Wished

Prologue

Max

This has to be a joke. I can’t think of any other explanation. Exactly one minute ago my life was perfectly logical, perfectly ordered. Everything made sense.

I knew exactly where I fit, who I was, and what I was doing.

The world made sense.

In fact, for most of my life the world has made sense.

For example, I’m Max Barone, son, brother, and friend. Born in Geneva, Switzerland. Still live in Geneva, Switzerland, in the same drafty chateau generations of Barones have lived in. Boarding school in Britain. University in Paris. Took over the family business after my parents and brother were careless enough to die on me.

I’m often friendly, usually charming, and sometimes cynical—but only about relationships.

I’m single by choice. Well, perhaps not entirely by choice. But when your best friend turns down your proposal and marries another man, you tell yourself it’s by choice.

In the world I live in, everyone knows exactly who I am, what I do, and what I want.

Which is why this has to be a joke .

What else can I believe when my entirely sane, incredibly competent assistant of ten years calls to say something like this?

But just in case ... “Say that again?”

I lean forward and watch the red light on the phone’s speaker. The black office phone sits unobtrusively on my dark walnut desk—a massive antique piece my father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather, all the way back to my great-great, too many greats grandfather, sat behind to run the esteemed Barone Jewelry International (as far back to when it wasn’t international, it was just a man with a dream).

The desk matches the office. Dark burgundy walls, heavy navy curtains framing the view of Lake Geneva, the Jet D’eau sending up its endless spray of water, and the tour boats gliding past. Even with the late morning sun reflecting off the lake and the cloudless pale blue sky the office is still drafty, cool, and dark. It’s always been dark.

Dark navy-and-burgundy rug, dark leather chairs, a wall of shelves full of dark leather-bound books. The decades-old scent of tobacco and cognac sunk into the walls and furnishings. It smells just like my father, and probably just like his father before him.

Sometimes I think about gutting the office, airing it out and filling it with light. I’d paint it white, put the behemoth furnishings in storage, open the windows to feel the breeze and hear the gulls on the water, the hum of the traffic, and the tour boat announcers as they pass . . .

“On your right you’ll see Barone Jewelry, the largest family-owned jeweler in the world. Note the four-foot circumference engagement ring above the door. It’s covered in twenty-four-karat gold leaf. And the glittering stone? That’s the largest crystal gemstone in the world, a foot and a half in diameter, 315,000 karats, with 124 facets. Ladies, if you’re looking for a husband, Maximillian Barone is quite the catch.”

I can hear them when they sail by. Their script is always the same. I took a tour boat cruise once with Fiona and her daughter Mila. While two dozen people snapped photos of my building and bet on which one of them would “catch me,” Fiona covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

None of them would “catch me.” The only woman I’d ever wanted to marry was Fiona. She was perfect for me. We’d been friends for years, we trusted each other, we would never hurt each other. That was all I ever wanted.

No passion. No sparks. A heated love affair is my idea of hell. They’re both hot, and they both will torment you to no end.

There isn’t anything I want or need from that horrific state called l’amour.

If I ever said to a woman, “Tu es ma joie de vivre—” (You are the joy of my life.)

If I ever claimed, “Tu es l'amour de ma vie—” (You are the love of my life.)

—something would be deeply, desperately wrong with me.

That may surprise some. Surely a man who makes a living from selling engagement rings and expensive jewelry would be a connoisseur of passion. An aficionado of desire. An arbiter of amour.

Right.

Well, if this office is any indicator, the allure of romantic love doesn’t extend beyond the showroom. The glittering light of all those diamonds never quite penetrates this office. Which is fine by me.

I leave the décor of the office the way it is to remind myself exactly why I feel the way I do.

No passion. No heated love. No wife.

Life works better when you aren’t carelessly tossing out landmines to step on.

Which is why I ask my assistant to repeat what she said. “Come again?”

She clicks her tongue in annoyance. “Your wife is here to see you. Shall I send her in?”

That’s what I thought she said.

Just to be clear, I do not have a wife.

I’ve never had a wife.

I’ve never even had a fiancée.

Asking Fiona to marry me was the only time I’ve ever considered that state of matrimonial bliss everyone is so keen to dive headlong into. Half of them (at least) end up bashing their brains out when they finally hit bottom, but they keep trying, poor fools. I’m not interested.

Which is why I say with complete authority, “I don’t have a wife, as you know, although I appreciate the levity.” Perhaps Agathe is having a late mid-life crisis and has decided to try her hand at stand-up comedy. “I need the Swiss National Bank report sent?—”

“Mr. Barone,” Agathe says, and for the first time in our history together she sounds on edge, “Mrs. Barone is here and she is quite distressed. Shall I send her in?”

I lean back in my chair and raise my eyebrows, looking around the office as if I’ll find an answer in the bookshelves or the nineteenth-century oil paintings, or perhaps hiding behind the heavy navy curtains. There’s no answer, just a cold draft seeping through the stone walls, and a long, blaring horn from a truck stuck in traffic down below.

“Agathe,” I say carefully, twisting my family’s signet ring on my fourth finger. “Enough. I’m not married. I have no wife. Let’s move on. For the conference call at one, I need the?—”

“Your wife. She’s here!” Agathe hisses.

I jerk back and then turn to look at the heavy oak door to my office. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and suddenly I know something isn’t quite right.

Agathe isn’t joking.

She’s never joked before. I only thought ... maybe ... but no, she isn’t joking.

Her desk is right outside my door. Which means, there’s a woman right outside my door that Agathe believes is my wife.

Fifteen feet away, twenty at most, is a woman claiming to be my wife.

I concentrate on the door as if I can see through it. I can’t, but I swear there’s something in the air. Not the ever-present tobacco and cognac scent. Not the dark, oppressive chill of my father’s legacy. Not even the feeling of loneliness and aloneness that has sat heavy on my chest since Fiona turned down my proposal. It’s a different feeling.

It’s almost like when someone whispers and you can almost, but not quite, make out the words; all you have to do is lean a little closer to them and you’ll be fine. I can hear that indistinct murmur and I’m compelled to move closer. To hear the words.

In fact, it seems imperative that I hear them.

I lean forward in my chair, placing my hands on my cool desk. I watch the door, certain that any second it will burst open.

Yet that’s absurd.

To get to the business offices of Barone Jewelry you have pass security, take the stairs or the elevator, pass reception, and then pass Agathe. There isn’t any chance an unknown and uninvited guest would turn up and knock down my door.

Yet that’s exactly what seems to be happening.

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. It’s time to put a stop to this. “Agathe. If there is a woman claiming to be my wife in my offices, I recommend you remove her. Or I will.”

There’s a shocked gasped, and my previously unflappable assistant says in a tight voice, “This being your seventh wedding anniversary, I would expect you’d be happy to see her. Or did you forget an anniversary gift?”

Wedding Anniversary?

My seventh wedding anniversary?

Something is wrong here. Very, very wrong.

I suspect it’s that Agathe has lost her grip on reality.

“This is the anniversary for wool. Or is it wood? Which gift is it?” Agathe asks, and then there’s the clatter of typing through the speaker as if she’s looking up the answer.

What do you do when someone slips out of reality so quickly and completely? How did it happen? Is it that I’ve been working her too hard? I’ve been pulling sixteen-hour days for the past month and Agathe has been staying late too. Is that it? Does she need a holiday?

“Agathe?”

“What?” she asks, distracted, apparently, by finding a wool hat or a wooden bowl for my “wife.” “What? Shall I send your wife in?” She says “your wife” with steely censure.

So, yes. She’s lost her mind.

“No. Send her away.”

I’ll look into booking a spa trip for Agathe. A relaxing two weeks in Chamonix should clear her head.

I’ve moved on, brushed off the odd exchange and ignored the strange feeling buzzing over me. I’ve turned my attention back to the upcoming call with our Canadian diamond supplier when Agathe says tetchily, “I wouldn’t have come to the wedding if I’d known you’d treat her this shabbily. I have a mind to quit.” There’s a scrape as she covers the phone and says in a softer voice, “I apologize, Mrs. Barone. He says he won’t see you.”

A soft, feminine voice murmurs a response, her words indistinguishable through the phone line. Yet, the soft edges of her voice seep through the door, a gentle caress of indistinct words hitting me right in the gut.

I can’t make out a single word, but the sound of her voice nearly doubles me over. I recognize it, like someone who’s never heard the rush of a waterfall still recognizes the roaring sound when they’re finally standing in front of the cascading water, the cool mist abrading their skin.

I’m short of breath, dizzy, feeling almost as if I’ve swan-dived out of the window and bashed my head into the ground.

I pull myself back from the husky, mellow notes of the woman’s voice and cling to what Agathe said.

“My wedding?”

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“You said you came to my wedding?”

Agathe’s worse off than I thought if she thinks she was at my wedding.

She gives an angry scoff. “Of course I did. So did all the employees. So did half this city. What of it, if you aren’t going to see your own wife on your anniversary? I wouldn’t have bought you those fancy silver salt and pepper shakers. I would’ve bought cheap pewter ones if I’d known you’d turn away your own wife. Shameful.”

“Are you feeling all right?” I ask carefully.

I glance out the window, checking to make sure the sky is still blue, the buildings are still rooted to the ground, and the sun is still shining.

“He asked if I’m feeling all right,” she says to the mystery woman waiting outside my door.

The woman murmurs again, and at her voice a warmth works its way over me. All I want to do is lean forward—or better yet, walk across the dark confines of my office and press my ear to the solid oak door so I can feel the vibration of her words.

It’s bad. I’m nearly as bad off as Agathe.

“I’m feeling better than you will be. I put your anniversary in your calendar, didn’t I? Not that I should need to,” Agathe says.

She what ?

I jerk forward and click open my calendar. There it is, two words.

Wedding Anniversary.

My breath is hot and tight in my lungs. I forget about my afternoon calls, about the aloneness I’ve felt since Fiona left for her tropical island. I forget about everything except the reminders in my calendar.

I scroll back, marveling, alternating between disbelief and anger. The reminders span seven years.

It’s all there. Dates with Mrs. Barone. Opera with Mrs. Barone. Dinners with Mrs. Barone. Flowers for Mrs. Barone. Jewelry design meetings for surprises for Mrs. Barone. Weekend trips to Paris with Mrs. Barone.

When I’m done scrolling through seven years of this fake calendar marriage, I have one question. Who in the hell is Mrs. Barone?

No, two questions.

Who in the hell is Mrs. Barone, and how did she convince my assistant to alter my calendar?

There’s nothing to it—I’m going to have to see this woman. I’ll confront her, end this farce, and then make sure she never comes around again.

“Send her in,” I say curtly, clicking off the call.

I stride around my desk and stand on the old, dark rug in the darkest, most shadowed spot in the room. It’s something I learned from my father. Always face an opponent standing up, preferably from the shadows.

I face the door, the chill draft blowing over me. It scrapes against my hot skin and I let out a calming breath. The sound of traffic is still there, an almost imperceptible hum. Although it’s not loud enough to smother the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

This is nonsense.

I don’t get nervous. At least not when facing a lone lying woman in my own office. But, there’s something more happening. I can feel it.

I’m still compelled to lean forward, to hear that whispered breath. There’s something happening. Something that’s about to happen, or something that already has.

The brass door handle turns slowly, and then the thick door swings open, sweeping over the rug. The bright light from reception spills into the dark office and the woman cautiously steps into the room.

Hell.

Hell.

I don’t know her.

I’ve never seen her before in my life.

I would remember if I had.

I’m swept under and carried along, a flash flood crashing over me. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I’ve never wanted to. But even though I’ve never felt it, I know exactly what it is.

There’s a roaring in my ears. The room is fuzzy and watercolor-soft, the woman the only point of vibrancy. My blood pulses, my heart thudding a hard, painful beat, and I clench my jaw against the almost overwhelming urge to walk forward, take this woman in my arms, and kiss her. There’s a freckle over her lips that’s irresistible. I want to taste it and?—

Hell.

It’s hot in here. I’m sweating. I know exactly what this is.

The woman is beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, but beautiful like a fallen angel. Her eyes are wide. Dark blue, almost night-sky black. Her hair is wild, black and curly. It falls around her, messy and bed-rumpled, and all I want to do is run my hands through it and pull her close. Her mouth is cherry-red and tempting.

She closes the door behind her, and when she does, a cool sweep of air brushes over me, bringing with it a familiar scent. She smells just like my freshly laundered bedsheets.

A bolt of lust hits me hard.

Who is this woman?

Strangely, she’s barefoot, wearing only a white button-up shirt with a black trench coat thrown over it.

Wait a moment.

That’s my white button-up shirt. That’s my black trench coat.

I narrow my eyes.

And that— that —is my grandmother’s diamond ring on her left ring finger.

A clamp squeezes my rib cage and a fire rages through me. It’s an inferno, and I burn.

I don’t know if it’s a response to the nearness of this woman or the fact that she’s wearing my grandmother’s ring.

As of this morning, that ring was locked in my safe, hidden behind the painting of Mont Blanc, secure in my library at home. There is no reason, no way, she could have that ring.

Yet she does.

Whoever this woman is, she isn’t getting out of this unscathed.

I hate the passion burning through me. I hate the fiery inferno of it all. I especially hate that I want to thrust this woman against the cold wood of my desk—no words, just mouth, hands, teeth—and bend her over the hard surface, capture her beneath me, flip up the tails of the white shirt conveniently covering her bare thighs, and drive into her until she’s coming around me.

I can picture it as if it’s already happened. I can feel the tight heat of her wrapped around me, hear her throaty cries, taste the sweet, salty taste of her. I feel her like she’s my own personal cataclysm.

I clench my teeth. Mercilessly slice through the image of my fingers digging into her hips, her hands gripping the desk, her desperate, throaty cries as I plunge into her. I thrust aside the image and douse the fire ravaging me with its heat.

I shove it aside.

I don’t do passion.

I don’t do this .

A woman like this is dangerous. She’s a liar, and she’s a thief, and she’s trying to take advantage of me.

When I acknowledge that she’s a liar the clamp around my rib cage loosens. I can breathe again.

All I have to do is sort this out, get rid of her, and this feeling will go away.

Get rid of her. Get rid of this feeling.

The woman takes a small, hesitant step forward, her bare feet sinking into the rug. The shirttails whisper against her legs, letting out a soft rustling noise. I can smell her again, the bedsheet scent, and I steel myself against it.

She’s cautious, careful, her eyes wide and innocent. I don’t buy the act. I’ve seen enough wolves in sheep’s clothing to know not everyone is as innocent as they pretend.

She lifts her hand when she’s close and the small bit of sunlight streaming through the window catches and lights the diamond ring.

She watches the stiffening of my shoulders and the hardness in my expression, and then she says in a soft, hesitant voice, “Max?”

What does she expect me to do?

“Who are you?” My voice comes out cold, hard, rough-edged.

Her face loses what little color it had, and I don’t exactly blame her. I know what I look like when I’m confronting a thieving liar. Dark, hard, cold. Not someone you want to mess around with.

I won’t take my tone back though. No matter how beautiful this woman is, and no matter what sort of fantasies are burning through me, she isn’t anyone I’m going to befriend.

“Well?” I ask sharply.

Then the woman surprises me. She lifts her chin, and instead of cautious and pleading, she looks angry. “You don’t recognize me? You don’t know me?”

She’s shocked. Irritated. Angered.

But why should I know her?

“Should I?”

Her face flushes, her cheeks turning bright red. “Max, you’ve known me for years?—”

That gets my attention. “Years? Who the hell are you?”

She gasps, then she clenches her fists and takes a hard step forward. “I’m your wife. You arrogant prick.”

She’s close, and I fight the urge to kiss her. Instead I say with sardonic emphasis, “My wife ?”

We both know that isn’t true.

It’s an irrefutable fact.

We aren’t married.

But then something unbelievable happens.

I’m slammed with a sudden cracking, wallop-to-the-head, stunned, room-spinning, dizzy realization. And suddenly, I know—I know —the erotic, blood-pumping image I had of bending this woman over my desk and driving into her until I was out of my mind with need wasn’t my horny, fevered imagination. It wasn’t my imagination at all.

It was a memory.

A memory .

I’m ... married.

And this woman?

She’s my wife.