as they’ve made it out to be.” He was surprised into defending himself. He began to walk toward her, to see what she was looking at. Then he stopped, getting it. “Wait, are you having fun with me, Mrs. Blackwell?” he asked, astonished.

  “I do believe I am, Mr. Blackwell.” She looked up at him, mischief in those beautiful eyes of hers.

  Passing outside the library just then, Graham froze. It couldn’t be. He inched closer and listened at the door. He was laughing. Mr. Blackwell was laughing. He walked away quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

  “I imagine you studied me too, if you want to call it that,” Tess was saying inside. It didn’t matter now, after all this time.

  “I read the report Robert put together a
bout you, after he chose you,” Ian conceded, trusting what was now between them. “I wanted to know something about you, that first day. I couldn't understand why someone like you would agree to enter into this arrangement. And even after we kept fighting. But that was the last time I checked about you.”

  She believed him. “Why?”

  “It's not within my right to.”

  “We got married in a business arrangement.”

  “That doesn't give me the right to invade you in any way.”

  That, the choice of words, struck her, hitting an unseen wound. She hid it, but nowhere near fast enough. He knew her now, was far more sensitive to her than he had been, and he saw it. His own frown remained inward. He didn't want her to go, he wanted her to talk to him. To trust.

  “The truth,” he said, “is that I learned nothing from the report. Yes, I could have searched some more. But this was to be a long-term arrangement. I figured that anything I want to know, I will learn from you in time.”

  “Did you?” She was still trying to get a grip on herself.

  “Yes. And you're not at all who I thought you would be. You're not . . . the wife I envisioned when I came up with this idea.” He said it simply. And he said it allowing some affection into his tone, affection he never thought he would feel. Or consider expressing.

  She nodded slowly, some hesitation in the nod. “You're not who I thought you would be either.”

  She handed him the tablet and turned to leave. He was getting too close, this was too close.

  “Mrs. Blackwell.”

  She turned back to him.

  “About my checking you out, I figure I owe you. Anything you ever want to ask me, I’ll be glad if you do.”

  Too close, she thought again, her heartbeat quickening.

  But he wasn’t ready to let this end, let her leave. He wanted her here, with him, even if just for a moment longer before she would hide from him again. “So how was the exhibition at the opening?” he asked quickly.

  “Very nice.” She relaxed somewhat at the change of subject. “There were some good works there.”

  “Such as?” He was genuinely interested.