Sandra Dee with her buttoned-up blouses, her little designer handbags and ridiculous shoes. But in less than a week of meeting her for afternoon tea, taking walks along the Thames and exploring the city together, he’d fallen completely and irrevocably in love. He’d never understood what it was that she’d seen in him, but he did know one thing; he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another girl in his life.
His mistake had been to believe the lies that had fallen so easily from those cherub lips; that she was a twenty-one-year-old college student spending a summer abroad. That she only had one year of college left. That she was legally old enough to get married.
That she loved him.
Now he could hardly comprehend that his young wife and this exotic creature might be one and the same. He’d barely stepped onto the stage back in the ballroom, when a woman at a nearby table had suddenly lurched to her feet and done a bad rendition of the old tablecloth trick, dumping every place setting onto the floor in a cacophony of shattered dishware.
She’d been dressed in an eye-popping Princess Leia slave-girl costume that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Graeme had paused, prepared to make a joke about escapees from Jabba the Hutt’s harem, when he’d found himself looking past the gold mask and straight into a pair of eyes that he’d recognize anywhere.
Shock had slammed through him, but she was gone before he could react, pushing past the crowd and vanishing through a side door. Graeme hadn’t paused to think about his actions. He’d leaped from the stage, intent only upon catching the woman. But the mob of costumed fans had other ideas and for several frustrating seconds, he’d found himself sinking beneath a surging mass of greedy females who’d clamored for an autograph, a photo, a hug, a kiss. He might never have escaped their clutches if it hadn’t been for his publicist and hotel security, pushing their way through the crowd and extricating him from the surging mass of women.
With muttered apologies, he’d broken free and dashed through the side door, his eyes searching the area beyond. He was rewarded when he saw Princess Leia frantically trying to access a service elevator. With a low growl, he’d plunged down the corridor after her, only dimly aware of the shrieking women who’d pursued him.
As he’d sprinted down the hallway, he knew his gut had been right; the woman was Lara. A glossy braid swung between her shoulder blades, the color of a brand-new penny. In five years, he’d never come across another person with hair that unique shade of copper, and despite the fact her body had definitely changed—in a bite-your-fist, hold-me-back kind of way—there was absolutely no question in his mind that the woman trying so desperately to escape was her.
He’d had an instant of panic when she bolted into the elevator and the doors began to close, but a burst of adrenaline had propelled him forward enough that he got his hand inside. He’d thrust himself through the doors and into the compartment with her.
For a split second, he’d registered the utter dismay in her sapphire eyes, before he’d abruptly turned his back on her. Aside from preventing the hordes of fans from mobbing the elevator, he’d needed to get a grip on himself.
As impossible as it seemed, Lara was here. And clearly, not too pleased that he’d followed her.
Graeme didn’t know what kind of reaction he’d expected, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this. She was simply staring at him from behind the ornate mask as if she didn’t know him from Adam. As if she hadn’t just fled the ballroom with him in hot pursuit. As if she hadn’t noticed the pack of screaming women who’d been hot on his heels.
As if he hadn’t—once upon a time—explored every luscious inch of her body with his hands and mouth.
There was no greeting, no how-do-you-do, no nothing. Instead, she gave him a polite, distant little smile and let her gaze drift away from him, fixing her attention on the blinking numbers over the door as if she had no freaking idea who he was.
As if they were complete strangers.
Which was nuts, because even if she didn’t recognize him as the man she’d once married, he was still Graeme Hamilton. If his publicist was to be believed, every woman who’d registered for the convention had done so because she was a huge Graeme Hamilton fan.
Then it hit him.
Lara was hoping like hell that he wouldn’t recognize her. She didn’t want him to recognize her. Graeme knew the body language well enough, since he frequently employed the same tactic when he left his Los Angeles apartment.
But did she really think he wouldn’t know who she was? That a mask would be enough to throw him? He’d recognize her anywhere. Even now, her scent was driving him insane, the same way it had done five years ago. It was an intoxicating blend of something light and exotic that was hers alone. He could pick her out of a crowd even if he was blindfolded.
Shit. He needed a drink. But he’d learned the hard way that drinking wouldn’t help him forget Lara, no matter how desperate he might be.
Memories shoved their way inside his mind and he could still see her spread out beneath him. Lara, her red-gold hair splayed out across the crisp linens. Her lush lips parted, sapphire eyes glazed with pleasure. Her back arched, and her pale breasts thrusting upward, their rosy nipples tempting him. Her limbs wrapped around him, her heat gripping him, drawing him in as she urged him to thrust faster, deeper—
Shit. Shit.
What the hell game was she playing at? There was only one reason he could think of for her being here; she wanted out of their marriage. Memories of the two nights they’d spent together still caused his toes to curl with recalled lust. But despite what he and Lara had shared—and they’d shared plenty—she’d walked out of his life forty-eight hours after their wedding.
But the nightmare hadn’t ended there. The day after Lara left, when Graeme had returned to his tiny apartment in London, Brent Whitfield had paid him a visit, accompanied by a lawyer and two government agents.
Graeme had been shocked by the news that her father was the U.S. Ambassador to England. Brent Whitfield came from a long and prominent line of political servants, and if his influential lineage wasn’t enough to make Graeme feel like a peasant, the Whitfield family money would have. But Graeme had never believed that money made one person better than another. While he could appreciate that Brent wanted to protect his daughter from avaricious money-grubbers, the way he’d treated Graeme had been unforgivable.
Graeme still saw red when he recalled the accusations that Lara’s father had hurled at him. He’d made Graeme feel like the worst kind of low-life scum, as though he was morally corrupt. He’d threatened to have Graeme arrested for statutory rape, but Graeme had known just enough about Scottish law to know that his marriage to Lara had been legitimate and would hold up in court.
Refusing to sign those annulment papers had given him a fierce sense of satisfaction. He’d made a promise to Lara’s father that day; if Lara wanted out of the marriage, she’d have to tell him so to his face. He’d have no problem letting her go; all she needed to do was ask him herself. But she hadn’t had the guts to.
There had been a couple of times over the past five years when he’d almost filed the papers himself so that he could move on with his life, but both times he’d chickened out.
She’d been in college—for real, this time—and he hadn’t wanted to disrupt her studies. And if he was honest with himself, part of the reason he hadn’t pushed the divorce was because so long as she was married to him, she
