Unforgettable

by Ann Christopher

  “I joined the Force and became a commissioned officer.”

  “—all you had was your viticulture and enology degree, right? Well, times change. Now you have plenty of great experience. You could probably work anywhere in the world you wanted to.”

  “You remember a lot about back then.” His challenging gaze scraped her up and down. “Wasn’t sure you would.”

  “Yeah, well, I also remember when I had the flu in sixth grade,” she said. “There’s no need to make a federal case out of it.”

  “Is that bitterness I hear in your voice?”

  “Not at all,” she said, another lie. “It’s complete indifference.”

  “So you’re not happy to see me?”

  Happy? Funny word. She and happy hadn’t occupied the same zip code on a consistent basis for a good long time. If the happiness drought stretched back to the moment when their relationship imploded, she didn’t want to know it.

  As for what she was feeling now (equal parts excitement and anticipation, to tell the truth), well, she didn’t want to examine that too closely, either.

  “I’m happy for your parents,” she said. “I’m sure they’re thrilled to see you. I’m surprised your mother isn’t still hugging and kissing you. What did they say when you got here?”

  The sun had almost set now, but there was enough illumination from the lights strung overhead for her to see the dull flush that crept up his cheeks.

  “Nothing yet. You’re the first person I, ah, ran into.”

  That caught her by surprise. She stared at him, wondering if he’d sought her out before any of the many members of his own family.

  He stared back with a turbulent expression she couldn’t begin to decipher.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded.

  Lopsided half-smile. “I’m remembering.”

  “Remembering what?”

  “Everything,” he said quietly. “Every damn thing.”

  Her pulse skittered with unwanted pleasure.

  If only that information didn’t move her.

  If only she were a better actress.

  The same ancient memories tormented her at odd times, appearing unexpectedly when they should have shriveled to dust long ago. The laughter they’d shared. The fights and the lovemaking, both equally volatile. The love. At times it all streamed through her brain like a Steven Spielberg masterpiece.

  But there were darker emotions, too.

  Pain. Loss. Bitterness.

  Once again, her self-directed anger won. It was a free country. Daniel could live here or any other damn place he wanted. What he did should have zero effect on her life. She was the one who couldn’t keep a lid on her unruly emotions. That made her the problem. Not him.

  “You know what? Waste all the time you want walking down memory lane,” she said, taking a step toward the door that led back inside. “You do you. I’ll be inside getting cake.”

  “Zoya.”

  He caught her wrist in his searing grasp, rubbing his thumb over the sensitive skin, and it was all she could do not to cry out with the thrill of it. There’d been a brief, shameful second earlier, when he first showed up, and she’d wondered if he’d try to hug and kiss her. He hadn’t, and now she realized it was all for the best. When the touch of his hand on her bare skin—her wrist, for God’s sake—felt like a molten streak of lightning through her veins, they had no business being anywhere near each other.

  She pulled free or he let her go, she couldn’t tell which, but excitement still pulsed through her blood.

  “Are you here with someone?” he asked urgently.

  It was hard to look at him and breathe. Nearly impossible to look at him and form enough coherent thoughts to keep her head on straight.

  “I’m not discussing my personal life with you, Daniel.”

  His jaw tightened with something that looked disturbingly like determination.

  “Have a drink with me.”

  She paused, trying to wrestle the unwanted yes into submission. The best she could manage was a lame,

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  Dammit. Why couldn’t she say no or, better yet, hell no?

  “You’re right. We always did each other too much damage when we tried to talk.” His gaze smoldered. He reached out again, this time running his thumb along the tender curve where her neck sloped down to her shoulder, the spot that had always turned her into a bundle of nerve endings and illicit needs. “Why don’t we skip the rest of the reception? Come back to my hotel with me. Let’s see what else we can remember.”

  That thumb worked its magic, and she was too stupid to stop him because the memories were so sweet. His lips. His tongue. The hard thrust of his body inside hers. Long nights of unspeakable pleasure.

  For one self-destructive second, she wondered if it would really be so bad if she spent, say, an hour—two at the most—in his dark hotel room.

  And then she remembered one last thing: the way she’d collapsed on the floor and spent the night in the fetal position, crying her eyes out, when she discovered he’d skipped town without saying good-bye.

  Her blood turned to ice.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, smacking his hand away. “You’ve already had way more of my time and attention than you ever deserved.”

  “Well, you know what they say: if at first you don’t succeed...”

  “I think it’s ‘fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice and I’m coming after you with a meat cleaver.’”

  The gleam in his eyes intensified with his soft laughter. “It’s great to be home, Kitten.”

  Kitten.

  Kitten.

  “I’m going to call you Kitten,” he said, running his teeth down her neck as he thrust deeper, making her cry out.

  “Kitten?” She tried to catch her breath, to focus. “Why?”

  “Because you’re so tiny and you purr when I touch you.” He slowed down, easing out of her, inch by slow inch. “But I don’t want to mess around with your teeth or your claws.”

  “These claws?” She arched beneath him, scraping her nails up his back.

  “You don’t mind if I call you Kitten, do you?” Judging by the smoldering heat in his eyes, he knew exactly where her thoughts had roamed. “You never minded before.”

  Zoya blinked the sweet memory away. “Screw you.”

  More of that infuriating laughter followed her as she walked off.

  Never again, she reminded herself.

  Chapter 2

  “Shot of Patrón. With lime. Actually, tell you what. Make it two shots. Do you ever just leave the bottle and a straw? No? Okay. Just kidding.”

  The bartender gave Zoya the side-eye as he reached for a glass. “That kind of night, eh?”

  With her shot nerves, achy nipples and shaky knees, Zoya had no trouble answering. “That kind of night.”

  Another stealthy glance around the pavilion revealed no further sign of Daniel, so she figured it was safe to stick around for a while. If he showed up again, threatening to unravel her with those bedroom eyes and indecent proposals of his, she might need to reevaluate her plan, though. Could a maid of honor plead illness and avoid her duties at a reception? Would the bride, her best friend, Miranda, understand if Zoya skipped out because of chronic lust secondary to acute hormone poisoning?

  Probably not.

  This didn’t have to be a crisis, though. Daniel was back in town. So what? As long as she avoided him for the rest of the night—and she could be a regular Jason Bourne when she wanted to ghost a guy and disappear—things would be fine.

  She slid onto a stool, crossed her legs and spun around so she could see the proceedings. The dance floor overflowed, with Miranda, her new husband, James Harper (one of Daniel’s four brothers), and Miranda’s twin eight-year-olds, Noah and Jonah, at the center of the crowd. Also busting moves? James’s blue-eyed husky, Frank, who wore a black bow tie for the occasion and was prancing back and forth along the periphery, tail w
agging. Evidently, he enjoyed Nat King and Natalie Cole’s “Unforgettable” duet as much as everyone else did, because each time Cole hit one of the higher notes, he tipped his head back for an off-key but enthusiastic ooo-ooo-ooo. And there was—

  Oh, no. Zoya cringed as Daniel and his parents materialized at the far end of the dance floor. His mother shrieked at the sight of him and went in for the giant bear hug. Daniel laughed and swept her off her feet.

  Right on cue, Zoya’s heart rate quadrupled.

  “I hate weddings,” she said.

  The bartender poured her shots and passed a bowl of lime wedges. “Aren’t you the maid of honor?”

  “Yes,” she said, turning her back on the happy Harper family reunion. She couldn’t very well avoid Daniel if she stared at him every chance she got, now could she? “So who better qualified to hate weddings than me?”

  “Speaking of hating weddings,” he said darkly, gesturing to a guy sitting a couple stools down from Zoya. “I’m keeping an eye on Mr. Cheerful there.”

  Zoya took a quick glance and grimaced when she saw who it was. “Aw, jeez.”

  “Know him?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah. It’s Griffin Lowe. The bride’s ex-husband.”

  The bartender’s brows shot up. “Is that how they’re doing things now? Inviting the exes? He didn’t walk her down the aisle, did he?”

  “Oh, no. He’s probably just here to pick up the twins after the reception so the newlyweds can start their honeymoon.”

  “If he doesn’t commit suicide first.”

  “Yeah.” Zoya downed the first shot and sucked on a lime. The welcome infusion of liquid heat gave her the compassion she needed, as did her father’s running commentary in her head. Be a good girl, Zoya. Do the right thing. “I’m going in. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck.”

  The bartender left to help another guest at the far end of the bar. Zoya got up, grabbed her remaining shot and the limes—Daniel’s brothers Isaiah, Ethan and Edward, and Edward’s daughter, Ella, had now joined the Happy Harper reunion, she saw as she went—and sat next to Griffin.

  His unfocused gaze was centered on a tumbler of what looked like bourbon in front of him, so she had a couple of seconds to assess the situation. As always, he wore expensive clothes and shoes and looked like he was on his way to some high-powered business meeting where the economic fate of some country or other would be decided. Dark glasses made him look smart. Ridiculously heavy brows and a sharp goatee (Lord save her from dark-skinned men with goatees tonight!) made him look wicked.

  “What’s wrong, Lucifer?” she asked, crossing her legs and smoothing her dress. Just because she wanted to make sure he was all right didn’t mean she had to be nice about it, or to miss the opportunity to remind him that she wasn’t his biggest fan. “Not enough souls to steal tonight? Haven’t met your quota?”

  He scowled into his drink without bothering to look at her. “Zoya. Make yourself comfortable. By all means.”

  “I will. Thanks. Cheers.”

  She clinked their glasses, then drank. His morose gaze drifted to Miranda, who was slow dancing with her new husband (the song had changed to Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight”) and giving him a veiled look of such sexual heat that it seemed like a real possibility that they’d consummate their new marriage in the middle of the dance floor.

  “Our girl makes a beautiful bride, doesn’t she?” Zoya nudged Griffin’s arm. “Course, you already know that, don’t you? You married her once. Before you screwed it up by cheating on her and all. That was a really stupid thing to do but, hey, ancient history. None of my business.”

  A muscle pulsed in the back of his jaw, but he said nothing. Which, obviously, only forced her to redouble her efforts to get a rise out of him.

  “I think the wedding night will be one for the books, Lucifer,” she continued cheerfully. “Don’t you?”

  Griffin’s lips thinned as he looked away from Miranda and drank.

  “You should be happy for her after all you put her through,” Zoya said.

  “I am happy for her. She deserves a good marriage,” he said, much to her surprise.

  “That’s very magnanimous of you,” she said, signaling to the bartender for another shot. “What’s gotten into you?”

  He looked her in the eye for the first time, giving her a brief infusion of his turbulence. It was such a shock that she almost felt bad for needling him. “Maybe I’m not the SOB you think I am.”

  “Sure you are, Lucifer. It takes an SOB to walk out on a great wife like Miranda. Oh, and the twins. You walked out on them, too, didn’t—”

  “Do me a favor,” he said, slamming his drink down and startling her with the hard glint of pain and/or anger in his eyes. “Let’s not. Just for tonight. You can yank my chain twice as hard next time and make up for giving me a pass this time. Deal?”

  “No promises,” she said warily. As Miranda’s loyal best friend, she’d taken the liberty of haranguing him as often as possible, which was at least once a month when he and Miranda were transferring the kids between them. In general, he’d remained aloof and unruffled. This was the first time she’d ever seen him show any real emotion. “What’s gotten into you? When did your skin get so thin?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Griffin—”

  “Did you ever think it might not be that easy to let go of the past, Zoya? Did that ever occur to you?”

  That stopped her cold.

  Since she wasn’t the most forgiving person in the world, she knew exactly what he was talking about.

  And seeing Daniel tonight…

  Pulling bandages off old wounds and discovering that they hadn’t even scabbed over yet...

  “‘The past is never dead.’” Zoya raised her newly refilled shot glass. “‘It’s not even past.’”

  “What is that? Freud?” Griffin asked.

  “Faulkner.”

  He lifted his glass and tried to clink it with hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “No, we’re not going to drink to that.” She snatched her glass away at the last second. “What kind of losers would be if we drank to being stuck in the past?”

  “Suit yourself.” He sipped again.

  “So your ex-wife is remarried. Big deal. Be a man. Go home and console yourself with the child bride you left her for. She’s got to be great for that, right? What is she now? Nineteen? You men like them young and nubile.”

  Griffin gave her a predictably scalding look, but then she noticed the way his shoulders fell.

  “Hang on,” she said, her intuition clanging at her like a pair of cymbals in a marching band. “Trouble in paradise?”

  He quickly looked away. “I’m not in the habit of discussing my marriage with near strangers who hate my guts and happen to be best friends with my ex-wife.”

  “Well, that’s a shame because, in case you didn’t notice, you haven’t got a lot of fans in the room, and I may be your best hope. I’m smart, I’m good with people—”

  Derisive snort.

  “—And I give good advice. So what gives?”

  “Pass.”

  “I’ll figure it out on my own,” she warned, watching him carefully as she sucked on another lime. “There are only a few big things that married people fight about. Money? Nope. You have more money than God.”

  He grinned.

  “Sex? Nope. You’re—” she started to say sexy, but caught herself in time; Griffin gave her a sharp, speculative look— “you, and she’s young and probably flexible, with no stretch marks, and her boobs and ass haven’t started sagging yet, so I’m guessing it’s not sex.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’m outta here.” He swiveled on his stool—

  “That leaves children,” she said loudly. “So either child bride hates your kids—and you may be a dick as a husband, but you’re a decent father, and I don’t see you marrying someone who doesn’t like your kids—or one of you wants new kids and the other one doesn’t.”
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  Griffin stopped swiveling.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You want kids? No, you already have the kids. So she wants kids. And you don’t.”

  Griffin blinked.

  “Wow,” she said sadly. “And you broker billion-dollar deals with that poker face?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said coldly, but he didn’t meet her gaze.

  Nor did he leave.

  “And why don’t people want more kids even though they like kids and have the money for them?” she mused. Her intuition started jumping up and down, flapping its hands at her. She snapped her fingers. “You’re not in love with your wife, are you, Lucifer? You’ve got a big fat case of buyer’s remorse.”

  Griffin gaped at her, looking more than a little unsettled.

  “What?” She shrugged. “I told you I was smart.”

  “Yet you call me Lucifer,” he muttered.

  “You know what? You’re pathetic.”

  “Excuse me?” he asked sharply. “I asked you to skip it for tonight.”

  “Seriously. If your life isn’t working, fix it. Do something. Don’t just sit here, nursing your drink at your ex-wife’s remarriage. The optics aren’t good. Don’t be a loser. What’re you—forty? Plenty of time to straighten things out. Just, for God’s sake, don’t have a kid if you’re not ready for a kid. Kids deserve better. The world will not thank you.”

  Griffin stared at her, a full five seconds of ice-coated anger that made her wonder if all the tequila hadn’t loosened her tongue a bit too much. But then something in his expression eased back, and he startled her by doing something she’d never have expected in a billion years:

  “Thank you,” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

  Thoroughly undone, she pressed a hand to her cheek and shrank away. Griffin had amazingly soft lips. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Really. Thank you,” Griffin said.

  “Is this guy bothering you, Zoya?” asked a new voice.

  Startled—how’d he zoom over here so quickly when he was just on the other side of the room with his brothers and parents? —Zoya swiveled to discover Daniel looming over them with an expression that was all lowered brows and bad attitude. Basically a ticking bomb on top of a neck.