“Me?” Her voice was little more than a squeak.
“Of course. You’re meant for it, Synnamon. Silas couldn’t see it, but he trained you for the job despite himself. You’ve shown it in a dozen ways. You saw immediately that Nick wasn’t right for the job—”
“That,” she said wryly, “was mostly because I was jealous.”
“Still, you recognized the fact long before I did. And you told me exactly how to handle Luigi.”
“True. I’m apparently only blind where you’re concerned.”
Conner grinned. “And you took care of things while I was in Asia. Carol kept me posted.”
“You were thinking of this then?”
“Oh, yes—until I came home to the coldest hello a man ever got.”
Synnamon bit her lip.
“Followed by the warmest night of our marriage. That’s the thing that hurt worst, actually—to think that you could hold me like that, make love with me, then leave that icy little note and walk away.”
Tears were stinging her eyes. “I thought it would kill me to give you up.”
“Good.” He kissed her softly. “Remember that—so you’re never tempted to try it again.”
Her tears overflowed, and gently he kissed each one away. After a couple of minutes, however, Synnamon started laughing and tried to push him away.
His arms tightened around her. “What’s the matter? Am I tickling you?”
“No—but you have mascara all over you.” She traced the line of his lips with her fingertip.
Conner frowned. “I thought you wore the kind that won’t come off.”
“Well, you guaranteed it against water aerobics, rainstorms and lifeboat rescues—not tears of joy. Obviously, we’ll need more tests. Since I’m the boss now—”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. “And just as obviously, we can’t make an official appearance at the ball with mascara all over us.”
“Oh. That is a problem, isn’t it? I have a room upstairs.”
“An inspired idea if I ever heard one.” Conner’s lips were against her throat, and his breath teased the pulse point under her ear. “You know, I like your suggestion of putting a bed in the president’s office, too.”
“Even if it’s a baby crib?”
“Well, I suppose it’ll do for now.” He drew her closer yet.
A couple of minutes later, Synnamon emerged from the most thorough kiss she’d ever dreamed of and murmured, “Morea will never forgive me when I tell her this.”
“Of course she will. Who’ll sell all the tickets for the Valentine’s Ball next year if she holds a grudge?”
Synnamon laughed. “But we were going to have the perfect divorce. What a pity we had to go and mess it up!”
“But you’re wrong, my love,” Conner said firmly. “We’re still going to have the perfect divorce.”
She pulled away from him, eyes wide with shock.
He tugged a long-stemmed red rose out of the vine-draped trellis, folded her fingers around the stem and raised her hand to his lips. “Because,” he said, “the perfect divorce for us is… no divorce at all.”
And as he drew her gently into his arms, Synnamon smiled and agreed.
* * *
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