Still, he’d play along.
Didn’t have much choice, really.
He needed her help, or a young woman might die at the hands of a man Cedar had put back on the streets. The man he’d manipulated Heather into helping him set free.
He hadn’t done it to serve justice, but to serve his own compulsion to win.
“Then I hope you’ll come join us for our celebratory toast. The champagne’s been poured and passed around. We were just missing my bride-to-be.”
With a bow of his head, Cedar conceded defeat. Or compliance. Or whatever the hell he was doing. Because Heather had asked him to come to her party.
He stood beside the happy couple as they were toasted again and again. He sipped champagne. And tried his damndest to be okay with the fact that the woman he loved was about to marry another man.
SHE’D ALMOST KISSED HIM. Or let him kiss her.
It had been a conditioned response. She knew that. But she was still disappointed in herself. If she was going to be happy, to quit worrying about making poor choices and letting herself down, to stop being paranoid about people using her and about being unable to use her skills on a personal level, she had to manage to be around Cedar and not capitulate to whatever he wanted.
To anything he wanted.
He wanted her. The knowledge was a boost to the pride he’d injured when he’d put her low on his list of priorities. But she wasn’t proud of herself for having felt a thrill of gratitude that at least she’d mattered to him for more than how she could help him reach his goals. For more than the asset she’d been to his career and his unending drive to win.
He hadn’t won her, and he wasn’t going to.
The only reason she’d agreed, before he’d left the other night, to see him again—to meet him for lunch to discuss some business matter he had—was to prove to herself, and to him, that the incident in the kitchen had been an anomaly. A natural reaction to seeing a lover again for the first time since their intensely painful split. The pain had faded, the hurt feelings and blame dissipated, leaving room for good memories to slip in. Good memories were healthy. She welcomed them.
However, she wouldn’t be swayed by them. Because she knew that memories were all they were. A few good times in between all the bad. They weren’t significant, didn’t represent a way of life. Or possibilities. They were merely the bag that lined the trash can.
Trying to scroll through the bad memories, she faltered, finding far more good ones that outweighed the disappointments—regularly missed occasions, perennial lateness, a constant lack of returned phone calls... Until that last case, the last week, the last day.
While most of Cedar’s clients were wealthy businessmen who were charged with white-collar crimes, during the last year they’d been together, he’d taken on two high-profile criminal cases. She’d never been completely sure why. He’d earned a reputation by then; Cedar Wilson commanded the highest price, but he did what it took to get the job done.
The change in him had been gradual, as winning began to matter more than justice. More than right and wrong. Or even his clients. Maybe that was why she hadn’t seen it coming, because it had happened slowly, over time.
Or maybe because, at home, he was still the man who struggled with insecurities. A grown-up version of the young boy who’d never been good enough to deserve personal acknowledgment from his famous father, the singer Randy Cedar-Jones. He’d called him after every case, telling him—through voice mail—about every victory. Without taking offense when there was never a response.
At home, he was a man who touched her tenderly. One who cooked beside her, who slept beside her, who woke her with a smile and a cup of coffee every morning.
As she dressed for lunch on Monday, she reminded herself of all the hard-earned lessons of the past year. And of the happiness she’d felt the night Charles had proposed to her.
Something Cedar had never done—despite years of conversations about “someday.”
He hated seeing her in leggings, so she wore a pair of pink ones with black cactus shapes on them, topping them with a figure-hugging black tunic and short black boots. Not the professional he’d be expecting to see.
Not even how she’d normally dressed. The leggings were a gift from Raine, who’d become an online distributor for them. Heather had never actually worn them before.
Cedar had left shortly after the toasts on Saturday night, but not without a word in her ear about that day’s meeting. He’d said it was strictly business. And really important.
She felt he’d been telling the truth, so she’d agreed to see him.
She would let Charles know about the meeting just as soon as she knew what it was about. Then she could reassure him about her lack of involvement in this “business matter” before he had a chance to get nervous about the contact.
Cedar was already seated at a table by the window of a local eatery when she arrived. In one of his signature designer suits—this one in tones of gray, his put-at-ease choice—his thick dark hair a little longer than he used to wear it, he’d have stood out from the crowd even without the advantage of his six-foot-two height.
The restaurant was one they’d favored during their time together, not only because of the talented chef, but because of the ocean views. Heather couldn’t get enough of the water that kept rolling to shore, century after century. She wasn’t sure if Cedar had ever given the Pacific’s grandeur a second thought.
Charles had. He respected the ocean’s power. Its unending energy. He’d engaged in long talks with her about it as they’d walked, hand in hand, along the beach, watching the tide come in and go out.
“New outfit,” Cedar said, as he stood to pull out her chair and then, as she sat, took his seat again.
She knew he didn’t like it and was satisfied with her choice. But then she said, “Raine gave it to me. I have to wear it so when she asks me if I did, I can tell her yes.”
She was making excuses. Felt like she was sliding backward. She had no reason or need to please Cedar.
“I like it,” he told her. “It looks good on you.” The sexy grin on his face, the warmth in his straightforward dark brown gaze, didn’t give even a hint of untruth.
She didn’t like the outfit. That was the truth. She’d worn it to spite him. It hadn’t worked; she didn’t like that, either.
“But then, anything looks good on you,” Cedar added, picking up his menu. “Or nothing.”
Her feminine parts filled with heat.
And she was ashamed.
* * *
HE WAS A damned fraud. A man who’d created situations to fit what he knew people needed so he could get what he wanted. He’d vowed to himself he’d stop. And here he was...still
