Книга - The S Before Ex

The S Before Ex
Mira Lyn Kelly


The only man with the X-Factor!There’s one thing even the tabloid hounds haven’t managed to dig up about celebrity Ryan Brady: he is married! He may be one of America’s most desirable men – but his secret wife has just filed for divorce… Since their separation six years ago Claire has turned her life upside down: new business, new friends, new Claire.But when she sees Ryan to hash out a settlement her body tells her one thing hasn’t changed: he’s still the only man who really does it for her. With all other guys guaranteed to be totally meh, she’s in last-chance saloon: it’s either an X-rated fling with her ex – or straight to chastitybelts. com!












Praise for Mira Lyn Kelly


‘Wild Fling or a Wedding Ring? is a hot, steamy romance that takes the main characters by surprise … Take note, I predict that début author Mira Lyn Kelly will soon become a soaring star rising in the world of romance writers.’ —www.cataromance.com on Wild Fling or a Wedding Ring?

‘This debut book was incredible and a well-crafted,

super-charged romance!’

—www.marilyns-romance-reviews.blogspot.com on

Wild Fling or a Wedding Ring?




About the Author

About Mira Lyn Kelly


MIRA LYN KELLY grew up in the Chicago area and earned her degree in Fine Arts from Loyola University. She met the love of her life while studying abroad in Rome, only to discover he’d been living right around the corner from her for the previous two years. Having spent her twenties working and playing in the Windy City, she’s now settled with her husband in rural Minnesota where their four beautiful children provide an excess of action, adventure and entertainment.

With writing as her passion, and inspiration striking at the most unpredictable times, Mira can always be found with a notebook at the ready. (More than once she’s been caught by the neighbours, covered in grass clippings, scribbling away atop the compost container!)

When she isn’t reading, writing, or running to keep up with the kids, she loves watching movies, blabbing with the girls, and cooking with her husband and friends.

Check out her website www.miralynkelly.com for the latest dish!




Also by Mira Lyn Kelly


Wild Fling or a Wedding Ring?

Tabloid Affair, Secretly Pregnant!

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk




The S Before Ex


Mira Lyn Kelly




































www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my sister Jena—

for her endless support, love, humor,

talkdowns from the edge, and stylish tips.




CHAPTER ONE


“OH, my God, isn’t that your husband?”

Claire Brady stiffened at the urgent whisper. An instant before, she’d been basking in the afterglow of a deal that, now struck, concluded her business for the next week—mostly. The gallery was too much a part of who she was to ever truly be put aside, even for a single day. But in that moment, her phone had been quiet, her mind at peace, her senses drifting with the gentle breeze as she’d absorbed the bustle and beauty of Rome’s Piazza Navona while light circles, courtesy of a dishy Italian seated to her right, stroked over her palm.

It felt good. She felt good. And she’d wondered if maybe this time …

Well, so much for that.

She shook her head apologetically at Paulo, the dishy Italian under consideration, and then shot Sally, her best friend, assistant and perpetual alarmist, an emphatic no.

She’d known sharing the secret of her ex would come back to bite her, but balanced against the isolation of holding herself apart for so many years, Sally’s occasional false alarm was a price she’d been more than willing to pay. Still, this was the third “Ryan sighting” this month alone.

“The man lives in California. The United States. Besides, if he were traveling abroad, we’d already know it,” she promised with a nod toward the newsstand at the corner of the piazza.

When all else failed, fell short or slipped away, there was one thing in her marriage to Ryan Brady that Claire could count on. And that was the media keeping her abreast of every sordid detail of his liaisons, financial conquests and daily adventures. No waiting by the door with a cocktail at five for her. She had the world news to tell her how his day had been and with whom he’d spent the night. And in this case, she had it on reliable authority that as of fifteen hours ago, Ryan Brady had been meeting with his lawyer in downtown L.A.

Sally’s mouth pulled into a sideways twist that suggested she wasn’t convinced. Her gaze darted between the newsstand and the fountain across the way. “Hmm. But this guy really looked like him.”

Sure he did. “Like the homeless guy at the station looked like that actor … Gerard Bu—”

“Hey, he could have been in disguise.”

“Eating out of a Dumpster?” Claire tried to stifle her laughter, but then simply gave herself over to it. At the stubborn jut of Sally’s jaw, she pulled her in for a quick hug, earning herself a good-natured pinch in the process. “Ouch!”

“Hey, maybe he’s a method actor or something.”

Laughter subsiding, she grinned at her friend and conceded, “Maybe.”

She sipped her espresso, enjoying the rich flavor rolling over her tongue, and set the shot-glass-size cup back on the paper-covered table.

Their trip couldn’t be shaping up better. Getting away was good for both of them. Sally, because she needed more of a life outside the gallery than she’d allowed herself over the last year, and Claire … well, the timing had worked out providing a convenient excuse when she’d rather desperately needed one.

Claire cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi where its Egyptian obelisk needled the washed-blue sky above—not so much looking for Ryan in the crush of milling tourists, as perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of this stranger who resembled him. Though as quickly as the thought processed, she pushed it back.

Seated in the shadow of the church of Sant’Agnese in Agone, amid the splendor of baroque Roman sculpture and architecture, the last thing she should have been looking for was a man who reminded her of her estranged husband. It wasn’t a healthy pastime. In fact, it fell only one rung below “looking for men who resembled Ryan and were toting babies with them” on the ladder of exceptionally bad and self-destructive ideas.

She’d moved on. Long ago. Really.

And yet she couldn’t resist one last sweeping glance across the piazza. Chalk it up to morbid curiosity, but she wanted a look.

Her gaze tripped from one lacking male physique to another without need to stop—not one of them could even remotely pass for Ryan.

Good.

Sally’s brow smoothed as she shrugged back into her chair, snuggling beneath the outstretched arm of her date, Massimo. “Okay, maybe I was wrong. I don’t even see him now. Sorry.”

“No problem,” Claire assured with a dismissive wave.

Only, there was a problem. The damage had already been done. Whatever mood had been set mere moments before seemed to have evaporated beneath the reminder of a life Claire had put behind her. As if to illustrate the point, Paulo’s seductive caress moved from her palm to the pulse point at her wrist … eliciting zero response. Not that he’d exactly had her enraptured before. But there’d been potential. Hope that this tall, dark, Roman stranger would spark something long dead within her to life.

Only now, the whole interaction—them seated beneath the open Italian sky, surrounded by the throngs of tourists populating Piazza Navona, with Paulo doing his best to seduce her across a small outdoor table while his friend did the same with Sally—it seemed so contrived.

Obviously of another opinion, Sally giggled and leaned over to Claire, her fingers cupped around her mouth as she whispered in her ear, “Since we’ve officially transitioned from gallery business to pleasure, do you mind if Massimo and I take off?”

Claire pulled back, searching her friend’s eyes for any doubt and, finding none, gave a quick shake of her head.

Massimo stood behind her, straightening his jacket as he issued a few words to Paulo before stepping away from the table with Sally’s hand secured in his. Sally laughed delightedly, and peered back, “You’ll be okay?”

Claire’s smile broadened in response. “Of course! Go, have fun.”

At Sally and Massimo’s retreat, Paulo’s voice rolled across the table between them. “Ora bella, avete solo.”

To any normal woman on the planet his pleasure at having her alone would have sounded like sin on a plate. A temptation too tasty to ignore. But then, Claire didn’t exactly fit the norm. Not anymore.

Meeting his smoky gaze with the clarity of her own, she sighed and pulled out the smile reserved for situations such as this one. It was cool and remote. Subtly off-putting without being overtly hostile. Just enough for a suitor to recognize the futility of his efforts, without actually insulting him.

It was a time-tested dismissal that worked—except Paulo remained undeterred.

Well, she’d warned him. And honestly, the stroke of his thumb over her captive limb wasn’t anything she couldn’t ignore. Eventually he’d get the picture. And in the meantime, Claire had plenty to occupy her mind with the coup she’d just pulled off for the gallery. Faye Lansing had been a hunch. A bit of instinct and a lot of luck. The painting Claire discovered hanging on a bathroom wall—of all places!—in a client’s home in Connecticut had been spectacular, leading her to track down the as-yet-undiscovered artist here in Rome. But that work had been nothing compared to what she’d seen at the studio this morning. Claire had scored Faye’s first U.S. exhibit—and more than that, she’d secured her commitment to participate in the gallery’s Young Artist Program as well. The kids were going to love her, and the way she spoke about her craft … it was pure passion.

She was so excited, and already sketching out a plan for an exhibit in the West Hall. With the interplay of light and color, that space would complement the work—

Suddenly Claire’s attention snapped back to the present. To Paulo. And a touch that couldn’t be ignored after all. What began at her palm had migrated to her wrist, and was now on the move again, stealthily advancing toward the crook of her elbow and, no doubt, beyond.

Distaste turned within her at the sight of his fingers slipping over skin numb to his appeal.

Hurt feelings or damaged pride weren’t her intent, but if subtle didn’t do the trick then she wouldn’t be subtle. Resigned, she closed her eyes and braced for a blunt no-nonsense dismissal.

Only, in the next instant, the air around her changed. Charged with an electric current that rolled over her skin, bringing every fine hair and nerve to attention. Paulo’s fingers stilled where they were, and Claire’s eyes burst open as a strong, wide hand closed over her shoulder and smoothed into a possessive caress toward her neck.

“Hey, kitten. Remember me?”

Oh, God. Sally hadn’t been wrong at all.

The air leaked from her chest in a groan, pushing the name poised at her lips free. “Ryan.”

“Try to contain your excitement. You’re making me blush.” His gruff laugh, deep and darkly confident, sounded at her ear an instant before his lips brushed the tender skin beneath.

Claire jolted at the affront—definitely not from the tingling sensation skirting her skin—and instinctively grabbed for Paulo’s hand as her defenses slapped up around her.

Where did he get off?

Twisting around in her chair—too uncertain of her legs’ ability to support her to risk standing, she gasped, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not letting you blow me off like you’ve been doing for the past nine years.”

Claire’s mouth dropped open, first from the aggressive edge to Ryan’s words and then further as Paulo, taking her death grip as some kind of call to action, shot from his seat.

Oh, no. Not a good idea.

He might have Ryan matched in height, but something about the Italian’s body told her his muscle was machine made. Gym buff. As opposed to Ryan’s, which was all hard-hewn man. Rock climbing. Rugby. Water polo. Swimming, surfing, hockey and track. She’d seen the double-page spread of him in that magazine on men’s fitness. And she remembered all too clearly how capable of defending himself—or anything else he felt possessive of—Ryan was. Only, Ryan shouldn’t be standing there feeling possessive of anything. He should have been tucked securely away in L.A., watching the returns on his latest biotech-investment breed.

With one hand still resting at the crook of her neck, the other stuffed casually into the pocket of his charcoal trousers, Ryan cocked his head and addressed Paulo. “Take a hike. I need to speak with my wife.”

Claire coughed, choking on his brass.

It had been years since they’d so much as laid eyes on one another. Who the hell did he think he was? “That’s enough, Ryan.”

All she needed was word getting out about the little legal matter that bound the two of them in unholy matrimony, and this quiet existence outside of Ryan’s long cast shadow would be gone.

She wouldn’t let that happen. Not now.

Paulo made a move to draw Claire to his side, but, sensing the tension building behind her, she gave a quick shake of her head then glanced over her shoulder. “No need for a public scene, Ryan.”

In silent plea she stroked her fingers across Paulo’s forearm. It was an intimate gesture, intended as much to appease her date as it was to send a message to Ryan.

Look at me. See how well I’m doing? See my handsome Italian lover?

Though as soon as Ryan left, she’d be working double time to worm her way out of the unspoken promise she’d just made—

Or maybe not.

What if she didn’t shut Paulo down? What if she just forced herself to give in? Do it. Allow this man to seduce her. Would it be the hurdle she needed to get over in order to finally feel again? To be whole? Complete. She was so close to having everything she’d lost … Some days she couldn’t even feel the cracks in this life she’d forged from the shattered remains of the one she’d had.

Her gaze shot the length of Paulo and back. Good looking by any sane woman’s standards.

Could she ask him to make it fast, like taking off a Band-Aid? Probably not. But maybe once they got going, she wouldn’t mind so much. And it couldn’t last forever …

Decided, she extracted herself from Ryan’s hold with an irritated brush of her hand at her shoulder and pushed to her feet. Peering up into the dark Italian features in what she hoped was an approximation of adoration, she rested her palm at the center of his chest.

“Please, Paulo,” she murmured. “Give us ten minutes to talk.”

The smoky intensity drained from Paulo’s face, leaving his expression flat. Hardly the sensual promise of a moment before.

“Pietro, Claire,” he answered. “Il mio nome non è Paulo.” With a cool indifference that put her dismissive smile to shame, he plucked her hand from his chest, brushed a kiss across her knuckles and let it drop limp at her side before walking away.

Not Paulo? Oh. Hell.

Claire stood immobile, watching her childish stunt stride off in true backfiring fashion, keenly aware that the man who’d crossed an ocean to see her wouldn’t simply evaporate and allow her shame to be swallowed in private.

No. Not a chance. Not Ryan.

“Wow, Claire. That was worth the flight over, right there.”

Hostility welled fast within her. It was unreasonable. Intense. And directed at the man who’d barely had the decency to cover his laughter with a cough. She spun on him, fists clenched at her sides, ready to lay in. “Ryan! You jacka—”

Only she stalled barely out of the gate, stunned by her first full on view of the man who’d once been her whole world. Ryan. Tall, broad and tapered in all the right proportions. Strong chiseled features and firm wide lips. Sharp brown eyes that could be as unyielding as frozen earth or as warm as melted chocolate, glinting amusement beneath a fall of straight dark strands incapable of laying flat.

He was all easy confidence, smooth charm and gorgeous man—everything she didn’t need, standing there before her in the middle of Piazza Navona.

He shouldn’t look so much the same. Not after all this time.

“Sorry about your boyfriend,” he offered with a wry twist of his lips that was anything but apologetic. Another day, around any other man, she would have been laughing at her own stupidity in trying to manufacture a relationship for what purpose she couldn’t even say. But around Ryan, she didn’t want to laugh. She didn’t want to revisit any common ground or shared entertainments. She didn’t want to think about what it had been like once upon a time.

She just wanted to move on. Which was why she’d had the petition to divorce drawn up.

Shaking her head, she asked him, “What are you doing here?”

The amusement faded from his features and Ryan met her with a level stare. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to bring you home.”




CHAPTER TWO


CLAIRE blinked up at him, her sky-blue eyes betraying an instant of vulnerability and confusion. Proof he’d gotten past her guard.

Good. She’d sure as hell gotten past his. First, filing divorce papers without so much as a single word of warning. Nothing like getting served in your office lobby while juggling a laptop, twenty ounces of scalding-hot coffee, three newspapers, smart phone, two messenger bags jammed with files, and holding a blueberry bagel in your teeth. Yeah, thanks for that, Claire.

And then, with that outrageous settlement proposal. And in typical Claire fashion, flatly refusing the smallest concession. Leaving that imbecilic lawyer of hers to stonewall him, even after he’d rather magnanimously offered to meet and discuss the situation in person. Going so far as to pole-vault across the Atlantic to dodge talking to him.

But as if all that weren’t enough, that first glimpse of her from across the square sure had been. She’d been sitting there in that legs-crossed, half-turned pose of feminine recline that extended all the right lines of a woman’s body—hands moving animatedly with her chatter, smiling beneath the warm sun. Smiling. Bursting with life. So different from the fragile thing she’d been the last time he’d laid eyes on her. He’d never expected it. Hadn’t been prepared for the sight of a woman he’d thought lost along with his marriage in a Boston emergency room almost nine years before. But there she was, radiant. Smiling while some lothario gave her his best go.

She’d tossed her hair over her shoulder in a simple, breezy gesture. One he’d always appreciated. The long strands came together like a fall of black silk streaming down her back, contrasting with the light complexion of her skin. Creamy pale but with a healthy blush of pink—and she’d laughed. She’d laughed and he’d felt it like the blistering relief of coming up for that first breath of air after a free dive.

And for a moment he was the guy he’d been when they met. Heart slamming in his chest as he ran off the track to chase down the girl whose lush lips had curled into that damn near criminal smile when he’d passed the stands. She’d knocked the wind from him more effectively than the six miles he’d just pushed through. And she’d kept him running, kept him chasing, until it was either have her or die trying.

Sweet, soft, sexy Claire.

Everything he’d wanted—and for a while she’d been his. He’d never burned so hot for a woman. Not before. Not since. But it hadn’t lasted. Things had broken between them that couldn’t be fixed. Claire had broken. They’d gone their separate ways and his priorities had changed. Eventually he’d gotten used to them being apart rather than together.

He’d gone on with his life. Done a bang-up job of it. But, seeing her again … she was too beautiful, and that smile—all he could do was stare.

And then that punk had gone and blown it. Pushing too hard and turning a smile Ryan hadn’t even dared to dream of seeing again into the cold untouchable twist of lips that wasn’t even in the same universe as what it replaced.

It made him angry. At the guy, at Claire. At himself for even noticing, let alone caring about it. She’d definitely gotten past his guard, but it wouldn’t happen more than once.

Claire blinked again and with the lift of those thick black lashes all signs of vulnerability were gone, leaving a challenging confidence shining in their stead. “Take me home?”

He opened his mouth to clarify, but let it slip into a grin when she went on without bothering to wait for his response.

“Are you insane? On some medication? I’m not going to the corner with you.”

“Keep your panties on, Claire. I’m talking about sitting down to work out a settlement. An acceptable settlement. Because there’s not a chance in hell I’ll let you get away with this.”

He’d had enough of Claire’s unwillingness to consider any perspective beyond her own. She’d wasted enough time already. Their lawyers’. His. And he was through sitting idle while she cut him off and closed him out. He wanted the settlement wrapped up. Packaged in a way where he’d be able to go on with a clear conscience. And since Claire clearly wasn’t broken anymore, he was taking off the kid gloves to do it.

Arms folding across her chest in a slow, steady show of determination, she glared up at him. “Let me?”

Okay, that may have been a poor word choice, but when it came right down to it … He firmed up his own stance, letting his expression fall into its natural state of no-nonsense command. “Yeah, let you.”

Claire stood staring up at him, her eyes widening with dawning recognition that he wasn’t interested in game play. Or maybe not, because then those wide eyes began to narrow in what appeared to be shrewd assessment. As if she was … sizing him up?

Taking a deliberate step into his space, she glared at him. “I don’t need you to let me do anything, Ryan. I haven’t for years. In case you missed the news flash, I’m an independent professional who’s built a successful career out of knowing my own mind. I know what I want. I know what I need. Just like I know what I don’t.”

She let the implication hang, the jab finding its mark without the benefit of voice.

“Yeah, kudos on the independent thinking, Claire, you’ve done a bang-up job with the gallery in New York. But I don’t care what you think you want or don’t want—”

“What part of I don’t want anything, could you possibly find so offensive?”

Man, and now she was in his face and it was torqueing him off as much as that asinine settlement proposal.

“The part where half of what we have is yours! And you’re going to take it.” Jerking a hand through his hair, he punched out a heated breath. How the hell had she pushed him to lose it within less than five minutes of interaction? Screw it. He’d already chewed through enough time hopping continents because of her shortsightedness. He didn’t have any more time to waste. “Look, I know you haven’t dipped into that joint account since you finished school, and everything you’ve accomplished with the gallery was of your own doing. It took a lot of brains and a lot of savvy to do what you’ve done. But you’re not using those brains about this.”

The sharp edge of hostility in Claire’s eyes shifted to an intense focus. He had her attention. “You’re operating in the black right now. Earning impressive profits, but think about the swings in the economy. Think about your own life if you want a reminder of how fast some unforeseen event can change … everything. You’ve experienced it firsthand, Claire.”

“I’d recover. Or start again. I did it once. And even if I couldn’t, it’s not your problem.”

That’s where she was wrong. He may not have known how to be the husband Claire needed, but he sure as hell knew about responsibility and obligation. Which was why he wouldn’t let this go. “What if it’s not the business? What if you remarry, have children? A dog? What if someone you loved needed more than your independence could provide? This isn’t about you and me. It’s about being practical. Doing the smart thing.”

She’d winced at his mention of their past together. But hadn’t even blinked when he’d referred to some threat to a future family. As if the point hadn’t even registered. Damn, if he could read her.

“Fine, what if you don’t remarry and something happens to you? Do you want to be calling me from some hospital bed asking for help?” He knew the answer was no. Just as Claire knew that no matter the number of years that passed, if she ever needed anything, all she would have to do was ask and he’d be there. The only problem was, Claire would never ask. So he needed her to take the money now.

Turning her back to him, she reached for her bag, pulling one strap over her shoulder as she efficiently dug out a few euros and then left them tucked under the small white espresso cup. What, did she plan on walking away without a word? To hell with that.

“The money is yours too, Claire, and you’re going to take it. Because if you don’t, you can forget about any plans you have of moving on without me. My lawyer’s going to keep this tied up in court forever.” Damn it, he was going to burn for this one. But, in for a penny, in for a pound. He’d failed her once, but he wouldn’t fail her with this. No matter how belligerent she wanted to be, she was taking that money. “And he’ll drag your gallery in there too.”

Her body went rigid and then slowly she turned to face him. “You’re a bastard.”

“Yeah, I am,” he agreed with weary resignation. “But I’m a bastard with your best interests at heart. Come on, Claire, don’t fight me on this.”

She blew out a long breath and smoothed the lines of her dress. “It’s not like I have much choice, do I.”

“No.” But then neither did he. Not after all he’d done. But deep down, he knew, no matter how vast the fortune, it still wouldn’t be enough to make it up to her. Nothing would be.

A couple at the far side of the café stood from their table, their conversation an animated, joyful exchange conducted in lively Italian that continued as they strolled off hand in hand across the square. They were married. He’d noted the rings—a habit he couldn’t quite break—and the ease of their company. And he’d tasted that lingering bitterness that occasionally still took him by surprise.

Following their retreat, he let out a heavy breath. “I don’t want to fight with you, Claire. That’s not how it was with us. Not even at the end.”

When Claire didn’t reply, he turned back to find her watching him, her expression thoughtful. How long had it been since she’d actually looked at him? Even before she’d left, she’d stopped seeing him, her eyes so often drifting to some spot behind him or to the floor. Having her focus now … it was unnerving.

And ultimately unimportant to the task at hand.

Rolling a shoulder bunched with rapidly accumulating tension, he cocked his jaw to the side. He wanted this done. And done fast. He wasn’t about to waste the ground gained by the gallery bluff. “The timing really couldn’t be better. You’ve got a week free that happens to coincide with a lag in my schedule. We can have a settlement knocked out before next Friday. Who knows, if we really knuckle down maybe you’ll have enough time to get back here for a day couple days before you go back to the office.”

“This is my first vacation in three and a half years. I’m here with Sally. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

“You’re the one who filed. I know you want this behind us. To move on. The timing will never be convenient. It’ll never be fun. But right now, it’s workable. So what do you say?”

He reached for her arm, but she skirted his touch. Busying herself with her bag again, though it was clear there wasn’t anything she needed. When she looked up, it was with businesslike reserve in the cool pools of her eyes. “I’d like to keep the divorce as quiet as the marriage has been.”

“Of course.” He’d worked hard to keep her out of the news. It had been dumb luck their relationship escaped notice at the beginning, but as the years went on he’d gone out of his way to protect her privacy. He wouldn’t jeopardize it now.

“Which generally means openly referring to me as your wife is a no-no.”

Right, that. He scanned the piazza in the direction Paulo-Pietro had strolled off in. “I didn’t like that guy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, threatening what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “No, really?”

Really. He hadn’t liked him—intensely and immediately—and even Ryan didn’t want to examine too closely exactly why. He’d had enough surprises in the last day—no need to go searching for more. “You brushed the guy off and he ignored it.”

“I could have taken care of it, though.” There was no accusation in her words. Merely assurance. “I was about to. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Is that what he’d been doing? Before he’d arrived, the answer would have been yes. Definitely. Only, at first glance, it became clear Claire wasn’t a woman who couldn’t stand up for herself.

So if his actions weren’t protective, that left possessive.

And that was just nuts.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he nodded toward the street where his car waited. “Let’s get this over with.”




CHAPTER THREE


CLAIRE pulled her key from the lock and swung open the door to her room. Upon arrival the night before, she’d thought it quaint. A cozy retreat after a long day exploring the streets of Rome. But with Ryan’s arm braced against the frame above her head, his big body only inches away, ready to follow her into the space … she saw it for what it was. Cramped. A claustrophobic shoe box jammed with a double bed, small dresser, nightstand and single chair in the corner.

“You don’t have to wait for me to pack,” she said with a cautious glance over her shoulder.

Ryan nodded into the room, hanging back until she’d cleared the far side of the bed before walking to the window. “I don’t mind. I’ll carry your bags down.”

Wonderful. “Suit yourself.”

Her cheeks flushed at her snarky tone, but the truth was, she resented the hell out of Ryan’s railroading tactics—even if he did have her best interests at heart. They were the reason she hadn’t wanted to get within shouting distance of him. Hadn’t wanted to give him the opportunity to employ that subtle brand of strong-armed coercion that made him the wild success he was.

She hadn’t wanted to be talked into a decision that wasn’t her own, but in less than ten minutes he’d done it. And typical of his unique ability, he’d left her wondering how she hadn’t seen his perspective from the start. It was infuriating.

When she’d begun pursuing the divorce, her goal was simply to sever ties. They’d both established lives of their own and, from her stance, there was no sense in demanding some portion of the assets she hadn’t needed prior to the divorce after it. Then Ryan came back, batting aside her proposal with words like unacceptable, misguided, and ridiculous, and her response to that had been … emotional. She wouldn’t discuss the possibility of an alternate settlement because she had a point to make.

She didn’t need him. Didn’t need anything from him. No more sacrifices, obligations or debts to be paid. Ryan had paid enough already. Too much.

But when he’d brought up the practicalities of the situation, she recognized her shortsightedness for what it was. And she’d been about to own up to it too before the jerk had gone and made that final threat about the gallery and keeping her in court for the rest of her natural-born life.

Her breath blew out in a huff and she threw open the closet door. Blouses, skirts, pants and dresses hung on the short rod, neatly organized by outfit and occasion. So much for that. Gathering everything into a single armload, she turned and dumped the lot onto the bed, returning to the closet for the luggage she’d stored at the bottom. She’d planned to stay a week, and now here she was packing up after less than a full day.

Irritating, but in the greater scheme of things, it wasn’t anything she wouldn’t recover from. And if it meant being able to finally close the book on that life they’d shared, then cutting her vacation short was a sacrifice she’d gladly make.

Efficiently slipping the hanger free of a washed silk crepe de chine top, she shot a glance at Ryan as he rubbed a hand over his opposite shoulder. The fabric of his tailored shirt pulled taut across the broad expanse of his back, revealing the flex and pull of muscles she used to massage at the end of a long day. He’d been in his prime then, but now, somehow he seemed broader. More powerfully built than he’d been at twenty-two.

A sharp pain bit into her hand, snapping her attention to the hanger jabbing into her palm and the blouse inadvertently mangled within her grasp.

She didn’t like being this close to Ryan. She hadn’t wanted to meet with him at all. Hadn’t wanted to know what changes so many years had wrought in the man she’d once loved beyond measure. She’d seen the headlines. Heard the rumors. Hated the idea that he could be so different. And yet, here and now, a part of her was hoping everything she’d read was true. That the man he’d been was gone and all that remained was a body vaguely reminiscent of the one she’d known. It would be so much easier to defend this heart she’d painstakingly pieced back together against a body alone.

The pity of it was, she wouldn’t even have to try.

Twenty minutes later, Ryan stood at the window looking out over downtown Rome, his back to the chaos erupting behind him.

“No, you heard me right,” Claire grumbled into the phone wedged between her shoulder and ear. “He says two hours. Sally, I’m sorry to do this to you.”

Yes, he got the point. He was the villain, inconveniencing everyone with his outrageous demands. Whatever. He was done with the placating and appeasement. Claire might not like that he’d cut into her vacation, but ultimately, she’d started the ball rolling with that fast pitch of papers. He’d just caught her off guard by being ready with a mitt and then calling her out.

By his count, they were even.

“Wait, when did the email come in …? They have instructions already on the East Wing exhibit. Drew has the insurance information too …”

The corner of Ryan’s mouth kicked up. This was the fifth segue the conversation had taken back to gallery business in so many minutes. That after three calls on the taxi ride back from the piazza alone. Claire was as tied to her work as he was, and by all accounts loving every minute of it. She was good. Efficient. And decisive with a professional polish and an authoritative edge that hadn’t been part of her makeup when they’d been together.

Gone was that pretty princess who was just a little bit spoiled but so very sweet he’d been rubbing his hands together at the prospect of taking care of her.

And gone too was the broken shell of a girl reality had all but shattered.

She was so different.

In some ways. In others … well, even his reactions were the same.

With her attention split between Sally and packing, he allowed his gaze to meander slowly down the length of her—from where the silky fall of her dark hair spilled over the too-thin, fuzzy white of her clingy sweater. The trim tuck of her waist and the filmy skirt that covered hips and legs he’d once known every curve and cut of, but now could only imagine, based on the hints revealed beneath the flow of fabric. And then there they were. Slim ankles, supported by the damnedest contraptions he’d ever laid eyes on.

Too many inches of slender spike to be safe strutting the downtown streets of Rome.

She leaned over the bed, one leg planted on the floor, the other cocked at the knee, toe to the carpet, heel swiveling in a slow turn.

Ryan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, his chest tight. Too many inches to be safe from him.

He was not thinking of the bite of that heel at his back. Or the way those legs felt wrapped around his hips. Over his shoulders.

Bad idea.

His gaze tracked up again, following the delicate turn of her ankle, the curve of her calf where it played a tantalizing game of peekaboo beneath the swaying hem of her skirt. Over round hips and a smooth spine that bowed into a soft arch as she reached—

Get a grip, Brady.

So being with Claire was nothing like the few times they’d shared space in the last nine years. Big deal. It wasn’t like that first year either—when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her. When everything was so damn right, before it suddenly, completely, went so damn wrong.

So what was with the leering and observation at a nonplatonic level?

Whatever it was, it stopped then. He’d made an international reputation for himself based on an ability to judge a situation or opportunity. Evaluate risk and return. And no good could come from letting Claire crawl under his skin.

A clatter of hangers over the bed snapped his attention back to the conversation taking place. “… a week, he says, to get the settlement worked out.”

“Why?” A hiss of feminine breath sounded, easing into something that might have been a distant cousin to resignation. Her voice dropped, as though to mask an unwilling concession. “I want it over with.”

A punch of guilt landed with her words.

Ah, Claire. Why did we wait so long?

But really, he already knew the answer. It was one he didn’t want to think about now.

A quiet moment passed and then, “I’m glad to hear it’s working out so well with Massimo—you know I am—but you’ve just met.”

So Sally was staying behind.

“If you’re really sure … Okay. No, that’s great.”

Fine with him. The fewer distractions the better. And maybe he wanted Claire for himself.

Not to drag her off to his bed. Hell, no. He was just curious about who exactly this woman was. Though he’d quietly kept abreast of her activities over the years, her endeavors and achievements, he’d done it with a few dozen layers—in the form of secretaries, lawyers, accountants and assistants—between them. Sure, he’d known what a success she’d become. Even if he hadn’t seen the write-ups in the Times, the tax statements said it all. But all that was on paper. And the woman behind the profits and reviews—the one who had apparently been changing in ways he couldn’t imagine—was one he’d insulated himself from.

So, yeah, he was curious.

“No, no. Sally, that’s wonderful … I’m happy for you. I’ll talk to you in a week then … Okay, you too. Goodbye.”

Shoulder propped against the window casing, Ryan nodded toward the phone Claire had tossed into on open tote by the door. “So it’s settled?”

“It’s settled,” she answered, assessing the mess atop the bed. “I’ll finish here and we’ll be ready to go.”

He jut his chin toward the first overflowing case, making a point not to look too closely at the bits of brightly colored femininity strewn about in a haphazard mix with the other garments. “You need help with that?”

A distracted nod as she scanned the room. “You could close it for me and take it over by the door.”

Ryan crossed to the bed and then, flipping the lid shut, stared guiltily at the cotton-candy-pink thong that seemed to have sprung free at the last second.

It was tiny.

Delicate.

Sexy.

Cotton-candy-pink for crying out loud, and if he knew anything about Claire, it had at least one matching partner in crime buried beneath the clothes she’d shoveled into the case.

“Ryan?”

Hooking the slight scrap over his index finger, he held it up. “Escapee.”

Claire shook her head in confusion. Escapee? What was he—and then she saw. Pink lace and silk, shimmering against the golden hue of his hand. Embarrassed heat rushed her cheeks at the sight of Ryan dangling her panties in a wicked taunt.

“Jumped right into my hands,” he claimed, totally unrepentant. “What’s a man to do?”

Another man might pass the garment off, or at least avert his eyes. Not Ryan though. No, he stood blatantly fingering the delicate trim with that nefarious curve to his lips.

The things she forgot. Like his admiration for lingerie … and high heels. Together.

Wear this for me …

A frisson of nerves rippled through her, spurring an odd clench low in her belly. The seductive echo from another time teased through her mind, spurring a hundred memories to life. Each flash of skin and heat more vivid, more dangerous than the one before—

Ryan taking her in the hall when they hadn’t been able to make it to the bedroom three feet away … In the kitchen … the closet … the car …

Powerful memories that stole her breath and shocked her body into a state of desire it hadn’t known in altogether too long. Yearning heat slid through her, winding a disturbing channel of waking awareness down through the very center of her.

No! Not now. Not after all this time.

Not Ryan.

She’d given him up. Let him go. She’d just filed for divorce! Of all the men in the world, he was the dead last one she could look to.

It would be crazy. Futile. Utter stupidity.

Ryan flipped the renegade lingerie in his palm, offering it to her as the deep brown of his eyes held her captive. “Pretty.” It was a single, simple word. And yet, the rough midnight sound of it sent a shiver coursing through her. And the certainty … It would be hot. Intense. Utterly incredible.

What was the matter with her? An hour ago she’d been ready to go toe to toe with this man, and now … now she was ready go—No! She needed to look away, get off the path of destruction on which she’d suddenly found herself—and before it led them both to a place that couldn’t end in anything but embarrassment, the inevitable frustration she knew all too well and more of the guilt neither of them needed.

Fortunately for both of them, if there was one thing Claire had plenty of experience with, it was breaking a mood. “Sorry, they don’t come in men’s sizes.”

Ryan gave in to a bark of laughter. Pulled the garment just beyond reach as she grabbed, then caught her wrist. She shuddered at the heat of his hand winding up her arm, snaking through her system and pushing her heart into a staccato beat that pulsed … everywhere.

The amused smile died on his lips and the stillness of the room hovered around them. The fingers circling her wrist tightened, held firm, pulling her closer until only an inch of charged air separated their bodies. His brow drew down and a harsh question darkened his stare.

There was nothing she could do. No place to hide.

No more playful banter between them, quick comebacks or easy laughter. Just the stretch of silence. Building tension. And Ryan’s eyes trailing a hot path to her mouth.

Everything slowed. Went warm. Heavy.

Her lips parted.

Good God, this was Ryan. This was her life. The one she’d struggled and scraped and so slowly, painstakingly rebuilt. A life too precious to risk on rash or impetuous.

“Sorry,” she managed to say on a shaky breath. “No souvenirs.”

Ryan blinked, his hand jerking loose from her wrist as if he’d been burned.

Well, he had. They’d both been burned. Years ago. An ocean away. A lifetime before. And neither of them were fool enough to play with that kind of fire again.




CHAPTER FOUR


CLAIRE stared out the back window of Ryan’s chauffeured car, following the cut of highway through the Southern California valleys. At either side land swelled in green hills dotted with homes, palms, brush and the frequent sandy scar of sheered-off earth. It was beautiful even with the gray wash of inclement weather darkening the landscape and early-evening sky.

Somehow the gloomy weather seemed fitting. As if it held a sullen, quiet kind of ache in the air. No stormy, tumultuous hurricane or even weepy rain. This was simply a touch of melancholy, an apropos backdrop to the conclusion of a marriage that had, for all intents and purposes, ceased to be years ago.

The sound of a clearing throat drew her attention back to the man seated across from her in the car. Ryan reclined in a long-limbed sprawl. Tie loose and slightly askew, top button open at his neck, shirt sleeves rolled to mid forearm where they folded behind his head. His laptop was still open beside him—an array of files cluttering the seat beyond—giving the impression that his break from work was intended to be as brief as hers. “So, what do you say we give the conversation thing another go?”

Leave it to Ryan to lay it out on the table.

The communication between them had been limited to a few stilted exchanges following that one charged moment in her hotel room. The one she was working overtime to put out of her head, but, defying her efforts with the tenacity of a garden weed, had given root to a thousand questions Ryan was the absolute wrong man to help her answer. By unspoken mutual agreement they’d taken refuge in work during the long hours of the flight. Though, somewhere over the Atlantic those questions had spread through her consciousness, seeding thoughts of repercussions and what-ifs and no-ways until they’d tangled to the point that business became impossible to focus on … and she’d found her gaze drifting across the buttery leather and walnut interior of the luxury cabin, her gaze roving over the details of Ryan’s powerful physique. Wondering again, why Ryan? How, after so many years?

More than once he’d caught her staring. Their eyes would hold as if in quiet challenge. Each testing the strength of a disconcerting connection lingering between them, and their ability to withstand the spatial intimacy that was the ironic prelude to the dissolution of their marriage. And then he would look away, or she would. Without a word they’d return to the solace of their work.

Only spending the next week in silence wouldn’t get the divorce finalized. So here Ryan was, making the communication happen.

Who was she to stand in his way? “What do you have in mind?”

His head rocked from one side to the other as he let out a rush of breath, considering. “Let’s take it slow. Weather seems safe.”

Claire swallowed, fighting to keep the twitch at the corner of her mouth from giving in to a grin. “Polite.”

“Superficial.”

“Benign,” she offered with a little wave of her hand, amused by the preliminaries of selecting a suitable topic for discussion.

“Mundane. But what the hell …” He yawned with an indifferent gesture toward the window.

“It’s a shame you’re seeing the place like this. Two days ago it was gorgeous. Sun shining, temps up about seventy-five. This time of year the weather can change on a dime.”

Mundane was right. There’d been a time when they’d made a habit of talking the whole night through. When conversation between them was so compelling it physically hurt to end a call or say good night. To her recollection the weather had played into their interaction only once. A quiet Sunday morning in bed. Ryan’s strong hands running soft across her hips as he pulled her astride him, describing in exquisite detail how he wanted to make love to her in the rain. What the scattered beads of water would look like across her breasts, how the cool chill of them would make her nipples tight, hard, achy … and the hot contrast of his mouth as he closed over her, licked and sucked, would make her moan.

Her nipples puckered as the memory of Ryan sliding hot and hard inside her racked her body and stole her breath.

Oh, no. Not good.

Suddenly, the weather seemed a threat beyond compare and Claire was anything but amused. She didn’t want to think about how it had been. She didn’t want to react to the point where it was taking every ounce of will not to squirm in her seat.

Rubbing her temple with two fingers, she stared at her knees, wondering how she could still feel the sheets beneath them.

“Your turn, Claire.”

The combination of her name and the un-subtle snapping of fingers jerked her attention to Ryan’s eyes steadily focused on her. Waiting, watching, studying her with an intensity that did nothing to diffuse the slow, stirring heat deep in her belly.

God, what did he see?

She needed out of this car. Away from this man before he caught on to the wet, rain-soaked direction her thoughts had taken or how shocking her response to them truly was.

“H-hotel,” she stammered stupidly, immediately wanting to slap her forehead in the hopes of jarring her brain loose.

Ryan looked out the window, scanning their surroundings, and then back to her again. “What?”

“The hotel where I’m staying,” she clarified, managing a “silly me” roll of her eyes, though there was nothing silly about how she felt. Desperate, more like. Confused. “Just drop me on the way in. I’ll get settled and then—”

“No hotel,” he cut in with a dismissive wave, his brow smoothing in understanding. “You’ll stay at the house.”

He couldn’t be serious. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Sure it is. There’s a small day staff to clean and shop while we’re there. Don’t be surprised if you don’t see much of them. They’ve got a knack for being conveniently absent and yet amazingly available. Anything you need, they’ll get. And I’ve got a car for you in the garage.”

“No.” The single word snapped out with more force than she’d intended, but suddenly she felt cornered. After spending hours trapped in close quarters together, the only thing that had kept her from bursting out of her skin had been the promise of having some time to herself. Knowing she’d be able to get away. Have a private refuge from her body’s disconcerting reaction to the proximity of his. A place where the subtle, sexy, masculine scent of Ryan didn’t permeate every corner of the space she inhabited, as it had for the last dozen hours of travel.

And that was before he’d gone and brought up the weather!

No way. Trapped in his house, she’d be breathing him in for seven days straight.

“Not even willing to discuss it, Claire?” Ryan asked, irritation evident in his tone.

She turned to him, striving for a calm that threatened to slip fast from her grasp. “We’re hashing out a settlement—even under the most amicable terms, by the end of the day I’d imagine we’d both appreciate having some distance between us. Being able to unwind without the other there breathing down their neck.”

Ryan’s lips twitched at one corner and then pressed flat as he turned to study the passing terrain. “So it’s the neck breathing that’s the problem then. And here I’d always assumed you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

Oh, that was perfect. A little sexually charged banter between them. Just what she needed.

Not.

Eyes fixed on the roof of the car, she shook her head. “You never change.”

“Everybody changes, Claire. And everyone stays the same.” He drew a deep breath, and let his head fall back against the rest. “It’s just not always easy to see exactly how, is all.”

The suggestive teasing tone of a few seconds before was gone.

No doubt he recognized how utterly out of place it was in an exchange with the woman he was divorcing, and packed it away for a more appropriate partner.

Easing back against her seat, she thought about what he’d said. About the changes between them.

He was right, of course. In too many ways, the man seated across from her wasn’t the one she saw when she let her mind’s eye search for her husband’s face in her memories. The one who jogged the streets of downtown Chicago with that deceptively easy stride of a natural athlete, or sprinted the steps of their Boston walk-up, dressed sharply in suit and tie, working his pitch for some meeting or another. In her mind, he was forever the man he’d been, burgeoning with boundless optimism and ideas. A visionary yet to hit success. Young. Enthusiastic. And so gentle and tender, it made her heart ache to remember what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that kind of care.

Ryan was a multibillionaire now. Riding around the globe in his sleek private jet. So smooth and cool. No more nerves. No more pitches. Not since the Journal had started calling him Midas and the world at large began lining up to pitch to him. But that was just success. A surface change, like the deepened lines and furrows around his mouth and eyes.

Inside? She couldn’t say. There were a few obvious things. He was harder now. More callous. Cynical. But beyond that basic awareness, she didn’t know him. Didn’t know if she wanted to.

And she imagined Ryan felt the same way.

Looking past her hair and eyes, he probably couldn’t even recognize the girl she’d been.

But then, there wasn’t much left of that girl now.

At eighteen years old her wants, hopes and dreams had been painfully simple and completely revolved around Ryan. She’d barely known her own mind back then. Hadn’t even tried to figure out all there was to her. She’d been about looking pretty. Having fun. Laughing. Music, parties, clothes, shoes and dates. She’d enjoyed school, done well at it. But she’d been a freshman and hadn’t had the time to find her niche before circumstances required her to drop out and everything changed so completely. When her parents discovered how she’d let them down, and all the love and support that, to that point, had been the foundation for her life was suddenly revealed as conditional.

She’d been so grateful to Ryan for being there for her. Standing by her. He’d taken care of her. Loved her. Married her. Brought her with him when he’d moved for his career.

He’d treated her like gold, but she’d treated herself like some kind of accessory to his life, rather than an equal partner in it. So dependent on him she’d been afraid to step outside his shadow. So in love she’d convinced herself he was the only thing she needed.

A prickle of buried resentment pushed to the surface, making her glance guiltily away. It wasn’t fair to blame him because she’d been a fool. Or because he’d had another life to fall back on when the one they shared together crumbled.

She’d learned her lesson though. The woman she was now didn’t depend on anyone but herself. With the life she’d built, she didn’t have to. Where the old Claire had been content to drift, the new Claire was driven. Relentless in her determination. Tireless in her pursuit of her goals. Strong. Self-made and self-sufficient. The kind of woman a man accustomed to controlling every aspect of the universe around him wouldn’t be able to stand.

Ryan closed his laptop, stacked the folders and stuffed them into the messenger bag at his feet. “Look, Claire, there’s an entire guest suite. You can avoid any and all neck breathing. But we’ve got to get through this stuff. The house is nice. Trust me.”

A guest suite wouldn’t be enough. “I’m sure it is, but that’s not the point. I need my own space. Room to work. You aren’t the only one with a business to run.”

“You’re on vacation,” he countered smoothly, though she couldn’t miss the flinty edge in his eyes.

He didn’t like being challenged, and so far that’s all she’d done.

“That was more for Sally’s benefit than mine, and since she’s not around, I won’t have to sneak off to keep up with the work I’ve got.” She let out a steadying breath and searched his face for understanding. Found only a will she’d rarely had need to defy.

“So we’ll be working out the settlement around our other obligations. Working early, working late, working whenever we can make it happen. It’ll be easier if you’re available.”

Sure. His beck-and-call girl. That wasn’t going to hap pen.

“I’ll have an office set up for you in the house.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, he swept a thumb across the screen. “Just tell me what you need—”

“A hotel, Ryan.”

He remained silent. It was a tactical move in a power game she wasn’t interested in playing. “You really do always get your way, don’t you?”

Ryan held her stare, until the challenge between them dissolved.

“No, Claire. Not always.”

She swallowed down the desire to find out just what he meant by that, and straightened her spine instead. “Good. Then this won’t come as too hard of a blow.” She wasn’t giving in. And it was as much about self-preservation as it was about pride. “You’re not getting it now.”




CHAPTER FIVE


MINUTES later, her eyes wide with stylistic appreciation, Claire walked through the front entrance of Ryan’s La Jolla Shores beachfront home. She’d be staying at one of the local hotels as soon as the room could be booked, but she had agreed to view the alternative. Ryan hadn’t overstated the place. It was immense.

Three stories of slate gray, steel and glass stretched from a gated driveway, through a lush private garden, and back to the sandy expanse of beach it butted against. The architecture itself was masculine to the extreme—all clean lines and open spaces, suspended stairwells and stone floors. But the interior colors and decor were anything but minimalist or stark.

A vivid array of hues taken from the ocean and setting sun adorned each room in bold contrast and yet flawlessly matched perfection. And the artwork was spectacular, blending ancient Eastern and modern European with an eclectic mix that spoke volumes about style and taste.

The floor plan through the center of the house was primarily open layout, offering unobstructed views of the ocean from the main entrance, living room, kitchen and bar, with a few walled divisions to the left side. Because the house was built on a gradient, what had been the ground level at the front door was actually the second floor, resulting in the illusion that the terrace floated above the ocean beyond.

“This is stunning, Ryan.”

He stood at a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows and grinned. “It gets better. Let me show you.”

Releasing one latch after another, he swung the wide glass panels ninety degrees on their axis and turned the living room into an extension of the terrace beyond. A cool, briny breeze wound through the house, carrying the low rumble of waves, and catching the creamy sheers in a billowing dance of light, motion and sound.

Ryan nearly bounced on the balls of his feet, his obvious pride and pleasure in his home making him look ten years younger. “Pretty great, huh?”

Yes. Enough that she was aching to knot her hair on top of her head, stretch out her arms and let that delicious breeze tickle the back of her neck and tease through her clothes. Instead, she simply nodded her agreement with a genuine smile. “It is.”

“So, kitchen, dining room and living area are here on the main level. My rooms are on the third floor. If you’d like to clean up before we get you into a hotel, I’ll show you the guest suite.”

Downstairs, Ryan held open the last door on the left, revealing a sitting area, full bath, bedroom and yet another spectacular view of the ocean beyond. Drawn by the opulence of a suite she imagined remained largely unused, she walked toward the back, by habit cataloging each piece of art and elegant adornment along the way. His collection was spectacular.

The bedroom opened to a second, lower terrace, partially shaded by the one above. Crossing to the window, she wondered how Ryan was able to accomplish any work with views like these available from every vantage in the house.

And then she remembered. “You don’t really live here, do you?”

He stood against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest. “No. It’s more of a retreat. I split most of my time between Boston and L.A., but I thought we’d be better off down here. Less visible.”

“Trying to keep me hush-hush?” Claire teased with a crooked smirk, knowing full well the accommodation was entirely for her benefit. She was the only one with something to lose if their relationship became public knowledge. “Am I your dirty little secret?”

“Right,” he answered with a short laugh. “Think how my reputation would suffer if news of my scandalous child bride got out.”

“I was eighteen.”

Another bark of laughter. “I should have been shot.”

Ah, the old argument. Only this time, rather than give in to the usual go-round, she felt the need to voice her feelings while she still had the chance. “Hey, it was good for a while. We were both just … naive.”

The lightness of the moment was gone as quickly as it had come. Ryan’s dark brown eyes fixed on hers, then shifted out toward the horizon. He didn’t believe her. But then, they both knew why they’d married in the first place. Despite how she’d wished it were otherwise, the marriage had been an honorable act. Ryan doing the right thing by her.

“Yeah, we were.”

The words were simple enough, but there was a hollow, almost desolate, quality to them that pulled at the places in her soul Claire didn’t like to revisit. And just like that, the memories were there. The good, the bad, the bitter and heartbreaking. Turning heavy and dark, they swamped her with emotions she no longer acknowledged. Weighted her shoulders with echoes of the bleak despair that had nearly stolen her life.

No. She wouldn’t give in again.

Her vision swam and she took an unsteady step back from the glass, felt the ground give and the world go thick and slow.

“Claire!” And then Ryan was there, one hand clamped tight around her upper arm, the other locked across her waist as he caught her to him.

Awareness returned in a breath-seizing crash at the press of his chest, hips and thighs against her back. The solid strength of him bracketing her body. Pieces of a puzzle long ago abandoned, coming together in a dangerous alignment of hard and soft.

Her equilibrium returned and she steadied her footing.

“God, I’m sorry,” she managed to say weakly, trying to step free of the arms enveloping her, but Ryan held fast. “I’m okay.”

“Like hell.” The gravel-rough words hit her ear, low and accusing. “What happened?”

Wondering the same, she drew a shallow breath. Then another. Deeper. Only, the next breath met the rhythm of Ryan’s and set their bodies into synchronized movement that was … intimate. Her gaze dropped to her abdomen where Ryan’s hand splayed low and wide, securing her to him in a hold that was almost erotic. She closed her eyes to it, but she could still feel the heat of his hand against her, the strength of his body behind. Remembering his hands moving over her the way they once had. One cupping, plucking at her breast … as the other slid lower to where achy heat had now begun to throb between her legs.

God, this was crazy.

No, she was crazy. Because it wasn’t the memories causing her to sway on her feet. It wasn’t Ryan or the past or the present or any kind of emotional weakness. It was her own stupidity.

“I should have eaten on the plane.” Had some water. Slept a little. But then she’d been too keyed up to register the basic needs of her body.

“Food?”

A harsh breath sounded above her head, and in an abrupt shift, Ryan swung her into his arms and carried her the few steps to the bed, depositing her without finesse.

“Stay there.”

Ryan took the stairs three at a time, rounding the second level in a matter of seconds.

Food.

He’d nearly had a heart attack when Claire stumbled back on legs that looked as if they’d gone to jelly beneath her, her features slipping from that irritatingly controlled mask she’d been giving him to lax. Through reflex alone, he’d caught her against him before the reality of what was happening registered in his brain. And then she’d been in his arms and his blood stopped cold in his veins.

He’d been there before. Helpless. A bystander as the woman who’d been his wife bled from the body in his arms.

But that wasn’t what was happening now. Claire hadn’t eaten. When he thought about it, she hadn’t slept either. She’d been a workhorse for that gallery of hers, keeping pace with him through their entire day of travel. But then, not only had he eaten, he was also accustomed to pushing through more hours than these. Did it on a regular basis.

What Claire was used to, he had no idea.

He should have paid more attention on the flight.

Only, every time he’d looked too closely at her, he found himself wanting to reach out and touch. To test the texture of her skin. See what she felt like again.

Well, he’d had his chance. He’d had her in his arms and now he knew. She felt good. So good that when she’d regained her senses and he should have let her go, he’d held on. Stealing those extra seconds of contact—

Shaking loose the fists balled at his sides, he held them out, assessing their steadiness. Swore and shook them again before wrenching open the door to the Sub-Zero.

No more touching. That was for damn sure.

A minute later he was back in the guest suite twisting the cap free from a sports drink and thrusting it into Claire’s hand. “First this.”

“Thank you.” She turned the bottle in her hands, scanning the label before bringing it to her lips to drink. Several swallows later she rested the bottle against her knee and accepted the energy bar he’d opened.

He watched her eat. Followed each dainty bite until the pink tip of her tongue swept across the swell of her bottom lip to capture a stray crumb … And then he looked away. Willed the tightening in his groin to cease, calling up memories of the vegetable drawer in his college apartment as a last but amazingly effective resort.

“Feeling better?” he asked, tracking the empty stretch of damp packed sand to where it curved off into the cove. He needed to run. To push past his endurance and find that state of grace where the tether between mind and body stretched taut and thin. Where the world reordered in his head. And the tension twisting around his every nerve slipped loose.

“Yes … Just embarrassed more than anything.”

He turned back to her. The color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes were clear and alert. “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

“No. Not at all.”

That was a relief to hear, but at the same time, what if it was something more serious than a nosedive in blood sugar? Or what if she wasn’t being straight with him?

He didn’t know anything about her anymore.

Catching her chin between finger and thumb, he tipped her face to his, searching for signs of wear. Maybe a longer-term hunger or extreme fatigue. Anything to suggest things weren’t as she’d said.





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