Ann Major - Wild Enough For Willa

Somehow it was easier to sit in the solitary gloom of his office with his own regrets than to endure the well-meant comfort of friends, colleagues and employees. He even preferred the fury of his hot-tempered, impossible mother-in-law to their consolation.

Sheila blamed him for the separation…for the accident…for her only daughter’s death.

Luke felt the muscles of his jaw tighten. World-famous in computer circles, he was tall, well built, black-haired. He stayed in shape. During the week he jogged or went to a gym. On weekends he did manual labor on his immense south Texas ranch. Indeed, he was well disciplined in all areas.

Ruthless, his competitors called him. Competent and innovative were the labels his friends attached.

Luke had sea-gray eyes. “And when you smile,” Marcie used to say, “you have the most devastatingly gorgeous face. Your eyes sparkle like dancing waves on a stormy day. I married you for that smile that gives your face so much energy. Now the only time I ever see it is when you perform for the press.”

Marcie had been right. His virile good looks, especially the practiced smile, were a facade. The man behind the mask was cold…dead…and wanted to stay that way.

He hated how he felt tonight—alive, raw, in pain, about to explode. He had to find a way to recap the volcano.

Luke McKade believed in order, in control. He lived by rules—his own. He never drank alcohol in front of his employees, and he wouldn’t be drinking tonight if he hadn’t closed LMK for the funeral.

Luke sat behind a mammoth mahogany desk. Nursing his second whiskey, he clenched Marcie’s framed photograph and stared unseeingly at the brilliant Austin skyline glittering against the black hills.

The world thought he was a hero. He’d had more fun when he’d been poor and fighting to make it. The higher he climbed, the more alienated and lonely he felt…the more powerless.…

Marcie? His brown hand touched the pale cheek behind cold glass. He had more money than Midas. But he couldn’t bring her back. He couldn’t tell her he was sorry.

He began to shake. Such white skin, such warm, soft skin she’d had…compared to his. Her golden hair had felt like the richest silk while his had been black and coarse like his mother’s. She’d been so high-class compared to him. His claim to fame was wealth. And power in the hottest business on the planet. They said he was a modern-day pirate, that he’d gotten where he was by greed and underhanded tactics.

Whatever. He was rich, unimaginably rich, now. CEO of a dozen computer companies, he was a giant in a world he’d helped shape. Known for his razor-sharp intelligence, tough negotiation tactics, and ruthless business instincts, he owned several highly competitive software and Internet businesses.

He’d known that the only reason an impoverished socialite like the exquisite Marcie Wilde had married a driven computer nerd like himself was for his money. He’d thrown that up at her the day she’d asked for a divorce.

“Your money used to be attractive…once,” she’d admitted. “But I always wanted you. I used to think that maybe someday you’d feel that way about me.”

“What the hell did I tell you before we got married—”

“I was in love. I thought I could change you. I thought I could settle till you fell for me, too. I thought I had enough love for both of us. You’re good-looking. Good in bed…at least at first I thought so. Then I realized you weren’t there. It was always your money and always going to be your money. I was like some object you’d bought to show off…a trophy. Nothing more. And I want more, to be more. I deserve more. You’re a dead man, Luke, at least with me.”

“I gave you everything.”

“And it’s killing me. I—I can’t go on like this.…This house we built together is not a home. It’s a monument like the pyramids or the Taj Mahal, tombs built for the dead to impress the living. You’re not rich…not really. You don’t have money. Your money has you.”

You’re killing me.

He’d remembered how eagerly she’d run to the door every night when he’d come home in the beginning of their marriage. Until he’d made it clear he didn’t like such exuberant displays of affection—in bed or out of it. But divorce?

He’d said, “So, how much are you going to take me for?”

“I don’t want a dime of your precious money.”

“One day some slick lawyer will call me and show us both what a liar you are.”

She’d stuck to her noble sentiment, taken a low-paying job. She’d rented a one-bedroom apartment. He’d hired a guy to keep tabs.

Even before she’d called three days ago, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. Still, he’d been surprised and pleased; but furious, too, that he was so happy to hear from her.

She’d said she’d changed her mind about the divorce; she’d had something important to tell him, something too important and too thrilling to discuss over the phone.

“You want more money, don’t you—”

She’d begun to sob. “I wish…I wish I’d never met you.”

He’d been about to apologize.

“You are a bastard.”

Bastard. Her tearful insult had pushed him over some wild edge. He’d been vicious, gotten her completely distraught. She’d slammed the phone down. He’d had a premonition that had taken him to a cold, dark place in his heart and terrified him. Desperately he’d tried to call her back. Six times he’d dialed that number he’d known by heart.

She’d raced out and jumped in her car.

He’d jumped in his.

He’d been the first at the scene.

Marcie couldn’t handle stress or fighting. She hadn’t been the best driver under normal circumstances.

Luke imagined her racing up that narrow road that wound through limestone cliffs out to the lake and to the house in the hills they’d built together as newly-weds.

His house now.

In her fury, she’d taken the turn too fast. There’d been an oncoming car in her lane. She’d swerved and lost control. He saw her slim body hurtling into unforgiving rock.

Too late, he’d realized she’d been coming to tell him about their baby.

“She was a damn fool about you to the end,” Sheila had said. “She truly believed the baby—my grand-baby—might work the miracle she couldn’t. That’s why she was so pathetically eager to attempt a reconciliation. She’d thought that if the two of you adored the same child…Why couldn’t she see what a coldblooded bastard you are? This divorce thing was your fault! You killed her! She loved you—poor fool. Not that you can understand that. You murdered my daughter! And my grandson!”

Marcie had loved him.

Which was the last thing he’d wanted her to do.

She’d been several months along. Why hadn’t she told him she was pregnant sooner?

Words from the mourners came back to him.

“—terrible accident! Not your fault—”

“—leaving him, you know—”

“—do you blame her—”

“—going to take him to the cleaners—”

“—nothing you could have done—”

Never as long as Luke lived would he forget holding her, watching Marcie’s eyes glaze, feeling her slim body go slack in his arms. When she’d told him about the baby he’d realized she’d loved him…not his money.

If only.

Luke McKade didn’t believe in second chances.

“Nothing he could have done—”

Luke opened a drawer and slammed Marcie’s picture inside facedown. He wanted to forget her.

He flexed the fingers of his right hand. “Nothing? Like hell!”

He closed his eyes and saw Marcie’s beautiful face, so still and untouched by death as she’d lain in her coffin. The image was etched like a brand in his brain. He’d taught her to lie still when they’d had sex.