Rowan put her head in her hands. It wasn’t just Natasha she was upset about. It was something far more trivial: heartbreak. But it was ridiculous. Of course James had cheated on her. She’d had a front-row seat for his cheating dozens of times. She’d always laughed at those stupid girls who thought there was something real between them. But she was the stupidest girl of all. She’d thought he’d changed, that Poppy had made him different. But he’d cheated on Poppy with her. What else had he done?
Taking a deep breath, she rolled her chair backward, opened a file drawer, and found a folder marked “Saybrook–Kenwood.” Inside was the prenuptial agreement between Poppy and James that she’d helped draft years ago.
She leafed through it slowly. Sure enough, James would receive nothing of Poppy’s estate if they divorced. Not a cent of her massive trust. Not a dollar of her sizable earnings as Saybrook’s president. Rowan had argued with Poppy on this when they were putting the prenup together. “This is overly brutal,” she’d warned Poppy.
Still, Poppy had been firm: the family had worked too hard for any of their fortune to just be given away. Rowan had been the bearer of bad news to James, but he’d taken it well. “I’m not with Poppy for her money,” he said simply.
But if Poppy died—when Poppy died—he got it all. It wasn’t unthinkable that a cheating husband would want to make a new life for himself. It wasn’t implausible that someone would do anything to make that a reality, either.
Would James?
Rowan rubbed her eyes. Of course he wouldn’t. Besides, James had an alibi: Rowan’s apartment. She’d left before he had, and by the time she got downtown, Poppy had already jumped.
The air-conditioning whirred to life, blowing a stray piece of paper off the vent. Rowan opened her e-mail and tried to work, but her mind was still humming. She felt unsatisfied.
She returned to that first morning she and James were together. What if James hadn’t remained at her apartment, as she’d thought? What if he’d slipped out when she wasn’t looking? She’d stopped for coffee that morning. Waited in that long line, then ate in the park. He could have left without her seeing. James could have jumped up as soon as she left, thrown on clothes, and gotten to Saybrook’s in time. It was possible.
Awful, unthinkable, but possible.
She reached for the phone on her desk and dialed the number to her apartment building, her heart knocking against her ribs. Harvey, her doorman, answered in a chipper voice, and after Rowan identified herself, she asked, “I’m wondering if you could look up when someone left my apartment on a certain morning. You keep surveillance tapes, yes?”
“Of course,” Harvey said. “Which day would you like me to check?”
Rowan gave the date of Poppy’s death. If Harvey knew its significance, he gave no indication. “And who are we looking for, around what time?” he asked.
“A tall man, midthirties,” Rowan told him. “Wavy, sort of longish hair. Striped shirt. Dark jeans. Sometime in the morning, after six thirty.”
Harvey said he’d look into it and call her back, asking for a number he could reach her at. She gave her cell. Then she hung up, pressing the receiver deep into the cradle, her mind at a standstill.
“Knock knock?”
Rowan shot up. James stood in the doorway.
“W-what are you doing here?” she sputtered, jumping so abruptly she knocked over an empty coffee mug.
James leaned down to pick it up as it rolled across the carpet. “I want to explain.”
Rowan thought of the phone conversation she’d just had—and was keenly aware of the prenup on her lap. Then something else hit her: My wife was president, James had said the last time he’d unexpectedly popped in on her in the office. They just wave me in. Had they waved him inside the morning Poppy died too? His name wouldn’t be on a sign-in sheet. There would be no evidence of him entering the building.
“Actually, I think you should leave,” she said toughly, trying to mask how shaky she felt.
James flopped on the couch. “Saybrook.”
“Don’t call me that,” Rowan almost shouted, covering her eyes. “At least not right now.”
“Rowan, I made a mistake.” He hitched forward. “I want to be with you. Really and truly. You’re who I want.”
His voice cracked. Rowan studied him more carefully. His hair was mussed, his skin was ashen, the lines around his mouth pronounced. This gave her a twinge of guilt, but then she hardened. He deserved to feel terrible. And for all she knew, it was just an act.
“The thing with Evan . . . it was a fluke,” James went on when Rowan didn’t respond. “She came by the apartment the other night to get a sweater she’d left there. We got to talking, had a couple drinks, and . . .” He puffed his cheeks and breathed out. “I don’t know how it happened. And I never meant for it to happen a second time.”
“You must have kind of meant for it to happen,” Rowan said before she could stop herself. “Because you and Evan were walking into a hotel, James. I’m not an idiot.”
James stood and walked toward her. He leaned over and placed his hand on her desk. “Tell me what we had didn’t mean something.”