blue eyes—drew attention. He certainly wasn’t your typical Englishman, and maybe that’s what fascinated the women. He looked foreign. Dangerous.
But then, he was dangerous.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, shifting and accelerating.
“You.” She tried to disguise the intensity of her feelings, but wasn’t succeeding. She shouldn’t be here alone with him. She couldn’t let herself get close to him. They weren’t teenagers anymore, and she knew Lon didn’t play games. No, Lon played for keeps.
And she didn’t do keeps. At least, not with Alonso. He was still too unpredictable, still too intimidating.
Her gaze traveled his broad forehead, the wide jaw, the strong nose before settling on the thin scar running along the edge of Lon’s right cheekbone. The scar hadn’t been there five years ago. “How did you get that scar?”
“Nicked myself shaving.” He leaned back in his deep leather seat. It was a deep scar, an ugly scar. It wasn’t a shaving mishap.
“Must have been a big razor.”
The corner of his mouth twisted. “Huge.”
She couldn’t look away from the scar. It should have ruined his hard face. Instead it added strength. Character. With the creases at his eyes and the scar high on his cheek, he looked like a man that knew his way around the world. Like a man who’d come to terms with life. “Did it hurt?”
“Losing you hurt more.”
She sucked in a breath and glanced down at her bare hands. Her left hand felt so empty without her heavy ring.
“So you’ve never married?” she asked, swiftly changing subjects, trying to find safer ground. Clive had told her once that Lon maintained homes and offices in Bogota and Buenos Aires but it seemed like a universe away from her life in England.
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Live-in girlfriend?”
“You’re quite curious, muñeca. Are you interested in applying for the job?”
His slow, mocking smile set her heart racing and her limbs felt like lead. Oh, he was still dangerous. He still turned her inside out, made her feel shaky and jittery. “Sorry. Not interested.” She should have never gotten into his car, should never have agreed to this. “Living-in is less exciting than fairy tales would lead us to believe.”
“The disillusioned princess.”
“Hardly a princess.”
“No, just an impoverished lady forced to sell her house, her car, and now her wedding ring.”
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. He could hurt her in ways no one else could. “They’re just things,” she whispered.
“And what are things when you’re surrounded by warmth and tenderness and love?”
She almost hated him right now. He was so cold, so cynical. He had to know she was living alone with the Countess, Clive’s mother. He knew the Countess, too. He knew she wasn’t warm, and he had to know Sophie was virtually trapped at Melrose Court with no personal space, or freedom, anymore.
But she didn’t say that, didn’t say a word. If he wanted to be cruel, fine, let him. He’d be gone soon. He’d drop her at Melrose Court and drive off into the night and she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.
“I would have paid you twice as much for your ring, Sophie.” Lon’s voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity. The emerald alone was worth twenty thousand pounds. The setting was another ten to fifteen.”
She shrugged. Don’t think about it, she told herself. You didn’t know, and even if you did, you wouldn’t have been able to get more. “I’m happy with what he paid me.”
“As long as you’re happy,” he answered, running a hand across his brow, rubbing tiredly.
His hair was long, longer than he’d ever worn it ten years earlier, and the back nearly touched his shoulders. He was too big for the black Porsche. His shoulders filled the car. His hands on the steering wheel were large, his skin burnished from hours in the sun.
But he wasn’t just big. He was strong. Immensely powerful. She knew Lon had worked in the mines personally, years before he’d ever bought his share. He hadn’t been afraid of the explosives, the tight quarters, the perils of collapsing tunnels and elevator shafts.
What an odd pair they were. Lon, afraid of nothing, and Sophie, afraid of everything.
“How long did the honeymoon last, Sophie?”
She startled, shocked by his nerve. “That’s none of your business.”
His smile was cool. “I want to know. Tell me. How long did it take before you knew you’d made a mistake?”
Her mouth went dry. She struggled to swallow. “Take that back!”
“Not a chance.”
“You have no right—”
“I loved you.” Lon’s voice dropped, his jaw tightening with anger. “Clive never loved you. He just didn’t want me to have you.”
“No.”
“Yes. And you, silly girl, were so damn afraid of your feelings, you ran straight into his arms.”
Her head swam, Lon’s words nearly making her ill. She reached for the door handle as if she could escape.
But there was no escape. Lon had found her. Lon still wanted her. And deep inside she knew this time Lon would never let her go.
“Do you know what it was like, realizing I’d lost you forever?” He ground his teeth together as he stared straight out the windshield, night falling all around them. But the strain showed in his face, reflected by the dashboard lights, and the greenish dashboard light heightened the paleness of his scar. “I knew you’d never have an affair, either. Good sweet Sophie Johnson would be true to her husband. And you were, weren’t you?”
His leather coat had fallen open and his black cashmere sweater was v-necked, a fairly deep v-neck that showed tanned skin and hard muscles. Lon’s chest was wide, deep, the thick muscles wrapping his rib cage in sinewy bands.
She blinked back stinging tears. “Of course I was loyal.”
“Of course.” He smiled but there was no warmth, no mercy in his eyes. “You’re loyal to everyone—but me.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks and she felt hot and prickly all over. “We were young, Lon. I was young.”
“Not that young.”
“And
