He is her driver, and a secret she has kept for t…

Isabeau Delacroix was forty years old. Her husband ran a company, and the daily rhythm of her life was entirely handed over to that driver named Alden Cross. The way she looked at him had long ceased to be a boss's wife watching a hired hand; it was more like a drowning person catching sight of a last piece of driftwood. Alden Cross understood, of course, but he only gripped the steering wheel tighter, clamping down those improper thoughts hard beneath the root of his tongue. Until that night of salty, damp sea breeze—Isabeau Delacroix closed her eyes under the moonlight and pushed herself to the edge of the cliff. In that moment, Alden Cross's hands, which had held the steering wheel so many times, at last could not hold back and wrapped around her waist. Yet after the tide of passion receded, the chasm of status and the shackles of morality, like two heavy...