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THE FAMILY THEY CHOSE

NANCY ROBARDS THOMPSON

PRIVATE PARTNERS

GINA WILKINS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE FAMILY THEY CHOSE

NANCY ROBARDS THOMPSON

Dear Reader,

Did you ever want something so badly you didn’t know how you’d survive without it? How far would you go to get it? Those are the questions plaguing Olivia Armstrong Mallory, daughter of the founder of the Armstrong Fertility Institute.

On the outside, Olivia seems to have it all: she’s young, beautiful and married to the man of her dreams, Jamison Mallory, the oldest son of a wealthy political dynasty. he’s heralded as a future contender for the Us presidency. Olivia plans to be right there by his side when he makes his bid for the White house. The only thing missing from their picture-perfect life is a baby.

As Olivia comes face-to-face with her worst nightmare, she realizes that all the money and power in the world can’t buy the things that matter most: love and family. In the process, she discovers a capacity to love that she never knew she possessed.

I hope you enjoy Olivia and Jamison’s journey. I love to hear from readers. so be sure to let me know what you think. You can reach me at nrobardsthompson@yahoo.com.

Until next time,

Nancy Robards Thompson

About the Author

Award-winning author NANCY ROBARDS THOMPSON is a sister, wife and mother who has lived the majority of her life south of the Mason-Dixon line. As the oldest sibling, she reveled in her ability to make her brother laugh at inappropriate moments and soon learned she could get away with it by proclaiming, “What? I wasn’t doing anything.” It’s no wonder that upon graduating from college with a degree in journalism, she discovered that reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. since hanging up her press pass to write novels full-time, critics have deemed her books “funny, smart and observant.” she loves chocolate, champagne, cats and art (though not necessarily in that order). When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, hiking and doing yoga.

This book is dedicated to Gail Chasan and Susan

Litman. Ladies, thank you for your patience and

commitment. Working with you makes me a better

writer.

Chapter One

The chime of the house alarm alerted Olivia Armstrong Mallory that someone had opened the front door, rousing her out of her light sleep. The door squeaked open and then clicked shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous hallway.

As footsteps sounded on the parquet floor, she sat up on the couch, smoothed her brown hair and blinked at the Christmas tree—the sole light illuminating the expansive living room.

She’d only closed her eyes for a moment—or so she thought. However, a quick glance at the mantel clock begged to differ. It was after three in the morning.

Jamison.

Her husband had finally arrived home.

As a United States senator who was being groomed for the presidency, Jamison Mallory wielded a lot of power, but one thing beyond his control was the weather. It wasn’t his fault that ice and snow had grounded all planes coming in and out of Washington, D.C.

It’s a wonder he’s home now, she reminded herself as he appeared, suitcase in hand, in the archway that divided the living room and the foyer hall.

“Liv, you’re still awake?” His deep voice was flat. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.” Even in the low light, she could see that his handsome face looked drawn. His chiseled cheeks looked hollow, despite the day’s growth of blond razor stubble. The dark circles under his pale blue eyes hinted that he suffered the kind of travel-weary exhaustion that comes from long flight delays and blisteringly cold weather.

“Of course, I waited up for you. It’s Christmas Eve, Jamison—well, it was. Merry Christmas.” Olivia stood and smoothed the wrinkles from her red silk dress. She made sure the clasp to the pearl necklace she always wore was in the right place. When her husband didn’t move toward her, she swallowed her pride and crossed the room to him.

One of them had to extend the olive branch. In the spirit of Christmas, and for the sake of their marriage, she’d be the peacemaker tonight.

Two-and-a-half months apart—with only a brief Thanksgiving Day visit—was more than enough time to help her realize that her marriage was that important. In their seven years of matrimony, this trial separation was the longest they’d ever been apart.

She’d missed her husband so much it hurt—a deep, gnawing pain that only grew worse each day they were apart.

Jamison set down his bag and raked a hand through his short, wavy blond hair before opening his arms to her. Olivia slipped inside the circle of her husband’s embrace and tried to find that place where she fit so well. She wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his chest, to lose herself in the feel of him. But his hug felt stiff, almost perfunctory. As she shifted to find her spot, he dropped his arms and pulled away ever so slightly.

She hesitated a moment, processing the conflicting emotions that swam to the surface as she stood face-to-face with this handsome familiar stranger. But, no, she wasn’t going to make an issue of it. So she slammed the door on the irrational thoughts goading her to take his aloofness personally.

Spending Christmas Eve stuck in the airline’s Executive Lounge surely wasn’t his idea of a good time. He must be so tired and—

“You must be starving.” She started toward the kitchen. “I kept dinner warm for you. Sit down and I’ll fix you a drink and a plate.”

She glanced over her shoulder in time to see his frown deepen as he shook his head.

“Olivia, I’m exhausted. I just want to go to bed.”

His brusque tone made her wince. As was often the problem between them, it wasn’t so much what he said, but how he said it that cut her to the quick.

Tonight, though, she was willing to overlook it.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I can see that you’re worn-out.”

He picked up his suitcase, walked over and kissed her on the forehead. Then, without another word, he turned and took his bag into the first-floor guest room, closing the door behind him.

Olivia stood alone in the living room. Confused, she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to ward off the numbing chill coursing through her. She could understand that Jamison was bone tired. She could even accept that he didn’t want to eat a meal and go to bed on a full stomach. But choosing the guest room over their bed?

That hurt worse than his gruff tone.

Suddenly, the cold distance between them yawned like a vast canyon, full of all the reasons they’d decided to separate in the first place.

She’d had such high hopes for the evening. But nothing was turning out as she’d hoped.

Wasn’t that par for the course these days?

It hadn’t always been that way, though. Once upon a time, not so long ago, their love seemed invincible. There was nothing like it from the moment they’d set eyes on each other. She’d never forget the first time she saw him. In person, that is, because every red-blooded woman in America knew of Jamison Mallory, Panorama Magazine’s “Sexiest Bachelor in the Universe” for several years running. With his tall, bronzed, quarterback body and his All-American blond, blue-eyed good looks, the man simply needed to flash his lightning-strike smile and women fell under his spell.

As a Harvard Law graduate and the youngest elected U.S. senator, Jamison had come back to his alma mater to deliver a commencement address. They’d bumped into each other—literally—as Olivia rounded a corner, rushing from one of her classes to a rehearsal for a Harvard Ballet Company performance of Sleeping Beauty. She’d dropped her dance bag and books and he had helped her retrieve her ballet slippers from underneath a shrub. Somewhere between, “Excuse me,” and “It was so nice to meet you, Olivia,” he’d asked where she was going and she’d nervously rattled off information about the ballet performance, which was the next night. She had never dreamed he’d be in the audience—front and center.

Because he was Jamison Mallory. She was simply a shy, college freshman who’d barely had any experience with men. After all, up until meeting Jamison, her one true love had been dance.

Later, they’d both sworn it had been love at first sight.

He’d often said that from the moment he’d looked into her eyes as he handed her those slippers, he’d known he’d met the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.

“It was cosmic.” He used to flash his devastating smile when he’d tell that to reporters. “The feeling was so much bigger than anything I’d ever felt before, I knew it was right.”

Now it was the small things that stood between them and what was really important. The minutiae blurred the perspective so that they couldn’t keep the big picture in focus anymore. If they couldn’t get past the small stuff, how in the world were they going to reach the real issue that was keeping them apart?

Feeling as if she were dragging a heavy weight, she made her way into the kitchen to put away the uneaten dinner. She and Jamison had always spent Christmas Eve with her family and Christmas Day with the large Mallory clan at his mother’s palatial compound in the Berkshires. This year, she’d opted out of Christmas Eve with her mother, father and three siblings—all of whom were married to their careers at the Armstrong Fertility Institute. Well, except for her brother Paul who, though he was still the consummate workaholic, had recently met his love match in Ramona Tate, at the institute. Olivia wanted to spend their first night back together alone. Just the two of them. Little had she known how alone she’d actually be.

Staying home had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, especially since none of the family knew about her and Jamison’s current living arrangement—that Jamison hadn’t come home on weekends during the congressional session. Or that he’d stayed in Washington after the session had adjourned. They’d told everyone he was busy with a particularly demanding committee, that he needed to focus so that he could wrap up work in time for Christmas. They’d played their roles so well that no one had a clue that their marriage was actually deeply in trouble.

Olivia hoped to God she’d find a Christmas miracle in her stocking, because it seemed as if nothing less than a miracle would save them now.

Jamison awoke to a slant of sunlight streaming in through the white plantation shutters, hitting him square in the face. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, and then it all flooded back to him. He was … home.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table: seven-thirty. Although he could’ve told the time without the clock, thanks to his internal alarm. No matter how little sleep he’d gotten the night before—in this case only about four hours—his system awakened him at seven-thirty every morning. It was fail-safe, and there was no sense fighting it. He might as well get up, because he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. Plus, he and Olivia needed to get on the road by noon to make the two-hour trek to his mother’s for the Christmas Day festivities.

He stretched, and his arms slid over the cold, empty side of the queen-size feather bed. He wished he was waking up in his own bed, with Olivia in his arms, rather than realizing another morning alone— especially Christmas morning in the guest room of his very own house.

He’d been so exhausted by the time he’d arrived home last night, he’d barely been able to string together a coherent sentence, much less have a discussion with her about sleeping arrangements. After being separated from Olivia for two-and-a-half months, he wanted to be fair to her. Even though sleeping apart from her wasn’t what he wanted, he didn’t want to seem presumptuous on their first night back together—and even more, he didn’t want to fight.

He’d been beyond exhausted and, yes, a little cranky. He knew himself well enough to know that combination was a recipe for disaster. But now, in the bright light of morning, his head felt clearer, his purpose stronger. Eager to talk to his wife about their next step in their relationship before they joined his family for the annual Christmas Day festivities, he showered, shaved and dressed before making his way toward the kitchen in search of a good, strong cup of coffee … and Olivia.

The house was dark and quiet. Even before he flicked on the kitchen light, he could see that the room was pristine—everything in its place. The only evidence of the dinner Olivia had offered him last night was the ghost-aroma of something delicious mingling with the faint scent of dish soap and the slightly smoky traces of the fire that must have blazed in the fireplace.

He breathed in deeply, relishing the familiar, comforting scents of home. But as he did, guilt tugged at him. He knew his wife had not only prepared a delectable Christmas Eve feast that neither of them was able to enjoy, but she’d probably stayed up long after he went to bed putting everything away and cleaning up the mess of a dinner that never happened.

The least he could do was let her sleep a little while longer and then make her some coffee.

No, he’d go one better and surprise her with breakfast in bed.

Before their separation, the kitchen had been foreign territory to him. One thing he’d learned in the time they’d been apart was how to cook up a mean batch of scrambled eggs—the trick was to use low heat so that they cooked slowly and the outside didn’t scorch. Hmm … the low-heat approach would also benefit their marriage. Because the other thing he’d learned during this time apart was that he loved his wife desperately. He missed her … he missed them. It was time to put all the ridiculous fighting and blaming behind them and move on.

Time to use the low-heat approach.

And to think the root of their problems started over something that meant so much to both of them, the common ground on which they’d always met: family. Or, more specifically, the lack of a family of their own.

Cold, twisted confusion wrapped around him when he thought about it. He was so torn. On one hand, Olivia would make such a wonderful mother. On the other, how could they even bring children into the world when their marriage was so shaky?

When they weren’t even living together?

They had to talk about their relationship. They had to get back on track. But before they could get into that, he had to break another bit of news to her—the news that he had to return to Washington earlier than expected. Earlier as in tomorrow morning, rather than January third as they’d planned.

That would go over about as well as telling her that the holidays had been canceled this year. With the way their plans had been preempted, that wasn’t so far from the truth.

Jamison made his way toward the stainless steel refrigerator and tugged opened the double doors. The precise arrangement of the cartons, jars and stacked glass and plastic containers echoed the kitchen’s tidiness.

One of the many things he admired about his wife was the pride she took in their home. He’d encouraged her to hire a cook and a full-time housekeeper so that she’d have more time for herself and time for the Children’s Home, a non-profit orphanage where she sat on the board of directors. But she’d refused, because she loved cooking—and was darn good at it. She’s said while it was just the two of them she could get by with someone coming in and doing the deep cleaning a couple of times a month. She claimed she enjoyed keeping their house, making a home for them. When it came to home and family, there was no one more dedicated than Olivia. That’s why their fertility issues had been such a struggle. They desperately wanted children and had jumped through many hoops to get pregnant—all to no avail. Too much testing and too many treatments had set them on an emotional roller coaster and taken a serious toll on their marriage. How ironic, when marriage had to be the bedrock on which the family was built.

Liv wouldn’t take well to the suggestion, but he’d been thinking about asking her to agree to put having children on hold until they could heal their marriage. It was the only thing that made sense.

But one thing at a time. First, he had to break the news about the change of holiday plans.

Jamison found the eggs, butter and cheddar cheese and was just turning around with his hands full when Olivia walked into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”

She shook her head. “I thought you’d sleep in since you got home so late.”

She didn’t sound like herself, and she looked at him with a wariness that took him aback. But she did look beautiful standing there perfectly made-up and dressed, wearing the pearls that he’d given her as a wedding present, her dark hair twisted up in a way that accentuated her porcelain skin, fine cheekbones and gorgeous dark eyes—deep brown, like the coffee he craved almost as much as he thirsted for her.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was flat. She sounded tired.

He adjusted the goods in his hands, fidgeting as if he’d been caught trespassing. This was her territory after all. In the seven years they’d been married, he’d barely set foot in the kitchen, much less cooked a meal.

“I thought I’d fix you some breakfast.” He grinned sheepishly, suddenly feeling out of his league.

“You don’t have to do that.” She gestured toward the items in his hands. “Just put those things down and I’ll do it. I have a special breakfast planned.”

Oh. Of course she would, it being Christmas.

“Well, I just thought—” Their gazes snagged for a brief moment before she looked away. With that, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that something was wrong. Of course something was wrong, but he’d been so bent on moving forward with the next steps they should take to fix things between them that he hadn’t counted on having to delve backward into their problems before they could move on. Suddenly the clarity he’d felt moments before was replaced by a dread that riveted him to the wooden kitchen floor.

Olivia walked toward him and took the food from his hands. Then she set to work, returning the cheese to the dairy drawer and removing various other items from the refrigerator and pantry. Jamison stood and watched her for a moment, feeling superfluous.

Since she hadn’t made any moves to start the coffee, he decided it would be a good task and began opening cabinet doors to locate the beans.

“What are you looking for?” Olivia asked.

“Coffee,” he replied.

“It’s in the freezer.” She gestured to the drawer below the refrigerator. “I keep it there so it will stay fresh since I’m not drinking it these days.”

“Really? So, no coffee for you?”

She shook her head.

“How come? You love coffee.”

She turned and squinted at him, looking plenty annoyed. “Jamison, I haven’t been drinking coffee for the past two years. Don’t you remember the doctor suggested that I cut caffeine from my diet while we were trying to get pregnant?”

Well, it was an honest mistake since they hadn’t had the opportunity to try during the past couple months. Even so, he thought as he rummaged through the freezer drawer, his not knowing felt like a failure. Funny how he felt perfectly at home on the senate floor, where he knew every nook and cranny of the issues he passionately presented, yet he’d forgotten that the doctor had nixed caffeine from his wife’s diet.

Bad show, man.

When he pulled out the unopened bag of whole-bean French roast, Olivia was right there ready to pluck it from his hands.

This time, he held on tight.

“I can do it,” he said.

“Since when do you know how to make coffee?” she asked, tugging every so slightly, but he refused to let go.

“Since I haven’t had you to make it for me,” he said, looking her square in the eye. For an instant, a look—surprise, hurt, disappointment. maybe a combination of the three—flashed on her face.

“I’ll make it for you,” she insisted. Once again her expression was flat and there was no warmth in her eyes where mere seconds ago there had been a pileup of emotion.

The distance between them was killing him. He had to do something.

He glanced down at their hands still holding on to the bag of coffee. They were so close, yet not touching. He stretched his finger until it touched hers. She flinched and snatched her hand away, leaving him holding the bag of French roast.

She looked startled for a moment then turned back toward the kitchen counter, busying herself with the breakfast preparation, taking eggs from the carton with shaky hands.

“Liv,” he said. “We need to talk about this. It’s not just going to go away.”

She placed the eggs in a bowl and stilled but didn’t respond.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’ve missed you so badly it’s tearing me up.”

He saw her grip tighten on the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.

“I’m sorry last night didn’t work out the way we’d hoped. I wish you would’ve gone on to your parents when we realized my flight was delayed.”

He saw her shoulders rise and fall, and dreaded delivering the news that he had to leave tomorrow.

“It wasn’t your fault, Jamison. I know that.”

She turned to face him. “But sleeping in the guest room last night—that was your choice.”

“What?” As tightly wound as she appeared, he was expecting her to unleash what was bothering her, but he wasn’t expecting this to be part of the problem.

“You heard me.” She was clutching her hands in front of her, again gripping so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She looked so small, so fine-boned and fragile standing there, it was a wonder her fingers didn’t snap like twigs.

“Liv, I was exhausted.” He ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t know up from down. I couldn’t even form the words to ask you where you wanted me to sleep.”

He reached out and touched her hands, hoping the gesture would encourage her to relax. “But it’s a new day and there are a few things we need to talk about before we head up to my mother’s place.”

Olivia’s face shuttered, but he saw her throat work as she swallowed.

“Such as?” she asked.

“Such as whether or not we should tell the family we’re separated. Despite how much I love you, I can’t go on pretending. What are we going to do, Liv? What are we going to tell them?”

Chapter Two

The moment they turned onto Stanhope Manor’s long, cobblestone driveway, Olivia could see that the Mallory mansion was bursting at the seams with family and festivity.

Lights, decorations and a blanket of new-fallen snow transformed the stately home into a winter wonderland. An army of children ran and played on the rolling lawn. Some made snow angels; others joined forces in a collaborative snowman building effort. The bittersweet sight of all those children brought tears to Olivia’s eyes.

She wanted to believe that someday her kids would play on that lawn, but she and Jamison seemed further away than ever from having a family of their own. That morning, the double whammy of a Christmas present he’d dropped into her lap was not only that he was returning to Washington early, but also that he wanted to put their baby plans on the back burner. It was the last thing she’d expected. The last thing she wanted. Because of that, the two-hour ride up to the Berkshires was mostly silent. What more was there to say? They were officially at a standoff. Jamison insisted they shouldn’t have children until they were happy as a couple; Olivia couldn’t see how they’d be happy until they had a baby. Or at least she couldn’t be happy. Not with Jamison spending more and more time away from her.

They were supposed to spend Christmas week together, but he’d said something about an unexpected diplomatic visit. She’d always prided herself on being supportive of her husband’s demanding career. But lately it seemed the more she gave, the more onesided their life became. And balance didn’t seem to be a part of Jamison’s New Year’s resolutions.

She tried to persuade him that this was the perfect example of how there was no perfect time to have children. It was simply another excuse to wait. Even worse, she didn’t understand why he felt compelled to wait. She got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t telling her the real reason behind his hesitation. But no matter how many times she told him having children was exactly what they needed to mend things, he’d come back around to “We need to fix us first.”

So, what was she supposed to do?

Passively give in?

Just give up?

No way would she do that. Not when their future depended on it.

So they’d reached a standoff, except for agreeing to not saying anything to the family about their separation until they’d had a chance to talk more. That seemed code for “Let’s continue this vicious cycle of pretending.” She had a sinking feeling that they were set on a collision course with disaster.

As Jamison steered the car under the porte cochere, anxiousness threatened to pin Olivia to her seat. She really wasn’t in a mood to put on a happy face for her mother-in-law and extended family. After the disastrous discussion with Jamison, this masquerade felt beyond her. But the alternative of announcing their marital problems to the bunch was worse. With one last wistful glance at the kids, she steeled herself to enter the lion’s den.

The only consolation was that Jamison was a true gentleman. No matter how bad things had gotten between Jamison and her, he still stood up for her when his mother started in with her power plays—such as her insensitive queries about why Olivia wasn’t pregnant yet and her attempts to pressure them into selling the house in Boston.

For the past year—since it had become clear that Jamison had garnered enough support to be considered a viable candidate for his party’s nomination for a future presidential race—Helen Mallory had been turning up the pressure for Jamison to claim his birthright and move up to the family home in the Berkshires. Olivia knew it was a posturing on Helen’s part, away of positioning herself as close to her influential son’s inner circle as possible. If the future president of the United States lived with her, in her house—because if she and Jamison moved in it didn’t mean Helen would move out—then she would have an even better chance at having his ear and an even stronger chance at asserting her considerable influence, much in the same way she’d done with her late husband.

Stanhope Manor had been in the Mallory family for seven generations. It had always been passed down to the oldest son. At thirty-nine, Jamison was still young, and would have plenty of time to enjoy the place with his own family, just as he and his five younger brothers had when they were growing up.

Despite how much Olivia wanted to uphold the Mallory legacy, she wasn’t in a hurry to move out of the city into the rambling, eleven-bedroom, twenty-two-thousand-square-foot mansion until she could give her husband a son—or a daughter—who would carry on the tradition. What was the point without a family to fill the rambling house?

At least in Boston Olivia had her family and her volunteer work. One thing she did not need was further isolation.

Nor did she need—or want—to live with her mother-in-law. Especially with Jamison spending so much time in Washington. That living arrangement would surely prove to be a ticking time bomb ready to explode.

Residing in Boston meant Helen was a safe two hours away in the Berkshires. Long distance, it was more difficult for her to remind Olivia that she and Jamison had yet to gift the family with children. Except for the occasional obligatory phone call, Helen mostly ignored Olivia, saving the pregnancy barbs for personal delivery. For times such as this.

Olivia braced herself at the thought.

It hurt that she and Jamison had confided in her about their fertility struggles, yet Helen publicly persecuted them as if their childlessness were a choice. Sometimes Olivia had to summon every ounce of strength to keep from tossing Helen’s barbs and patronizing tone right back at her. But out of respect for her husband, Olivia bit her tongue.

To Jamison’s credit, he fully understood how painful it would be to live with his mother. Despite how he longed to move into the house in which he’d grown up, he always sided with Olivia, refusing to let Helen bully them into moving and demanding she lay off when her pregnancy digs got out of hand.

The valet opened Olivia’s door and helped her step out of the Jaguar. Jamison walked around the car and took her hand, expecting her to play along. To put on a happy face and pretend they were the perfect couple with the perfect marriage.

“Are you okay?” he asked as they climbed the steps to the porch.

“Truthfully?” She slanted him a look. “No, I’m not.”

His face fell, as if her words had knocked the wind out of him, but before he could say anything, the elaborately carved wooden front doors swung open and a uniformed doorman greeted them.

“Merry Christmas, sir, madam.”

Ever the politician, Jamison flashed his famous smile. “Merry Christmas.”

Olivia managed a polite nod. She didn’t recognize the man at the door. He wasn’t part of the small band of live-in staff employed by Jamison’s mother. He was obviously among the extra help she’d hired for the holidays. Like a steadfast queen clinging to her castle, she’d remained in the house after Jamison’s father died and all six boys had moved out to begin their own lives.

“Mrs. Mallory is in the great room. Follow me, please.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” said Jamison. “I grew up in this house. I know the way.”

The doorman stood back and motioned Jamison and Olivia onward. “Very well, sir. Happy holidays.”

Their footsteps sounded on the marble floor. The place had a museumlike air that inspired silence. As they made their way down the long, arched hallway toward the great room at the back of the house, neither said a word.

Instead, Olivia let her gaze stray over the elaborate paintings lining the walls. Generations of Mallorys dating as far back as the Revolutionary War hung in grand, gilded frames. Their eyes seemed to follow Olivia and Jamison as they passed. Though she’d experienced this sensation many times, today it was eerie and a little unnerving. She shifted her gaze straight ahead, focusing on the crown molding at the end of the passageway.

In the great room, a harpist strummed Christmas carols from her post in the corner. Her angelic music was barely audible above the crowd that was at least seventy-five strong. A giant Christmas tree stood in front of the large picture windows on the west wall that looked out over the snow-covered back lawn with its beautifully frozen pond. In the distance, the mountains painted a breathtaking picture. A roaring fire blazed in the oversize fireplace. The room was a little stuffy with all the people milling about talking, laughing and filling plates with fancy hors d’oeuvres that had been laid out on an antique trestle table that stretched nearly the entire length of the wall opposite the windows.

In the center of the crowded room, Helen Mallory was holding court, talking to her loyal subjects who were dutifully gathered around her. Her platinum hair, as white as new-fallen snow, was teased into a meringuelike coiffure. Her white cashmere suit and plethora of diamonds brought to mind the term “Ice Queen.” As if sensing their presence, she looked up as Jamison and Olivia approached.

“Darlings, there you are,” she said. Her drink sloshed as she raised her glass toward them. “I was beginning to think you’d never arrive.” It was barely noon and judging by the glass Helen held like a scepter, she’d bypassed the traditional Christmas Day pomegranate mimosas and had dived headfirst into the martinis. Depending on how many she’d had, they could be in for a bumpy ride.

Jamison bent down and kissed Helen’s cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Mother. You’re looking… well. We would’ve been here sooner, but last night my flight in from D.C. was delayed, and I didn’t get home until after three.”

Helen held out a diamond-laden hand to her daughter-in-law.

“Merry Christmas, dear.” She looked Olivia up and down with disapproving eyes. “You’re looking beautiful, as always. But awfully thin. I was so hoping you would’ve plumped up by now.”

Helen pulled her hand from Olivia’s and patted her daughter-in-law’s flat stomach.

Trying to ignore the uncomfortable stares from the others gathered around them, Olivia took special care to keep her smile firmly in place. Especially since she had a feeling of what was coming next—right in front of everyone.

Olivia did a mental countdown. Three, two, one—

“When on earth are you going to give me a grandchild?”

Right on schedule.

“You do know that Payton is pregnant again, don’t you?” Helen slurred the words.

Olivia fought back a sudden rush of emotions that brought with them the stinging threat of tears.

Payton. The wife of Jamison’s younger brother, Grant. The perfect, fertile daughter-in-law. One only need talk about pregnancy in the vicinity of Payton and she got knocked up.

“Mother, don’t start.” Jamison’s voice was flat.

Helen sighed and dismissed him with a curt wave of martini, diamonds and bloodred nails. The gesture sent a wave of gin sloshing over the side of her glass, leaving a wet spot on her white suit. She seemed not to notice.

“I’m not starting anything,” she slurred. “I’m simply finding it terribly ironic that Olivia’s father is one of the nation’s leading fertility experts—Gerald Armstrong, of the Armstrong Institute—yet they’re still not pregnant. I just don’t understand.” Helen directed her words to the others, spouting off as if this weren’t a deeply private issue, acting as if Olivia and Jamison weren’t standing right there.

Every fiber in Olivia’s body went numb and she had to inhale sharply and bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from defending herself. Because what was the point?

Helen was drunk. Again. Come to think of it, Helen always said what was on her mind and seemed to get more brazenly outspoken with each passing year. Her drinking was also out of control, and the family seemed to be in complete denial about it.

It wasn’t Olivia’s place to say anything about her mother-in-law’s imbibing, but these barbs … they were inexcusable. Talking as if Olivia’s father were a banker refusing to lend money rather than seeing it for the intensely painful, sensitive—and private—issue that it was.

“Mother, stop it,” Jamison insisted.

Normally, when Helen started with her polite bullying, Olivia didn’t let the woman’s barbs get to her—but today Olivia felt vulnerable. Fragile, almost.

So, when Jamison put an arm around her and locked gazes with his mother, Olivia sank into him. Against her will, her body responded to her husband’s offer of solidarity and protection.

Despite what had transpired earlier, she was glad that at least he was taking her side, as he always did.

At least that hadn’t changed.

Before Helen could say anything else, the uncomfortable standoff was interrupted by a ringing voice.

“Merry Christmas, all!” Payton waddled over to them, her freckled cheeks rosy and her baby bump looking much more pronounced in the holly-green velvet maternity dress than it should for a woman five months’ pregnant. Of course, it was her fourth pregnancy.

Fourth baby in four-and-a-half years. Olivia swallowed the lump of sad envy that had burned in her throat until it slid down, settling like a hot coal in the pit of her barren belly.

“Payton, darling.” Helen stood and pulled her favorite daughter-in-law into a gentle embrace. “How are you feeling, love?”

Payton pushed an auburn curl off her forehead, then beamed and rested her hands on her swollen belly. “I’ve never felt better.”

Helen held her at arm’s length, taking in her entire being. “It shows. You are positively radiant.”

Payton preened. “I always feel my best when I’m pregnant.”

Of course she did.

Lucky for her since she was always pregnant. Resentment flared inside Olivia. It seemed like Payton and Grant produced a child to commemorate each wedding anniversary.

“Here, sit, sit. Next to me. Get off your feet.” Helen returned to her seat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her.

“Well, Mom, we have been in the car all morning.” She braced her right hand on the small of her back, which made her stomach stick out all the more. “But I guess I could sit a while longer while we catch up.”

“You know, if you keep giving me grandchildren at this rate, I’m going to have to move you up here to Stanhope Manor so that there’s a place big enough to house all of you under one roof. Jamison doesn’t seem to have any interest in the place.”

Helen shot a pointed look at her son as Payton planted herself next to her mother-in-law.

“It would be wonderful to live with you up here. If you keep talking like that, we just might take you up on it.”

Olivia glanced at Jamison, who was wearing an over-my-dead-body look on his face. She had a hunch that his sour expression wasn’t simply a remnant of his mother’s earlier indelicate blurting, but had more to do with the threat of his younger brother’s status-hungry wife bumping him out of his birthright with her pregnant belly.

Maybe, for once, Payton’s selfish antics could actually help Olivia by making Jamison change his mind about holding off on having children. Even so, it seemed unlikely that an army of children could keep Helen at bay if they moved in with her.

Payton must have sensed Olivia staring because she smiled up at Jamison and Olivia and said, “It’s been a long time. How are the two of you?”

They made small talk for a few moments until Grant entered with an infant seat in one hand, a toddler on the opposite hip and their oldest boy trailing behind him. Grant flashed his trademark toothy, white Mallory smile, greeting everyone as he walked over to kiss his mother’s cheek.

Grant had been a latecomer to politics, winning a New Hampshire congressional seat just last year. He and Jamison had always been competitive, but when it came to politics, there was an unwritten agreement that Jamison was the one who would make a bid for the White House. After he’d had his go, then, if Grant was game, it was all his.

Olivia wondered if the same accord applied to Stanhope Manor or if Helen would seriously offer the home to Grant and Payton—even as a strategic move to force Jamison and Olivia’s hand. On top of everything else, the thought was more than Olivia could deal with. So she pushed it out of her mind, vowing only to worry about it if and when the crisis came up.

“Merry Christmas, son,” Helen said to Grant. “And where’s your nanny? Surely you didn’t give her this week off? Now more than ever your wife needs the extra hands to help her.”

Grant and Payton had imported a woman named Ingrid from Sweden to help with the kids. Payton took pride in flaunting her Swedish nanny, so it was a surprise when Grant said, “She went home for the holidays.”

Helen shot Payton an alarmed glance. “Oh, you poor dear. However will you manage?”

Olivia was delighted to fall off of Helen’s radar as Payton dutifully played the martyred mommy, regaling her audience with details of how it would indeed be a challenge, but that she would somehow get by.

Anger and shame rose in Olivia’s throat like bile, as she moved as far away from Payton as possible.

As the day progressed, Helen wasn’t the only one driving the baby train. Payton and her brood—and pregnant belly—drew inevitable comparisons and incessant questions from friends and relatives about why Jamison and Olivia weren’t keeping up with his younger brothers.

If Olivia had been in a certain frame of mind, she would’ve taken offense at their questions. Asking a couple about when they were going to have a baby was not so far off from quizzing them about their sex life. It was a private matter. Didn’t people understand that?

Obviously it took sex for pregnancy to happen.

Unless the couple went the in vitro route, as Jamison and Olivia well knew. They’d tried to conceive the usual way, and when that failed, they’d opted for in vitro.

The hormones to help Olivia produce more eggs for harvesting had wreaked havoc with her physical well-being, causing headaches and mood swings and overall malaise. She and Jamison had ended up fighting, so much so that they’d decided to separate.

The thought of how something as wonderful as having a baby could create such turmoil in a marriage was beyond Olivia.

She wished Jamison could understand it was the side effects of the hormones that had caused their problems. Not the possibility that their marriage was unstable. And certainly not the act of having a baby and building their family. Looking at it rationally, she could understand his hesitation. She just wished he could believe that it would be different when they tried again.

Because it would be.

This time she knew what to expect. This time she would be prepared.

A new doctor had recently joined the Armstrong Fertility Institute. Chance Demetrios was one of the leading fertility research specialists in the world. Her brother Paul had hired him away from a teaching hospital in San Francisco. Olivia had seen him once, just before she and Jamison decided on the trial separation, and she hadn’t followed up when he’d said there was a slim chance she could get pregnant. Slim, but a chance nonetheless. Since the pain of their separation was so fresh, Olivia’s mindset made her question the point of following up if her husband wasn’t on board.

But now, especially as she watched Payton, Olivia was looking at things differently. Suddenly, there was an urgency. There was no time to waste. Maybe it was Jamison’s sudden hesitation, but Olivia was feeling her full twenty-nine years. She certainly wasn’t getting any younger. Maybe, if Jamison wasn’t willing to cooperate, it was time to take maters into her own hands—even if it meant getting pregnant without her husband’s blessing.

After all, once she was carrying his child, he’d come around.

Wouldn’t he?

Jamison retreated into the library with his glass of wine. As a kid, he’d always enjoyed the solitude of the room—the built-in mahogany bookcases and never-ending stacks of books felt like comfortable old friends. When life overwhelmed him or he had a problem that needed sorting out, he’d come here, grab a book and sit in the window seat. Sometimes he’d lose himself in a classic. More often than not, he’d lose himself in his thoughts as he gazed at the panoramic view of the mountains that stretched like a grand painting framed by the horizon of the backyard.

Tonight, the moonless sky hid the mountains as if nature had drawn a black velvet curtain. So he bypassed the window seat, placed another log on the dying fire and settled into one of the leather club chairs in front of the hearth.

It was late. He and Olivia really should head home soon, but he needed a few minutes alone to gather his thoughts before they climbed into the car and endured another long, silent journey.

He didn’t blame her for being mad at him. It seemed that since he’d been home he’d committed one seemingly thoughtless blunder after another. He’d even managed to blow it with Olivia this evening after the friends had gone and the party shifted into a mode of opening Christmas presents and snapping family photos. Oh, she hadn’t said it straight out—in fact she’d barely said more than, “Thank you,” but the flash of confusion in her eyes had been unmistakable when she’d opened her gift from him and had seen the gaudy cocktail ring that was not in the least bit her style—and several sizes too big to boot.

Crunched for time, he’d asked his mother to pick up a gift for Olivia from him—jewelry, something nice, of course. “You know Olivia. Pick out something she’d like.”

When his tiny, pearl-wearing wife had opened the jewelers box and pulled out the multi-colored boulder of a cocktail ring, he’d wanted to snatch it back and claim that there had been a mistake. On her delicate hand, it looked like a wild, golf-ball-size piece of stained glass; certainly nothing he would’ve ever picked out for her. And that had been obvious. He hadn’t shopped for his wife. She’d been well aware of that since the ring had his mother’s signature written all over it.

For someone who prided himself on intelligence, he felt pretty dumb for entrusting his mother, of all people, to shop for Olivia. That blunder, on top of the fact that it probably hadn’t been the best time to tell Olivia he wanted to hold off on getting pregnant. Not on the heels of disappointing her with the change of plans for Christmas week. But thoughtlessly, he’d done it. It had slipped out as they’d talked earlier that morning. They’d digressed back into the dubious tug of war over commitment and priorities, which went from bad to worse when he’d broken the news that he had to leave because he had to play host to the visiting ambassador. She hadn’t taken it well. No matter that a lot was riding on this meeting, and if he pulled it off it would be a major coup, a feather in his political cap.

The flames crackled in the fireplace.

The ridiculous ring felt like a third strike in a game he was already losing. He was between a rock and a hard place. Olivia knew their life would be this way and if he did make that run for the White House in 2016, not only did they need to find solidarity in their marriage, they had to be a solid twosome before they could add to their family.

Still, it didn’t mean he loved her any less. As a matter of fact, he was standing firm on his position to hold off starting a family because he loved her. Children added a whole different dynamic to a marriage, and he wasn’t so naive to believe that a child would fix something that was broken. He’d seen plenty of evidence to support that fact as he’d watched his parents’ marriage come apart under the pressure of public office and the weight of lies and deception. The only reason his mother and father hadn’t divorced was because of his father’s untimely death.

Well-shrouded secrets and, of course, the soft focus of layers of decades had allowed his mother the privilege of playing the well-respected, grieving widow of a political hero—a senator who would’ve been president had his life not been tragically snuffed out. But as the oldest of six boys, Jamison had gotten a first-hand look at the real life behind the gossamer curtain that cloaked political power couple, Judson and Helen Mallory.

Jamison sipped his cabernet. He was nothing like his old man, aside from carrying on his father’s political legacy. In fact, Jamison had consciously tried to stay clear of the womanizing and scandal that not only plagued the Mallory name, but had driven his mother to the bottle and kept his family life in constant upheaval. If he’d gleaned nothing else from observing his parents’ destructive relationship, it was that he knew children could not fix a rocky marriage.

Children simply got caught in the cross fire.

Behind him, the library door creaked open. A slant of light yawned across the wall then disappeared as the door shut. Jamison turned around, hoping Olivia had decided to join him. Instead, his mother stood there, tall and proud and expressionless. Her angular features were rendered even sharper by the dim amber glow of the fire. She glided across the room and slid into the chair next to him.

He could feel her gaze on him, as palpable as the heat of the fire at his feet.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “Anytime you had something on your mind, you’d always hide in here.”

“I’m not hiding, Mother. Simply enjoying the solitude.”

“Don’t try to fool me.” She shifted in her seat, angling her knees toward him, crossing her legs at the ankles, folding her hands in her lap. “You of all people wouldn’t leave a party unless you had something weighing on your mind.”

Jamison took a slow sip of wine, buying time. Interesting that his mother had been drinking most of the day and she still had the uncanny ability to read him. Of course, his retreating into solitude had probably been a big tip-off. Rather than slipping off, he probably should’ve rallied Olivia and simply headed for home. But he’d wanted to think, wanted to find common ground on which they could meet as they drove home.

“I’m exhausted,” he said. “Thanks to work and the weather, it hasn’t exactly been a jolly holiday.”

He set his wine on the end table next to his seat, got up and stoked the fire. It flared, spit and crackled as he turned the log.

“I can see that you’re exhausted,” she said to his back. “You haven’t been yourself all day. I do wish you would stay the night and get a fresh start tomorrow. Grant, Payton and the kids are staying.”

He returned the poker to its brass stand. “Thank you, but we can’t stay. I have an early flight tomorrow. We really should head for home.”

A chain of silent seconds stretched between them.

“You always did love this room,” she said. “It’s too bad you can’t enjoy it more often.”

He shrugged and glanced at her. “I don’t even get to enjoy my own home as often as I’d like.”

A flash as hot as the glint of a flame lit her eyes. “Why are you going back to Washington so soon?”

He disengaged her gaze and turned his attention back to the dancing fire. “An unexpected meeting came up.”

“A meeting. During Christmas week.” There was a goading, knowing tone to her voice, as if she’d caught him in a lie, but was willing to keep his secret.

Despite the pause in conversation, Jamison didn’t elaborate.

“The one-size-fits-all excuse. That’s the one your father used to use all the time. ‘I have a meeting.’ And how was I supposed to know differently?”

“Mom, don’t.”

He hadn’t realized how badly she was slurring her words. He really didn’t want his mother to string together all of his father’s flaws and illuminate them like tawdry lights on a tainted family tree.

“The wife never knows until it’s too late. When she finds out, all she can do to save face is go on pretending she’s none the wiser. It’s a miserable life, Jamison. Don’t put Olivia through that. I hardly think she’s strong enough to cope.”

Was she implying that he was having an affair? It rankled him. Even so, he wasn’t going to defend himself against something he had no intention of doing. Besides, she was drunk and probably wouldn’t remember the conversation in the morning.

“This is your house, Jamison. I know Olivia doesn’t want to live here, but she needs to understand that Mallory men … well, affairs just seem to be away of life. If you move in here, I can help her cope. I can help her understand that it’s just something Mallory men do.”

He held up his hand. “Mother, stop. I am not having an affair. I have no intention of having an affair. I love my wife.”

Helen threw back her head and guffawed a most unladylike sound. “Oh, Jamison, you can level with me. I’m not going to tell her.”

She was talking utter nonsense. It was definitely time to go.

He stood and walked toward the door.

Helen’s body swiveled as she followed him with her gaze.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“Home, Mother. It’s late, but I thank you for a wonderful evening. Merry Christmas.”

“Jamison, don’t walk away from me. I need to ask you a question.”

He stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

“Seven generations of Mallorys have lived here, son. How much longer are you planning on allowing that woman to deny you what’s yours? You need to set your wife straight. Tell her it’s time.”

“It’s not time, and it won’t be until and unless Olivia is ready.”

Helen made a clucking sound and stood up, wobbling as she did.

“You’re just like your father, Jamison, always letting a pretty face cloud your judgment and sway your decision. Stand up and be a man, son.”