When they arrived back in the central living room, Morgan finally realized they hadn’t really said a word.

Petra gazed around with a puzzled look on her face. Slate’s lips pressed together in a strange expression of concern and irritation. Tamping down a brief tide of panic, Morgan faced them.

“Welcome to your new home,” she said simply. “I worked hard to incorporate your vision with my own expertise in design, and I truly hope you love it.”

Petra bit her lip. “Where’s the red and black?” she asked. “Where’s the minimalist lines I specifically told you I wanted, Morgan?” Her honeyed hair swished over her shoulders as she shook her head. “Tuscan has been done to death. I’m bored with it, and so are all my friends. The brass bed is simply horrific and reminds me of Ikea.”

Morgan fought not to flinch and remained impassive as her client spoke.

Slate jerked his hand toward the hallway. “The film room is way too small. And what the hell is that grandfather clock doing on that wall? It must be from the 1800s.”

“The theme of the room is time,” she explained patiently. “It’s been restored and is priceless. And the balcony and extra private booths give the film room a bit of the exclusive, which I thought would work better than just space.”

Slate frowned, not happy with her argument. Her gut lurched. Her skin grew hot. The panic temporarily held at bay began to flow through her body like a flood, and Morgan desperately tried to fight the rising tide. Showing fear would be the end of her.

“Petra, Tuscan style is coming back in a huge way. I understood your new interest in minimalism, but I used the concept through some of the rooms to give you a taste, but honestly felt you’d grow bored too soon. Believe me, classical mingled with a bit of the wow factor will have everyone talking.”

They weren’t buying it.

Petra picked up a few throw pillows, then strolled around, studying the items Morgan had carefully picked out to give the room creativity and warmth. Morgan kept talking with pure boldness, knowing she needed to sell this concept as hot or fail.

She never failed.

She demonstrated the high-tech gadgets, the customized appliances, the Italian tile, the Parisian paintings, and the specialized furniture and cabinetry Dalton had worked so hard on.

Finally she stopped.

Waited.

Petra walked over to her. Gazed straight into her eyes. Morgan noticed again how perfect she was, her beauty an almost shimmering presence in the room.

“I hate it. There is absolutely no way I can live here.”

Slate shook his head with banked fury and glared. “You disappoint us, Morgan. We trusted you. You’re supposed to be the best. Now what the hell are we going to do?”

Morgan stood in the middle of the home she loved more than anything while her future shattered around her.

It was over.

Cal tried not to panic.

He couldn’t get ahold of Morgan. He planned to go by the site before their appointment but she wouldn’t answer his messages. So he’d jumped in his truck and driven there with the intent of forcing her to listen to him.

She wasn’t there.

He’d checked with Sydney and his brothers. Nothing. At two p.m., he waited at the Rosenthals’ new home, ready to enjoy Morgan’s success when her clients saw what she’d created for them. He waited till three p.m. and no one showed up.

After another round of frantic calls, Cal headed to the Hilton and knocked on her door.

No answer.

He was just about to lose his shit and call the police when he heard a dull thud inside. “Morgan!” he yelled frantically, pounding on the door like a madman. “Are you in there? Open up, baby, I’m freaking out. I need to know you’re okay.”

Palm flat against the wood, he waited.

Nothing.

“Morgan, if you don’t open up right now, I’m kicking it in.”

The knob turned.

He knew something was wrong immediately. Her usual impeccable appearance was gone. Barefoot and clad in sweatpants and an old sweatshirt, she looked back at him with a dullness in her blue eyes that scared the crap out of him.

He stepped inside and closed the door.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you our appointment was canceled,” she said politely. Morgan walked over to the bar and poured clear liquid into the glass. Whoa, that wasn’t water. Or wine. Hell, that was straight vodka over ice. “I had a bit of a problem.”

Cal assessed the situation. Slowly he sat down on the couch and watched her. Something bad had happened. He kept his voice light and nonthreatening. She seemed to be a bit in shock. “Is your mom okay?”

She seemed startled by the question. Good, that dragged her out of her hell and reminded her things could be worse. “No, she’s fine. I showed the Rosenthals the house.”

“I was there, but no one showed.”

“Their flight came in early, so I decided to take them myself.”

Irritation rose, but he pushed it back down. Probably after their encounter she hadn’t wanted to deal with a confrontation. He couldn’t really blame her, though it was his right to stand beside her when they presented the house. “What was their reaction?”

She gave a full-out belly laugh with no humor. “They hated it! Oh, this wasn’t a bit of dislike where they want to change this and that, or do some tweaking. No, they hated it. Hated my choices and furnishings. Hated the colors. Hated the grandfather clock Dalton spent hours on and the cabinetry he lovingly crafted. They hated Tuscan tile and the brass bed and the film room with the red velvet chairs we restored. They hated it.”