trying for the last three years?”
He did not want to see those damn rings again. Not unless they were sitting where he’d put them—on her finger.
“Has ignoring each other worked for you? Because even living an ocean apart hasn’t gone so well for me.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.” Her fingers closed around the rings. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
He sensed victory within his sights. She was coming around to his way of thinking. But he had to be sure because if he miscalculated and moved too soon he could risk sending her running.
“I suggest we spend a simple night out together, no pressure. My old high school buddy Malcolm Douglas is performing nearby—in the Côte d’Azur—tomorrow night. I have tickets. Go with me.”
“What if I say no?”
Not an option. He played his trump card. “Do you want my signature on those divorce papers?”
She dropped her rings on top of the computer that just happened to be resting over the divorce papers. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“Call it a trade.” He rested his hand over the five-carat diamond he’d chosen for her, only her. “You give me two days and I’ll give you the divorce papers. Signed.”
“Just two days?” She studied him through narrowed, suspicious eyes.
He gathered up the rings and pressed them to her palm, closing her fingers over them again. “Forty-eight hours.”
Forty-eight hours to romance her back into his bed one last time.
Three
Gasping, Jayne sat upright in bed, jolted out of a deep sleep by … sunlight?
Bold morning rays streamed through the part in the curtains. Late morning, not a sunrise. She looked at the bedside clock: 10:32 a.m.? Shoving her tangled hair aside, she blinked and the time stayed the same.
Then changed to 10:33.
She never overslept and she never had trouble with jet lag, thanks to her early years in nursing working odd shifts in the emergency room. Except last night she’d had trouble falling asleep even after a long bubble bath. Restless, she’d been foolish enough to dance with temptation by talking to Conrad on a moonlit Mediterranean night.
He’d talked her into staying.
God, was she even ready to face him today with the memory of everything she’d said right there between them? The thought of him out there, a simple door away, had her so damn confused. She’d all but propositioned him, and he’d turned her down. She’d been so sure she would have to keep him at arm’s length she’d checked into the room on another floor. That seemed petty, and even egotistical, now.
He’d simply wanted the common courtesy of a face-to-face goodbye and he’d been willing to wait three years to get it. The least she could do was behave maturely now. She just had to get through the next forty-eight hours without making a fool of herself over this man again.
Throwing aside the covers, she stood and came face-to-face with her reflection in the mirror. A fright show stared back at her, showcased by the gold-leaf frame. With her tousled hair and dark circles under her eyes, she looked worse than after pulling back-to-back shifts in the E.R.
Pride demanded she shower and change before facing Conrad, who would undoubtedly look hot in whatever he wore. Even bed-head suited him quite well, damn him.
A bracing shower later, she tugged on her favorite black skinny jeans and a poet’s shirt belted at the waist, the best she could do with what little she had in her suitcase. But she’d expected to be traveling back to the States today, divorce papers in hand. At least she’d thought to change her flight and arrange for more time off before going to bed last night.
Nerves went wild in her chest as she opened the door. The sound of clanking silverware echoed down the hallway, the scent of coffee teasing her nose. He’d said they would spend two days finding peace with each other, but as she thought about facing him over breakfast, she felt anything but peaceful.
Still, she’d made a deal with him and she refused to let him see her shake in her shoes—or all but beg him for sex again.
Trailing her fingers down the chair railing in the hall, she made her way through the “man cave” living room and into the dining area. And oh, God, he’d swapped her elegant dining room set for the equivalent of an Irish pub table with a throne at the head. Really?
And where was the barbarian of the hour?
The table had been set for two, but he was nowhere to be seen. A rattle from the kitchen gave her only a second’s warning before a tea cart came rolling in, but not pushed by Conrad.
A strange woman she’d never met before pushed the cart containing a plate of pastries, a bowl of fruit and two steaming carafes. At the moment, food was the last thing on Jayne’s mind. Instead, at the top of the list was discovering the identity of this stranger. This beautiful redheaded stranger who looked very at ease in Conrad’s home, serving breakfast from a familiar tea cart that had somehow survived the “purge of Jayne” from the premises.
Jayne thrust out her hand. “Good morning. I’m Jayne Hughes, and you would be?”
Given the leggy redhead was wearing jeans and a silk blouse, she wasn’t from housekeeping.
“I’m Hillary Donavan. I’m married to Conrad’s friend.”
“Troy Donavan, the computer mogul who went to high school with Conrad.” The pieces fell into place and, good Lord, did she ever feel ridiculous. “I saw your engagement and wedding announcements in the tabloids. You’re even lovelier in person.”
Hillary crinkled her nose. “That’s a very polite way of saying I’m not photogenic. I hate the cameras, and I’m afraid they reciprocate.”
The photos hadn’t done her justice, but by no means could Hillary Donavan ever look anything but lovely—and happy. The newlywed glow radiated from her, leaving Jayne feeling weary and more than a little sad over her own lost dreams.
She forced a smile on her face. “I assume that breakfast is for us?”
“Why yes, it is,” Hillary answered, sweeping the glass cover from the pastries. “Cream cheese filled, which I understand is your favorite, along with chocolate mint tea for you and coffee for me.”
And big fat strawberries. All of her favorites.
She couldn’t help but dig to find out who’d thought to make that happen. “How lovely of the kitchen staff to remember my preferences.”
“Um, actually …” Hillary parked the cart between two chairs and waved for Jayne to sit. “I’m a former event planner so nosy habits die hard. I asked Conrad, and he was wonderfully specific.”
He remembered, all the way down to the flavor of hot tea, when he’d always preferred coffee, black, alongside mounds of food. As she stared at the radically different decor, she wondered how many other times he’d deferred to her wishes and
