let his fingers trail up her arm. His hands remembered the feel of her flesh. His lips remembered her kisses. His body remembered what it was like to be with hers.
Then again, did he want to get involved with Petra? Hadn’t they had their shot at happiness and wholly missed the mark? Beyond the breakup, there was the aftermath. Two years and nothing—not even a damn email. Could he relive those dark days after she’d left, when Scotch was his only friend?
No, Ian could not—would not—let himself stumble off that cliff a second time.
And yet his fingers burned with the need to touch her.
He bent his head, his mouth brushing her cheek. She exhaled, a quiver in her breath. It was all the encouragement he needed. His lips found hers and he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. For Ian, Petra was the best bad choice he could ever make.
* * *
Petra pressed her body into Ian’s. His strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He was an intoxicating mix of commanding and dangerous; and tonight, Petra intended to get drunk on her former lover.
She parted her lips and his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Too soon, too fast, she was consumed by the kiss.
Ian gripped her neck and pulled back, exposing her throat as he covered her with kisses. With his other hand, he cupped her breast. His touch was light and her nipple hardened at once. He deepened the kiss, claiming her, making Petra a captive of her own unchecked lust.
Head bent, he kissed her breast, wetting the cotton fabric, his tongue dancing over her nipple. She moaned with ecstasy that she could no longer contain. How long had it been since someone had had this effect on her? How long had it been since her desires had been so ignited?
The questions weren’t hard to answer. It was when she’d last been with Ian. He was something she’d promised never to do again, and yet—here she was.
When his hand skimmed her waistband, Petra quit thinking. Flesh on flesh, his fingers moved lower and lower. He touched the silky fabric of her panties. She was wet, and her innermost muscles clenched with longing and desire. Even though in the back of her mind, she knew this was the worst kind of mistake.
He rubbed the top of her sex, filling her with molten gold, and she no longer cared.
“Ian,” she moaned. “Oh, Ian, I’ve missed you—I’ve missed us.”
He broke away from the kiss and lifted her onto the island before situating himself between her parted thighs. He was already hard. She arched her back, pressing herself into him. Even with the layers of clothes separating them, the feeling was delicious.
“Do you want me?” he asked, his voice husky. “Tell me you want me.”
It would be so easy to love Ian again, especially since she’d never really stopped caring. Then again, what was love if they didn’t want the same life? She already knew the answer—it was an empty sentiment that led to heartache and loneliness.
She placed her hands on his chest and pushed firmly. Sliding from the island to the floor, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, not trapping the kiss, not wiping it away. Her fingers trembled. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. I should leave.”
“And go where? You said yourself that the media has camped out at your apartment. Don’t be daft,” he said, his voice without a shred of emotion. “Stay.”
Petra gritted her teeth at his calm. She was nothing more than feelings and second-guesses. “Do you always have a stiff upper lip?”
“I suppose so. It goes with the tea and the affinity for British cars.”
“And your dry sense of humor.”
“There’s that, too. By the way, I was wondering—how did you get in?”
The kiss and the passion and the dreams of the future—or rather, the past—were gone for Ian. She needed to drive them all from her mind and her heart, too. “You hadn’t changed the code for the lock,” she said. “I supposed that since I could still get in, you might be willing to help me...”
Ian shrugged. “I guess I never thought that you’d come back.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She wanted Ian to confess that he’d kept the same code deliberately, all the while hoping for her return. Sure, he wanted her, even now—the kiss had proved that. But sex and passion had never been their problem. It was the emotional connection she craved, the knowing that he would be there if she needed him. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask for help. Will you,” she asked, “still help me? Even after...” She paused, not sure how to characterize what had just happened. “Even after everything?”
“Like I said, I’ll do some digging tonight and see what turns up. From there, you go to your attorney. Agreed?”
She paused again. This time it was for another indelicate subject—money. After all, he was a professional and well paid for his services. She knew; she used to live with him.
Sure, Petra had her own job. But while she was far from poor, she’d emptied her savings account to retain her attorney. She swallowed. “How much will it cost?”
Ian waved her question away. “Don’t even mention that to me. Now go upstairs and try to get some rest.”
Rest? She could hardly imagine sitting down, much less sleeping. “You said you have some of my clothes?”
Ian raked his hair back. “In the dresser, upstairs guest room.”
Oh yes, he had told her that already. “Then I guess I better...” Her throat burned and tightened, her words trailing off.
“I’ll let you know what I’ve found out about Arnie Hatch’s background in the morning.”
To Petra, it seemed as if the events that led her here had happened years ago and not mere hours. Yet there had been a brief instant while Ian held her that transcended time. In those short moments, Petra had truly felt safe, as if nothing could hurt her.
Ian was now at the sink, rinsing out the teacups. She regarded his form, his broad shoulders and narrow waist—and that rock-hard butt. Without question, he was gorgeous.
But it was what Petra knew about him that made Ian more than appealing. His hair wasn’t just blond, with golden and copper strands woven throughout. His eyes, a stormy gray, actually began as silver near his iris and darkened to charcoal at the edge of his pupil. He had a dimple on his lower back that she had kissed countless times and a scar atop his foot.
Even more important than his looks were his character and unwavering confidence, his dedication and strength. Ian was the kind of man women wanted and men wanted to be.
“Can I help with Arnie? I’ve met him before and—”
Ian didn’t turn around. “I work better alone.”
Alone.
There it was again. She should have known better than to offer. “Thank you, then,” she said, “for everything.”
“You’re
