“It seems early for movies. Perhaps later?”

  He inclined his head.

  “I’m not prepared to swim, and I know nothing about pool.”

  “There are game boards,” he said. “If you like, you can pick one, and I’ll trounce you.”

  She smiled, amused. “Atlas wins all. I’m up for it. Where do we find them?”

  He led her from the breakfast table to a room with a series of small round tables. A floor to ceiling cabinet on the left held a great number of games, some of them for children. She pulled out one and fingered the writing on the worn, cardboard cover. “Atlas is #1” was written in wobbly ink.

  “What’s this?”

  His chuckle in her ear warmed her senses.

  “My opinion of myself at age eight.”

  She glanced back at him. “Eight to thirty?” She didn’t mean it to sound judgmental, and he didn’t take it that way, laughing.

  “Do you blame me? I was the apple of my parents’ eye. They couldn’t have another child, medical reasons, so I was it. It’s also what holds me to a higher standard.”

  She slid the box back into the cabinet and selected another, the colorful graphic on the lid bringing back a rush of memories. “I used to play this, years ago.”

  In her teens, one girl in a crowd of other girls, all in their pajamas for a sleepover.

  “What’s that look for?” Atlas asked.

  She looked up at him. “The innocence of childhood, being a girl, never kissed, with no clue what was involved in it.”

  He took the game from her, setting it on a nearby table, and turned her around with one hand. “Who was he?”

  “My first kiss?”

  He nodded and pressed his thumb to her lips. “Who did you share that moment with?” He held his hand there for a moment, then lowered it to his side.

  “Was nothing terrific,” she replied, the salty flavor of Atlas’s skin on her tongue. “A boy named Eric. He and I were both as nervous as a cat in a dog pound. In the end, it was slobbery, and, afterward, we avoided each other.”

  Meghan reversed, taking a seat at the table, and lifted the lid of the game. Asking him about his first kiss was out of the question. He probably didn’t want it brought up, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  However, he surprised her. Leaning his elbows on the table, he suspended his chin in his woven fingers. “Girl named Sheila. I was twelve. I wanted to know if I felt anything.”

  The game pieces jabbed pointed edges into her hand.

  “Did you?” she asked, hesitant.

  “No. And not with anyone after that either. I’ve been searching my entire life for a connection. Then I met you.”

  Raising one hand to his cheek, she ran her fingertips across the stubble. “All these fine words, and now, I don’t know what to believe.”

  He captured her fingers, sandwiching them between his, and their hands warmed. “Meghan …” His voice was measured, his tone rich. “I need you to believe me. I can’t do this unless you know I’m sincere. I … I’m in love with you.”

  Her breath fled with the flutter of her heart. She hadn’t pictured it like this. In her head, he would whisper it hot in her ear during the crest of some magical moment. That seemed more like him. But this was innocent, pure. Gone was all the bluster and ego, replaced by earnestness.

  “I don’t say that to pressure you, but to ease the weight of it.”

  Weight. Why would loving her be a weight? She didn’t ask, something else he’d said rising in her mind.

  I can’t do this …

  Do what? They were under no burden were they? No one forced them to do anything.

  “I believe you,” she said. She nipped her bottom lip. “But, Atlas, if there’s something I need to know …”

  He didn’t respond right away. His face flushed, his cheeks reddening. He tightened his grip on her hand, then just as quick released it. “You need to know my mind won’t change,” he said. “How I feel today is how I’ll feel tomorrow.”

  He’d avoided her question. She wouldn’t add to whatever strain he had. Offering a friendly smile, she wiggled her hand free and reached for the game pieces.

  “You say that,” she began. “But when I win, your mind will change.”

  He chuckled and sat back. “So you think ….”

  He should have told her. The moment was right; she hadn’t run when he admitted his feelings. What had stopped him? Fear. To lose her after he’d come this far would almost destroy him, and that had sealed his lips.

  The effect of his actions as the day waned, however, became more and more huge. Each breath he made seemed impossible, each word spoken leaden. Come nightfall, he was miserable, so he made a decision. He’d do it in the morning. There wouldn’t be another time anyhow. He had to tell her before they returned.

  He tossed and turned in bed all night, anxious, finally nodding off in the wee hours. First thing the next morning, he made his way to the salon. Seeing no sight of her, he crossed to the windows, rolling his thoughts over in his head. He’d make it simple; tell her he wanted her as his wife, but understood if she wasn’t ready. He’d leave it to her choice. The family would simply have to accept the results.

  His hands in his pockets, he stared at the endless expanse of empty water, the horizon miles away, and shook his head. Something wasn’t right. If they were almost home, there should be coastline, birds.

  He switched sides, staring out the opposite direction, and his unrest grew. Where were they? And what was going on? Anger boiled upward.

  His shoes pounding the passage, he headed for the wheel house, shoving the door open hard. The pilot, a man in the family’s employ for some twenty plus years, looked up from his post.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Atlas snapped. “We should be within sight of the city by now.”

  The old man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well, now, I … I had other instructions.”

  “Other instructions from whom?”

  He knew the answer, but refused to believe it. They wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t take his future and rearrange it to suit their purposes.

  “Speak!” he demanded.

  The old man rubbed two fingers down his throat. “Y-your dad. He said you needed more time with the lady, to keep going south.”

  Heat flashed across Atlas’s skin, spreading outward into his hands. Frustrated, he swung one hand toward the wall, pounding his knuckles into the upper cabinet. The door rattled hard.

  “You turn this thing around,” he said, “or I’ll have your job.”

  The old man hurried forward. “Yes sir, I-i will.”

  Atlas whirled, fury burning in his chest, and made to leave. But Meghan gazed back at him from the hallway, confusion coloring her cheeks. His fervor chilled.

  “Atlas? Where … where are we?” she asked.

  He sagged. “Out to sea.”

  She looked past him at the old man and the miles of water. “Out to sea? Why?”

  He stepped into the hallway. “If we could go somewhere, I’ll explain everything.”

  But what was there to say that wouldn’t sound wrong? He’d blown it, and as soon as she heard the truth, she’d want to leave … and take everything he loved with him.

  CHAPTER 8

  Out to sea. Meghan wasn’t sure what that meant except that they weren’t where they should be, and it had something to do with Atlas’s father and whatever secret he’d been hiding. She steeled herself, unsure what to expect, folding her legs beneath her on a couch in the salon.

  Atlas looked as if he’d swallowed paint thinner, and part of her wanted to reach out to him. The other part didn’t dare, for fear he’d break, he looked that fragile.

  He heaved a great sigh and hung his head, one hand scooping through his hair. “Grandfather Bellamy liked a joke.”

  She shifted slightly. “Your grandfather?”

  Atlas clenched the back of his skull. “Yes, my dad’s dad. He was always doing something odd. His will was no exception.”

  She couldn’t follow his train of thought and so didn’t try. How this trail lead back to her, surely, he’d explain. “Go on,” she said.

  Bent over at the waist, he pressed his elbows into his knees, folding his hands together. “He left his entire fortune to me with a stipulation that ten million of it be divided up to various charities … by my wife.”

  A sharp pain stabbed her in the gut. His wife. He didn’t have a wife. Yet that alone wasn’t a huge thing, was it? If he married in the future, it’d fulfill the will.

  Atlas turned his eyes her direction. “He put a date on it. She has a year from now to do so. The money goes wherever she wants it to.”

  “Wait.” Meghan focused her thoughts. “Did you know this when we met?”

  He shook his head. “Not until after the charity dinner. But let me finish. It gets worse.”

  How much worse could it be? It explained the strain he’d been under. All this time, he’d known what was expected of him.

  Her qualms returned. How had knowing affected his behavior? How much of what he’d said or done had been out of family obligation? Unhappy, she frowned. But then, his voice returned, and the look in his eyes. He loved her. That was real and something Atlas hadn’t expected. He’d even refused to even kiss her. Why? So she wouldn’t think bad of him when she knew the truth.

  “He put a date on my marriage as well,” Atlas continued. “I have only five weeks left or every dime goes to ridiculous organizations involving insects and the discovery of Atlantis. I’m sure he thought it was funny at the time, that by age thirty, I’d have someone. He was wrong. All I’ve ever done is spend money I didn’t make, consort with horrible, awful, gold-hungry women, and now, I have to look into your eyes, the first woman I’ve ever respected, and admit how low I’ve become.”

  Atlas blew out a breath. “I can’t expect you to do this for me. It hasn’t been long enough.” He pushed to his feet and began to pace. “How could he have ever left so much responsibility to me? To me?”

  He halted in place. “Do you know what else he said? He said he prayed about it. He prayed I’d have a wife who’d know exactly where the money should go. Well, he didn’t pray hard enough because …”

  “Atlas.”

  He hushed. His back to her, his hands at his waist, he stared outward. She rose and came up behind him.

  “If you hate me, I understand,” he said. “I’m all the things you’ve ever read and more.”

  Circling in front of him, she brought her eyes to his, tilting her head back. “I hated you when we met, hated the rowdy party-boy image you had. I still do. In fact, I hate it even more now because the man I’ve come to know isn’t like that at all. He’s generous and kind, and very tolerant where his family is concerned.”

  Atlas gave a weak smile.

  “None of this was in your control … or mine,” she said. “I admit it’s a lot to take in, that as much as I love you …”

  The words left her lips and Atlas reached for her, one hand curving over her sleeve. “Meghan …”

  She repeated the phrase, confident. “I love you, Atlas Bellamy, but I’m not sure what to do with that or how to process such a great responsibility … if you’re asking me to do what I think you’re asking?”

  He pulled her against him, and she dropped her cheek to his chest.

  “I’m asking you to marry me,” he said. “But I won’t make you do what you don’t want to, regardless of the cost to my family. If the money goes to waste, it goes to waste. I have no pride left in it.”

  She craned her head back. “But you should. There isn’t anything wrong with being who you are. I’m not enamored of the wealth. I could care less about the image. But Bellamy is your name, don’t cast it aside.”

  He smiled briefly, the expression fading quickly. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.

  She pulled in a breath. “I’m going to make you a promise. You said there are five weeks left for you to be married. Before that time ends, I’ll give you an answer … But either way, I’ll love you exactly the same.”

  He smiled softly. “That’s all I want.”

  She returned her cheek to his chest.

  Love, she’d always thought, was a simple, perfect thing. You found it and knew instantly how to react and what to do. But Atlas loved her, and she loved him. Yet that alone wasn’t enough to bring them together. Not name or family or any amount of money could create a perfect union. It took something greater. It took faith.

  What beliefs Atlas didn’t have, she now saw she didn’t either. For all her moral stance, she’d lived her life as empty as he had. Only in her eyes, she held more guilt. She’d heard the sermons then gone home and given them no more thought.

  She’d also developed an attitude about anyone outside of her little world, keeping herself clean more to protect her own image than to live right. Miss Super Saint. Her motive was rotten, that small bit of decay spoiling the entire basket of apples she’d polished for others to see.

  At the end of week four, she was certain of her choice. Swallowing hard, she made the drive, and a knot in her gut, raised her fist over his front door and knocked.

  “Can you get that Navy?” Atlas called across the living room.

  “Yes, sir.” Navy’s even footsteps left the room, disappearing around the far corner.

  The knock came again, followed by the snap of the door opening.

  A faint, familiar voice shoved his heart into his throat. Meghan. She’d said she’d return, but he’d refused to count the days, refused to even talk about it with his parents, who had eventually let the issue go.

  Prayer on his lips, Atlas rose from the couch, folding his newspaper, and walked cautiously toward the entrance. Several feet from the opening, Navy appeared, ushering Meghan into the room.

  She was as beautiful as she’d ever been, more so even because of her absence. He’d deliberately given her space and time, for the first couple weeks occupying his mind exercising or reading. The next couple had stretched long, and he’d paced a lot. But he’d determined, in the end, she’d make her choice without any pressure from him or the Bellamys. Admittedly it’d been hard, and he’d missed her incredibly.

  “Miss Moralez to see you, sir,” Navy said, solemnly.

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  Meghan smiled and emotion filled his chest. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  She stepped forward, and the fragrance of her swirled around him. He inhaled it, drunk on her presence in the room.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” she said. Taking his hand, she raised it to her cheek.

  He turned it over, cupping her face in his palm.

  “I had a hard time coming here,” she began. “I had to know what we have is what we need, not just what we want, and I wasn’t sure.”

  She wasn’t sure? How he’d prayed she would be, and he’d waited for the answer the man had told him would come. He’d expected something tangible, something more concrete, but discovered the answer was, for the most part, patience. He’d never waited much for anything. If he wanted it, he bought it. If he needed a companion, he asked and he had one. But Meghan required patience, and that was the hardest thing of all.

  “I’m sure now. Ask me again.”

  A hand wrapped violent around his chest and squeezed. Temporarily overcome, he reached for her, and his restraint crumbled. Eager, greedy, he pressed his mouth to hers, and her lips parted, the heat of her breath urging him on. She gave a small grunt.

  “Meghan Moralez, will you marry me?” he whispered hot against her skin.

  He dropped his mouth to the side of her throat, and her hand rose, her fingers finding purchase in his hair.

  “Yes.” One word, given in a single breath.

  His heart soared.

  She pulled back, a smile on her face. “Yes,” she repeated. “I’ve never wanted something so badly in my life.”

  He tucked her against him, one hand in the small of her back. What she wanted, he wanted worse. He’d had things, fame, and prestige, all of them apt to fade away in time and none of them imparting any spiritual value. But she was priceless, a treasure given to him with only one cost, himself, and it was worth that. He was greater by becoming less.

  “Should we call someone?” she asked. “Your parents might want to come.”

  He shook his head. “Tomorrow. We’ll have dinner; invite your mother and aunt. Today is ours.”

  She tilted her face upward, and he brushed his lips against hers, savoring the sweet taste of them on his tongue. “And tonight, something we do … alone.”

  Six months later

  Meghan signed the last legal form and tossed the pen onto the desk. “I’m done. Every last dime is accounted for, and my hand hurts.”

  Children’s hospital, several cancer organizations, including her aunt’s, and a society encouraging the arts in schools. Going through the lengthy list and deciding who and how much had been mind-altering.

  Atlas laughed. Dragging her out of her chair, he spun her in his arms and kissed her. She capitulated, weak-kneed.

  Their wedding had shocked the society pages, the story of his grandfather’s will becoming front page news. Atlas had laughed it off, declining any comment, then been hailed a hero for his actions in giving away such a generous fortune.

  Their life since then had become a fairytale.

  He bought her things – expensive things – and showered her with attention. He supported her mother and her aunt. He was a faithful, generous husband. Amorous. She couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t spend enough moments in his arms.

  Yet it wasn’t any of that, which made her love him.

  Instead, it was the spark in his step when she walked by his side, the hum in his voice when she entered the room, the look in his eye when he said her name.

  “I love you,” he breathed. “Have I told you that today?”

  “Only twice,” she said.

  He took her hand and led her backwards toward the bedroom. “Then here, let me tell you again.”