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“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.