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  Besides, she couldn’t allow herself to get sidetracked from the real issue here—namely, why Simon had left her at the altar. Left her without a word or a phone call or even a note.

  Evidently, sometime in the hours between his last call to her from Dallas that morning and seven o’clock that evening—the time the ceremony had been scheduled to start—he’d gotten cold feet and decided not to show.

  That was so not like Simon. He’d always been kind and sweet and unfailingly considerate of other people’s feelings.

  But then, as her mother had so helpfully pointed out earlier, when they’d been trying to decide what to do about the guests, what did she really know about him?

  Thankfully, Athena Moon had managed to restrain her I-told-you-so gloat, at least to her daughter’s face; but Penelope had known what she was thinking. What they were all thinking. Penelope was not the type of woman who could attract—let alone keep—a man, even one as unpretentious and trustworthy as Simon Decker.

  Trustworthy. Penelope sniffed. How funny was that?

  She took another long pull on the champagne bottle and then wiped her mouth on the skirt of her beautiful Carolina Herrera wedding gown. No way she could pull off a Vera Wang, her sister, Helen, had bluntly informed her the day they’d gone shopping at Neiman’s. Not unless Penelope would finally consent to having her thighs vacuumed and her breasts augmented. A chemical peel or some collagen injections wouldn’t hurt, either. After all, she was pushing thirty, and she’d never been one to take care of her skin.

  For once, Penelope hadn’t minded her sister’s disparaging suggestions because she’d been so madly, passionately, desperately in love with Simon. And secretly? The Carolina Herrera had been her favorite anyway. It was so feminine and classy and ladylike. Everything a wedding dress should be.

  She fingered the delicate embroidered organza. Too bad Simon would never see her in it.

  Looking back, Penelope supposed she should have been a little suspicious of his intentions when he’d waltzed back into her life three months ago, expecting to pick right up where they’d left off in high school.

  Which was nowhere really. Their families had been neighbors and their fathers, colleagues. But Penelope and Simon’s relationship had been mostly one-sided. She’d developed a passionate—some might say obsessive—crush on Simon while he’d barely been aware of her existence.

  And, after all, why would he? Why would anyone notice a lonely little bookworm amidst a swarm of glorious butterflies? A plain-Jane mortal dropped into a bevy of goddesses?

  Goddesses who’d had a little help, but goddesses nonetheless. Helen, with her plumped lips and Botox-treated forehead and Cassandra, with her beautifully bobbed nose. Even little Ariadne, the baby of the family, who had eschewed the Moon money and prestige to become lead singer in a local punk-rock band, had her own penchant for cosmetic enhancement. Granted, hers came by way of facial piercing and the discreet tattoo, but still, she knew how to make her mark on the world—and in the family—while Penelope simply faded into the woodwork.

  Which was, no doubt, why she was alone in her apartment on what should have been her wedding night, getting drunk on her father’s Cristal.

  Had she come on too strong? Pushed too hard? Rushed Simon into a June wedding instead of waiting for Christmas as her parents had demanded?

  Actually, Simon had rushed her. He’d wanted to elope just a month after he’d walked into the museum where she worked as assistant curator. It had been Penelope who’d insisted on waiting a whole three months so that her mother and sisters could plan the wedding they’d never dreamed of for her.

  Maybe that was it, she decided, turning up the nearly empty bottle of champagne and slugging back the dregs. Maybe her family had scared him off.

  She could certainly relate to that. Sometimes they still intimidated her with all their accomplishments and expectations and…perfection.

  Conveniently, her father, Edward Moon, was a renowned plastic surgeon whose private clinic in Houston attracted the rich and famous from all over the world. And then, of course, there was Athena, an actress turned socialite whose dinner-party invitations were among the most coveted in Houston.

  Penelope’s oldest sister, Helen, a legendary beauty queen in a state known for beauty queens, had given up a long and successful modeling career when she’d married Grayson McKenna, an ambitious entrepreneur who, by the time he’d hit thirty, had already founded several businesses including an extremely lucrative pharmaceutical company.

  Cassandra, five years older than Penelope, was the daredevil of the family. A photojournalist for a national magazine, she’d returned from a trek through the Amazonian rain forest just for Penelope’s wedding (talk about wasted miles), and Ariadne—gorgeous, quirky Ariadne—had the distinction of being the true black sheep of the family.

  Penelope, of course, now had the distinction of being the only Moon daughter ever to be jilted, let alone left at the altar. How lucky was she?

  It had been through some strange twist of fate—a rather peculiar coincidence really—that she and Simon had even reconnected in the first place. He’d been in Houston on business and had come into the Morehart one day after reading about the recent acquisition of a pair of burial masks from a small museum in Mexico City. The exhibit had received a fair amount of publicity because so many of the masks from the ancient city of Teotihuacan had been stolen by looters and were now in private collections. Only a handful had been found through scientific excavations.

  Penelope had spotted Simon that day studying the exhibit, recognized him, and had shyly reintroduced herself.

  He’d been so delighted when he found out who she was, so attentive as she’d given him a tour of the museum. And then he’d insisted on taking her to lunch and, later, to dinner. They’d spent hours catching up, and it was then that Penelope remembered his family’s rather hasty departure from River Oaks.

  His father had been offered a position in Dallas, he told her, and then his parents had split up. They’d all gone through some trying times, and judging by the way his eyes darkened, the memories were still painful. But then the shadow passed and Simon smiled. And Penelope had fallen in love right then and there.

  How could she not? They had so much in common. She’d never met anyone, outside of the museum set, who was so knowledgeable about pre-Columbian artifacts, particularly the ceremonial and dance masks in which the Morehart specialized. She and Simon read the same books, listened to the same music, and even shared the same passion for South American culture and cuisine.

  Everything about Simon was a perfect match for Penelope. A perfect fit.

  So why had he changed his mind? she wondered in despair.

  The phone rang, and she stared at it for a moment, thinking that it was probably her mother, in which case, she absolutely would not answer under any circumstances.

  Of course, it might be Simon, a little voice goaded her, and without bothering to check the caller ID, Penelope scrambled for the phone before he decided to hang up.

  “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

  “Penelope,” said her mother.

  Buzz kill, Penelope thought. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Are you okay? You sound a little strange.”

  Penelope closed one eye and stared into the empty champagne bottle, which, for some reason, she still clutched by the neck. “I’m fine. And you?”

  Her mother’s sigh was one of sorely tested patience. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Penelope. You’ve just suffered a terrible humiliation. I understand what you’re going through.”

  She couldn’t possibly. “Why are you calling, Mom?”

  “Your father and I were wondering if we should come over—”

  “No! Absolutely not. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine…” Was she slurring her words? Penelope couldn’t tell. “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand. I’m…fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” her mother insisted. “How could you be, after what you’ve b
een through? I saw your face when you realized he wasn’t going to show. You were devastated, poor baby. Absolutely destroyed, and who could blame you?”

  Was that a note of glee she heard in her mother’s voice?

  She probably wasn’t being fair, Penelope decided. After all, it wasn’t her mother’s fault that Simon had dumped her. Nor was it Athena’s fault that her third daughter possessed the sex appeal of a two-day-old mackerel, because sex appeal practically oozed from Athena’s genes.

  “When I think about what he did to you, honestly, I’d like to smack him myself. And you would think someone in his position, an accountant, for God’s sake, would be grateful for the opportunity—”

  Penelope only half listened as her mother prattled on, but she couldn’t help wondering just exactly what her mother considered Simon’s greatest sin—the fact that he’d jilted her daughter or that he was a little too conventional for such an illustrious family.

  Not for Penelope, of course. She’d thought Simon Decker the most fascinating man alive, but then, she’d actually taken the time to get to know him. Or so she’d thought.

  “Look, Mom, I appreciate your concern, but I just want to be alone right now.”

  Her mother hesitated. “You won’t do anything…rash, will you?”

  “No, Mom.” When had she ever done anything rash? The overly dramatic Cassandra might resort to histrionics now and then, and of course, Helen had elevated hissy fits to an art form. But Penelope? She’d get drunk, have a good cry and then get on with her life. Such as it was.

  “If you need anything, you’ll call?”

  “I’ll call.”

  Her motherly duties over and done with, Athena hung up in relief. She’d never been the nurturing sort, and, in spite of what she’d said, there was no way she could relate to what Penelope was going through.

  Still clinging to the empty champagne bottle, Penelope staggered out to the balcony. The night was warm and balmy, and she drew a deep breath as she turned her face skyward.

  In another month, Houston would be unbearable, but tonight the breeze blowing through the palm trees in the courtyard reminded Penelope of the tropics. And that reminded her of her honeymoon, and she started to weep.

  Impatiently, she wiped away the tears. She didn’t want to give in to her emotions. A crying jag was just too exhausting, and besides, if she allowed herself to fall apart, she’d spend the rest of the night blubbering. Right now the champagne had numbed her, and she wanted to wallow in that anesthetized cocoon for as long as she could before the real pain set in.

  A trash can clanged in the nearby alley, and Penelope started as she peered into the darkness.

  Her neighbor’s huge calico was always finding a way out of the apartment at night, and he loved to prowl the alley.

  “Freddy, is that you?” Penelope called softly.

  Normally, when he heard her voice, the cat would bound over the brick wall into the courtyard, and then climb up the trellis to her balcony where he’d noisily demand some of the treats she kept for him in her apartment.

  Tonight, however, he ignored her.

  “Freddy?” she called more insistently.

  Something moved in the courtyard, and Penelope caught her breath. Someone was down there, all right, but it wasn’t Freddy. She could just make out the silhouette of a man where he blended into the darkness.

  Then she saw Freddy. He was perched on the wall, and as Penelope watched, the man lifted his hand and scratched behind the cat’s ears.

  Freddy would never have stood for that. Not from a stranger.

  Whoever was in the courtyard was someone the cat knew and trusted.

  Penelope’s heart began to pound. “Simon?” she whispered. “Is it you?”

  He stepped back, disappearing more deeply into the shadows, and suddenly Penelope became aware of something else. For a moment, the premonition of danger was almost overwhelming.

  Then, as quickly as it came, the sensation vanished.

  But Penelope hurried back into the apartment and locked the doors just the same.

  THE PHONE AWAKENED her sometime later. Penelope had fallen asleep on her sofa, and now as she reached for the phone, she rolled off the edge of the seat and landed with a thud on the hardwood floor.

  Rubbing the back of her head, she dragged the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Penelope Moon?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Fran Draper from St. Mary’s Hospital.”

  “Who? Where?” Penelope asked thickly.

  “I’m sorry to be calling so late, but someone did try to notify you earlier. Evidently you were out and it’s hospital policy not to leave this kind of message on an answering machine…”

  Fear tightened around Penelope’s heart. What did she mean by this kind of message?

  She tried to swallow past the panic rising in her throat. “What is it? Why are you calling?”

  “Do you know a man named Simon Decker?”

  Penelope bolted upright as she clutched the phone. “Simon? What’s happened? Is he all right?”

  “Your phone number was among his personal effects.”

  Everything inside Penelope went cold and still with dread. “Oh, God. Is he—”

  “He’s alive,” the woman quickly assured her. “But it doesn’t look good. If I were you, I’d get here as quickly as possible.”

  Chapter Three

  Two months after the accident, Simon lingered in a coma. The doctors were baffled. His vitals were strong, he was off the ventilator, and the brain scans detected no severe or permanent damage. It was as if he’d fallen into a deep sleep from which he refused to awaken.

  But his very survival was a miracle in itself. Penelope had seen his car, and she honestly didn’t understand how anyone could have been pulled alive from that mangled wreckage.

  The one-vehicle accident occurred in the southbound lane of I-45 a few miles north of Houston, which seemed to indicate that Simon had been coming in from Dallas when he somehow lost control of his car.

  The vehicle, traveling at a high speed, plunged through a guardrail and rolled down an embankment before smashing into a utility pole. Simon had been taken by life flight to St. Mary’s, a level-one trauma center, where a team of doctors had worked valiantly for hours to save him.

  He was speeding because he hadn’t wanted to be late for their wedding, Penelope decided in those first tense hours in the ICU waiting room. He hadn’t wanted to worry her even for a moment. That was the kind of man he was. So sweet and thoughtful. Always considerate of her feelings.

  Her first glimpse of him had been like a fist in her gut. A series of tubes and machines monitored his vitals and assisted his breathing while an IV supplied medication and fluids. His face was bruised and battered and a large bandage wrapped around his skull.

  He looked so pale and wounded lying there, and yet even at his most vulnerable, he’d possessed a kind of strength and vitality that made him appear invincible.

  Penelope had sat at his bedside and held his hand, murmuring how much she loved him. How much she needed him.

  And later in the chapel, when she seemed incapable of forming a coherent prayer, she’d found herself whispering over and over, “Please wake up. Please, please, please…”

  In the ensuing days, Penelope had become a permanent fixture at the hospital, refusing to leave even when Simon’s father arrived and displayed a surprising and inexplicable hostility toward her.

  She’d stayed on even when she wasn’t allowed in Simon’s room, because what if something happened to him while she was away? She’d never be able to forgive herself.

  Eventually, however, she’d had to go back to work. Museum positions were few and far between, and she couldn’t risk losing her job. Her boss, Avery Bennett, had been more than generous with her, but ongoing ne gotiations with several private collectors in Mexico required him to travel frequently. And since the museum was currently undergoing renovations, someone in a position of
authority needed to be available in order to make the last-minute decisions that inevitably cropped up during construction. It was virtually impossible for both Avery and Penelope to be away at the same time.

  And to further complicate matters, Simon’s father had decided to transfer him to a private rehabilitation facility in Dallas so that he could be with him on a daily basis.

  The move had devastated Penelope. The Morehart was so close to the medical center in Houston that, even after she’d gone back to work, she was able to visit Simon on her lunch breaks and every day after work.

  But because things were so hectic at the museum, it was impossible for her to make it up to Dallas more than twice a month. And Allen Decker had put further restrictions on the time she spent with his son by requiring that she call before she came to insure that her presence wouldn’t interfere with Simon’s physical therapy.

  Now, however, as she pulled into the long driveway of the Fairhaven Rehabilitation Center, Penelope tried not to dwell on the negatives. She hadn’t seen Simon in nearly two weeks, and even though she called the facility every day to check on his condition, she was anxious to see if there’d been any progress since the last time she’d been there.

  Wheeling into her usual spot in the parking lot, she got out, locked her car and, as she started toward the nondescript building, she smoothed away wrinkles from her sleeveless blue dress. As always, she wanted to look her best for Simon.

  Checking in at the front desk, she headed back to his room, which was on the ground floor with a window that overlooked a sunny little garden.

  As she walked through the door, Penelope’s heart fluttered as it always did at the sight of her fiancé. After two months, one might expect that his body would have started to deteriorate, but a rigorous regimen of physical therapy had kept him looking healthy and fit. He might only have been sleeping, Penelope thought once again as she crossed the room and bent to kiss him.