At first she’d been constantly on her guard, wondering when or where he’d show up … for she was sure he would show up. She’d seen that look of determination in his eye when he’d spoken of the special something he’d found, and her feminine intuition told her to beware. At the start there was anger, anger that Oliver had deceived her, anger that she’d fallen for his ruse. And there was the hurt of betrayal. Yes, they had had a special something, but it had been built on delusion and was now destroyed. The pity of it was that she’d wanted it, too, that special something. She couldn’t deny it any more than she could deny that the mere thought of Oliver set her heart to beating with a vigor it lacked at other times. Oh, yes, she’d wanted it. Before she’d ever gone to St. Barts she’d been aware of a lack in her life. She’d been restless and searching. Hadn’t she debated going back to school, or worse, joining the corporation? But either of those options would have been stopgap measures for an ailment that went far deeper.
