Million-Dollar Marriage Merger - By Charlene Sands Page 0,8

He’d learned that precision and accuracy as well as spirit made you a winner.

He’d achieved his goals without much struggle. He’d been born to race. But he’d also disappointed his father by not working alongside him as was expected by the eldest son, and he’d hurt the girl he’d admired and loved most in the world.

Memories flashed again, of making love to Rena and how incredibly poignant and pure it’d been. But Tony’s mission here wasn’t to rehash the past but to move on to the future. Rena was David’s widow now, and the strain of his death was evident on her beautiful face, even in sleep.

His first inclination was to quietly leave, locking the door behind him, but he found he couldn’t move, couldn’t lift his eyes away from her sad desolate face. So he stood at the threshold of her bedroom, watching her.

It wasn’t long before she stirred, her movements lazy as she stretched out on the bed. Tony’s gaze moved to the point where her dress hiked up, exposing long beautiful legs and the hint of exquisite thighs.

His body quickened, and he ground his teeth fighting off lusty sexual thoughts. Yet, quick snippets of memory emerged of hot delicious nights making love to her all those years ago.

Rena opened her eyes and gasped when she spotted his figure in the doorway. Immediate fear and vulnerability entered her eyes. She sat straight up, and when she recognized him, anger replaced her fear. “What are you doing here?”

“We had a date.”

“A date?” To her credit, she did appear hazily confused. Then the anger resurfaced. “How’d you get in?”

“The door was unlocked. Not a good habit, Rena. Anyone could have gotten into your house.”

“Anyone did.”

Tony chose to ignore the swipe.

Rena swung her legs around and set her bare feet on the floor. She rubbed her forehead with both hands and shook her head. “I guess I fell asleep. What time is it?”

“Eight-fifteen.”

She looked up at him. “Were you standing there all that time?”

“No,” he lied. “I just got here. I was fashionably late.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t know what happened. I felt exhausted and fell into a deep sleep.”

The baby, Tony thought. He’d had many a racing buddy speak about their wife’s exhaustion during their early pregnancy. “Maybe it’s all catching up with you. You’ve been through a lot this past month.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through.” She was being deliberately argumentative, and Tony didn’t take the bait.

“How long before you can be ready?”

Her brows furrowed. “Ready?”

“For dinner.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Not tonight. I’m not—” she began to put her hand to her flat stomach, then caught herself “—feeling well.”

“You’ll feel better once you eat. How long since you’ve eaten?”

“I don’t know…. I had a salad for lunch around noon.”

“You need to keep up your strength, Rena.”

She opened her mouth to respond, then clamped it shut.

“I’ll wait for you in the living room.”

Tony turned and walked away, not really giving her a choice in the matter. There were many more things he’d have to force upon her before the evening was through.

Rena got up from her bed, moving slowly as she replayed the events of the day in her mind. First, Tony had visited her this afternoon, a fact that still irked her. Yet he had something to say and he wouldn’t leave until he got it off his chest. That’s how Carlinos operated; they did what they darn well wanted, no matter how it affected other people. Bitter memories surfaced of her father standing up to Santo Carlino, but Rena shoved them out of her mind for the moment. She couldn’t go there now.

Next came thoughts of her conversation with Mr. Zelinski at the bank. He’d been kind to her, confessing his hands were tied. She wouldn’t be getting the loan she desperately needed. She wouldn’t be able to pay her employees. Purple Fields was doomed.

Her head began to pound. She felt faint. Though her appetite had been destroyed today, she admitted that she really should eat something. For the baby’s sake, if nothing else. She couldn’t afford to sink into depression. It wouldn’t be good for the unborn child she carried.

As quick as her body allowed, she got ready, cringing at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was drawn, her hair wild, her clothes rumpled. She washed her face, applied a light tint of blush to her cheeks, some lipstick to her lips and brushed her hair back into a clip at the

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