possible.
Having both endured grueling, nasty divorces, the project had been more therapeutic than financially motivated. They hadn’t even been sure anyone would want to publish it. In fact, they had been fairly certain the manuscript would sit untouched on some apathetic editor’s desk, yellowing at the edges and gathering dust.
Not only did it sell, it became ensnared in a bidding war between several publishing houses. Since its release it had been topping the bestseller lists. It was a pure fluke that it had struck a chord with so many readers. And disturbing to discover the staggering number of women who had endured, or were presently experiencing, painful divorces.
It had solidified Ivy’s belief that happy, successful marriages were a rare anomaly not experienced by the majority of the population. And with very few exceptions, women were better off staying single.
“I would think you’d have run out of material by now,” Dillon said.
Was the hotshot billionaire afraid he would be seeing his checkered past in print again?
Well, well. This was interesting.
“Do I detect a note of concern?” she asked.
“The truth is, I was thinkin’ May be I’ll write a book, too.”
If he was trying to scare her, he would have to do better. “Good luck with that.”
“A tell-all with every intimate detail of our marriage.” He grinned and nodded his head, as if he was really warming to the idea. “Yeah. Or better yet, May be I should send a letter or two to Penthouse Forum.”
“Sex with you was not that exciting,” she said, knowing as well as he did that it was a big fat lie. Near the end, their sex life had been as volatile as their tempers, as if they had been taking out all their frustrations in bed.
“Are you forgetting the time we got creative with that bottle of hot fudge and you let me lick it off your—”
“I remember,” she interjected, fighting the blush that had begun to creep up from her collar. Hot fudge hadn’t been the only food they’d experimented with. She had fond memories of a can of whipped cream and a bottle of maraschino cherries.
“And if memory serves, you had a particularly sensitive spot, right here…” He reached up and brushed the tip of his index finger against the spot just below her ear.
She instinctively batted his hand away, but not before a ripple of erotic sensation whispered across her skin, making her feel warm and shivery at the same time. She shot him a warning look.
His victory triggered a triumphant, smug grin. “Yes, ma’am, it’s still there.”
“Try it again and you’ll lose that finger.” Verbal torment was one thing. Touching was off limits.
“I think I just figured out your problem.”
So had she. He was walking right beside her.
But she had to ask, “Which problem would that be?”
“Sex.”
Sex? Oh, she couldn’t wait to see where he was going with this. “My problem is sex?”
“I’ll bet you haven’t had it in a long time.”
She thought back to Deidre’s comment about Ivy’s less than active sex life. The truth was, she hadn’t been with a man, hadn’t had time for a relationship, much less a one-night stand, in so long she wasn’t sure she remembered how. But as she told Deidre, she didn’t need a man to complete her. And if she was looking for sexual release, she didn’t need a man for that, either.
“And you’re basing this assumption on what exactly?” she asked Dillon.
“Though you try to repress it, you’re a very passionate person. Passionate people need sex regularly or they get cranky. And darlin’, you are about as cranky as they come.”
Did it ever occur to him that he was the one making her cranky?
“It can’t be just any sex, either,” he went on. “It has to be damned good, preferably with someone who knows exactly what it takes to light their fire.”
And she was pretty sure he was offering to do the job. Did he honestly think he could charm his way back into her bed? Could he possibly be that arrogant?
Of course he could.
The real question was, what did she plan to do about it? How would she put him in his place and teach him a lesson he should have learned a long time ago?
She would do the one thing he would never expect. The only thing that would knock him completely off balance.
She stopped abruptly, right in the middle of the street, in front of God and everyone, and turned to face him. Before he could get his bearings, or she had a second of clarity to talk herself out of it, she reached up and curled her fingers into the front of his shirt. She wrapped her other hand around the back of his neck and tugged him down to her level.
He smelled of soap and shampoo and his hair was soft around her fingers. His wide-eyed surprise was the last thing she saw as she planted a kiss right on his damp and slightly parted lips.
Just when Dillon thought he had Ivy pegged, she did something completely off the wall and totally out of character. He’d expected some sort of reaction from her. One of those cool, deadly stares or a snippy remark. The last thing he’d expected was a kiss.
And he sure as hell hadn’t expected to enjoy it.
One brush of her full, soft lips, one taste of her sweet mouth, and the memory of the fighting, the bitter, angry words they had flung at each other like daggers, misted like the ocean spray, then evaporated in the hot, dry Mexican air.
It came on swift and sudden, like a sniper attack, and before his brain had a chance to catch up with his body to process the acute physical response, it was over.
In a flash he was back on the noisy, crowded street. Ivy stood with her hands propped on her hips, looking up at him. Her eyes cold. In that instant he understood exactly what she was doing and what she meant to accomplish. And for reasons he didn’t understand—or didn’t want to admit—he felt cheated.
No one had looked at him with the same genuine and honest admiration as Ivy had. As long as he could remember, his family name had afforded him certain privileges. With little more than a snap of his fingers he could have had any woman he desired.
Ivy had been the only one he’d ever needed.
She saw through him, to the real man inside. She understood him in a way no one else had. Or May be she had been the only one who bothered to try.
She studied him for a good thirty seconds, looking almost bored, then shrugged. “Nothing.”
Ouch. She’d scored one on him, no doubt, and it had been a direct hit.
“I guess you just don’t do it for me anymore,” she said apologetically. “But I appreciate the offer.”
She
