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liked the way the over-sized frames made her feel: safe from the world’s scrutiny. And now they would shield her from Marco’s gleaming savage gaze.
    “Of course,” he said, slipping them back onto her face, slowly edging them in place. He held his finger on the bridge, pressing ever so slightly.
    She swallowed hard, flustered. Need and trepidation mingled and merged, confusing her. Would he kiss her again? He hadn’t given her more than a quick brush on the lips after they had finished repeating their vows.
    Tension hummed beneath his surface calm. A muscle jumped along his jaw, and for a moment she thought he might change his mind. Instead, he tucked her hair behind her ear. “Sleep well,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
    Pressure built inside her chest and she struggled against the urge to burst into anger that warred with a longing to beg him to stay. But before she could respond, or ask where he planned to spend the night, Marco stepped away and exited the master suite.
    And then she was alone. Alone with her thoughts, and her calculations, and her multitude of conflicting feelings about the man she had married. For the life of her, despite her ability to solve any equation or complex computer diagnostic problem, she could not compute internal forces that propelled her husband.
    Marco was as mysterious and unpredictable as the chaos string theories she’d studied at college. But he was a great deal more interesting to decipher.
    Those calculations carried her to sleep. The following morning, three days after her proposal, Cassandra’s inner alarm clock jolted her out of her dreams of Marco and back to the reality of her marriage in name only. After going through her usual morning routine, Cassandra opened the French doors and walked onto the terrace.
    A cool breeze rustled through the estate’s trees and kicked up her turquoise skirt’s short hem. In the distance, the ocean’s expanse, dark and blue and capped with white waves, beckoned. She had never returned to the sea after her older brother Justin had died, but Cassandra still drew comfort from the familiar scents and sounds.
    Inhaling a deep breath, she turned and faced the huge, empty master bed. She felt like an anchor had dropped in her chest. Of all the wedding night scenarios she had imagined, waking up without her husband in the room had not been one.
    She had not spent the night how she had expected, and her typical day’s routine had been upended. No work. No calculations. No reason to rise other than her blasted internal alarm clock that had her all dressed up and no place to go. Cassandra twisted away from the bed and returned her gaze to the picture perfect view outside. One that belied the very imperfect state of her marriage.
    A painful lump balled in her throat and the ocean’s crashing waves blurred. She had traded computer science and engineering state of the art yachts for being a guest in Marco’s home. Nothing, not even the perfume she’d dabbed behind her ears this morning, was her own. Swallowing hard, Cassandra turned and padded back into the bedroom, then grabbed her computer bag.
    Thirty minutes later, Cassandra peered at her laptop’s screen. She angled her elbow on the antique desktop and wiggled her foot, thinking. Suddenly, the solution snapped into place. Adrenaline rushed through her, quickening her pulse. If she recalibrated the pitch of the Barracuda’s mainsail, the regatta racer’s speed would increase by ten knots and give her catamaran the winning edge in the next Platinum Cup to be held five months later in July.
    Excited, she began keying in the calculations and dimensions to her engineering program’s schematics. She heard the bedroom door open, and her fingers faltered.
    Marco. She could feel his presence invade her dome of scientific solace. Cassandra snatched her glasses, zipped them onto her face, and stared at the computer screen again.
    Her back turned, she continued typing in her