shrugged. “Most of the time you would be right.”
“Damn it, Conrad,” she said softly, her shoulders lowering, her face softening, “I don’t want to feel bad for you, not now. I just want your signature and peace.”
“All I ever wanted was to make you happy.” Tonight might not be the right time to indulge in tantric sex, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t start lobbying. He shoved to his feet, stepped closer and reached out to stroke that loose lock of hair. “Jayne, I didn’t ask you to have sex, but make no mistake, I think about being with you and how damn great we were together.”
Teasing the familiar texture of her hair between his fingers, he brushed back the strand, his knuckles grazing her shoulder as he tugged free the pin still hanging on. Her pupils went wide with awareness and a surge of victory pumped through him. He knew the unique swirl of her tousled updo so well he could pull the pins out of it blindfolded.
He stepped aside. “Sleep well, Jayne.”
Her hands shook as she swept back the loose strand, but she didn’t say a word. She spun away on her high heels and snagged her purse from the wine rack before making tracks toward the spare room. He had a feeling peace wasn’t in the cards for either of them anytime soon.
Jayne closed the guest-room door behind her and sagged back, wrapping her arms around herself in a death grip to keep from throwing herself at Conrad. After three long years without him, she hadn’t expected her need for him to be this strong. Her mind filled with fantasies of leaning over him as he sat in that monstrously big chair, of sliding her knees up on either side until she straddled his lap.
There was something intensely stirring about the times she’d taken charge of him, a scenario she’d half forgotten in their time apart. But she loved that feeling of sensual power. Sure, he could turn the tables in a heartbeat—a gleam in his eyes would make that clear—but then she would tug his tie free, unbutton his shirt, his pants …
She slid down the door to sit on the floor. A sigh burst free. This wasn’t as easy as she’d expected.
At least she had a bed to herself without arguing, a minor victory. She looked around at the “tomato-red room” as Conrad had called it. He’d left this space unchanged and the relief she felt over such a minor point surprised her. Why did it mean so much to her that he hadn’t tossed out everything from their old life?
Shoving back up to her feet, she tapped a vintage bench used as a luggage rack and skimmed her fingers along the carved footboard. He’d even kept the red toile spread and curtains. She’d wanted a comfortable space for their family to visit. Except Conrad and his older sister only exchanged birthday and Christmas cards. Since his parents and her mother had passed away, that didn’t leave many relatives. Jayne definitely hadn’t invited her father and his new wife …
Had she let some deep-seated “daddy issues” lead her to choose a man destined to break her heart? That was not the first time the thought had occurred to her—okay, how could she dodge the possibility when Conrad had tossed it in her face at least a dozen times? She’d forgotten how he had a knack for catching her unaware, like how he’d sent her clothes here rather than demanding she sleep in their old room.
Like the way he’d tugged the pin from her hair.
Her mind had been so full of images of them together, and she’d actually admitted how much she still wanted him. Yet, he’d turned her down even though it was clear from his eyes, from his touch—from his arousal—how much he wanted her, too. She knew his body as well as her own, but God, would she ever understand the man?
She tossed her purse on the bed and her cell phone slid out. She snatched it up only to find the screen showed three missed calls from the same number.
Guilt soured in her stomach, and how twisted was that? She wasn’t actually dating Anthony Collins. She’d been careful to keep things in the “friend” realm since she’d begun Hospice care for his aged great-uncle who’d recently passed away from end stage lung cancer.
She’d seen a lot of death in her job, and it was never easy. But knowing she’d helped ease a person’s final days, had helped their families as well, she could never go back to filling her time with buying furniture and planning meals. She didn’t even want to return to working in an E.R.
She’d found her niche for her nursing degree.
While there were others who could cover her rounds at work, she wanted to resume the life she’d started building for herself in Miami. And to do that, she needed closure for her marriage.
She thumbed the voice mail feature and listened …
“Jayne, just checking in …” Anthony’s familiar voice piped through with the sound of her French bulldog, Mimi, barking in the background since he’d agreed to dog sit for her. “How did your flight go? Call me when you get a chance.”
Beep. Next message.
“I’m getting worried about you. Hope you’re not stranded from a layover, at the mercy of overpriced airport food.”
Beep. Next call from Anthony, he hung up without speaking.
She should phone him back. Should. But she couldn’t listen to his voice, not with desire for Conrad still so hot and fresh in her veins. She took the coward’s way out and opted for a text message instead.
Made it 2 Monte Carlo safely. Thanks 4 worrying. 2 tired to talk. Will call later. Give Mimi an extra treat from me.
More of that remorse still churning, she hit Send and turned off the power. Big-time coward. She pitched her phone back in her purse. The clink as her cell hit metal reminded her of the ring Conrad had slipped back inside. She’d won a battle by delivering the divorce papers, and she could think of plenty of charities that would benefit from a donation if—when—she sold the ring.
She may not have gotten to place her bet, but she’d won tonight. Right?
Wrong. She sagged onto the edge of the bed and stared at her monogrammed carry-on bag. Good thing she’d packed her ereader, because there wasn’t a chance in hell she would be sleeping.
Parked on the glassed-in portion of his balcony, Conrad thumbed through the Zhutov document on his tablet computer.
Monte Carlo rarely slept at night anyhow, the perfect setting for a chronic insomniac like himself. Beyond the windows, yachts bobbed in the bay, lights glowing. No doubt the casino below him was still in full swing, but he’d soundproofed his quarters.
The divorce papers lay beside him on the twisted iron breakfast table. He’d already reviewed them and found them every bit as frustrating as when his lawyer had relayed the details. And yes, he knew the contents even though he’d led Jayne to believe otherwise.
She was insistent on walking away with next to nothing, just as she’d done the day she’d left. He’d already drawn up an addendum that created a trust for her, and she could do whatever the hell she wanted with the money. But he’d vowed in front of God and his peers to protect this woman for life, and he would follow through on that promise even beyond their divorce.
He hadn’t made that commitment lightly.
Frustration simmered inside him, threatening his focus as he read the Zhutov report from Salvatore. He’d
