rest of the man came into view and Jillian’s words stopped dead.
Oh, God. No. God, no.
Above the khaki pants was a lean, broad-shouldered torso in a white dress shirt. Above that was the face of the man who had destroyed her marriage, her heart and her happiness—the man she hadn’t spoken to directly for three years and who made regular appearances in her dreams to this day.
She staggered back a step, putting a hand on the wall for support.
Beau. It couldn’t be.
But no other man in the world had those amazing hazel eyes. No other man in the world had that beautiful honey-brown skin, those slashing cheekbones or that lush mouth. No other man in the world had those silky-sexy waves of soft sable hair or that potent brand of masculinity that reduced her to a vibrating mass of overheated flesh every damn time, aeons since she’d first laid eyes on him at the orientation at Columbia Law.
“Is it you?”
Stupid question, yeah, but she had to ask, just to be sure; her untrustworthy eyes needed confirmation that it really was him. That despite all the time and distance, both physical and emotional, that she’d put between them, this man was back in her life and would be living down the street.
After an endless wait, one corner of his mouth curled.
His face. Oh, God, his beautiful, ruined face.
He had a jagged, puckered scar that cut across his cheek, went past the edge of his mouth and ended at his chin. Yet he was still breathtaking, damn him, and that was unquestionably still Beau’s wry smile. Worse, those were Beau’s piercing eyes staring at her with such unwavering focus, and Beau’s delicious scent of fresh cotton and sporty deodorant she smelled.
“Yes,” he said, and the world spun out from under her.
Chapter 3
Apparently she looked as shell-shocked as she felt. Leaning on his cane and favoring his left leg, Beau took a halting step forward and put his hand on her arm, his eyes wide with concern.
“Are you okay?”
No. “Yes.”
Pull it together, Jill. You can do this.
She stepped out of his reach and away from the wall with only her pride to keep her going. This man would not get to her; she could stand on her own two feet.
He dropped his hand and stared at her until her burning face made her wish that she were in the molten crater of a volcano or the heart of hell itself—anywhere but here, with him.
Bitter tears of humiliation burned her eyes, but she blinked them back, ruthless in her determination never to shed another tear over this man. She ran through her lifetime allotment of tears for him years ago.
“It’s good to see you,” he told her in that deep, black-magic voice.
“I can’t say the same.”
A faint smile flickered across his face. “I know you can’t.”
She was lying, though. She had to lie. Because even now, even after all the things he’d done to her and all the ways he’d damaged her, there was a tiny corner in the dark recesses of her soul that was glad to see him.
How sick did that make her? Pretty damn sick.
Even scarred and limping, he stole her breath. Always had, always would. Even a near-fatal car accident couldn’t reduce this man’s effect on her and she hated him for it.
She hated herself even more.
“Is that something in the basket for me? I didn’t eat breakfast.”
What? Basket?
He pointed and she belatedly remembered the muffins. Now that her bewilderment was turning into anger, she tightened her grip on the handle and jerked the basket to one side, well out of his reach.
“They were for my new neighbor.”
“That would be me.”
“Not on your life.”
“Ah.” He let his head hang with exaggerated disappointment.
“What’re you doing here, Beau?”
“I’m moving into my new house.”
Having already seen the van outside, this was not breaking news. The confirmation was still a serious jolt, though, along the lines of an anvil dropped on her head.
“Did it ever cross your mind that maybe you should have given me some warning that you’d decided to relocate from Miami?”
“It did, but it’s hard to give you warning when you don’t return my phone calls.”
Oh. She fidgeted with nerves and guilt. So that’s what those voice-mail messages had been about. She’d deleted them all, the way she’d deleted him from her life.
It was all part of her policy to never speak to him again, if she could help it. A little harsh, true, but she’d managed remarkably well. In the three years since the divorce, she’d only seen and talked to him once, in the hospital after his accident, and that didn’t really count because he’d been unconscious at the time.
What else could she do? Why would she talk to this man if she could avoid it? So he could hurt her again? Uh—no, thanks.
Direct communication wasn’t necessary, anyway. He’d lived in Miami, she’d lived here, Barbara Jean had shuttled Allegra back and forth between them and e-mail had worked perfectly well to discuss parenting issues. Now here he was, bringing in stormy seas to rock the boat and ruining things the way he always ruined everything.
She jammed her fists on her hips. “Why didn’t you e-mail me?”
“E-mail doesn’t work for everything.” That bright gaze held hers, but revealed none of his secrets. She was sure there were secrets; there always were with Beau. “I’ve decided to take a more proactive approach with several things in my life from now on.”
“Such as what?”
He paused and stared, drawing out the tension and letting the panic grow in her chest. In no particular hurry to answer, he made his slow way to the only piece of furniture in the room, a console by the far wall, and leaned against it.
“For one thing, I want to be much more involved in Allegra’s life. Seeing her for a couple of weekends a month isn’t enough.”
More time with Allegra? Over Jillian’s cold, dead body. It was hard enough to part with Allegra for those weekend visits—how would she deal with her precious daughter being gone more often?
“I beg your pardon, but you haven’t filed any paperwork to change—”
One hand came up, stopping her bluster in its tracks.
