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
