Best Man's Conquest

by Michelle Celmer

  Just as she’d suspected. He hadn’t changed a bit.

  “Dale told us you guys used to be married,” Dee said as Dillon returned to his side of the table and slid easily into his seat.

  The way he could look so relaxed and casual, yet emanate an aura of authority, boggled the mind.

  He retrieved his napkin from the table and draped it in his lap. “That’s right.”

  Dee’s eyes widened a fraction and she looked to Ivy for affirmation. “Really?”

  “We were,” Ivy confirmed. “For about a year. A long, long time ago.”

  “He married you?” Dum asked, looking first at Ivy, then to Dillon, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Wow. I really thought Dale was kidding.”

  Gee, thanks, Ivy wanted to tell Miss Tactless. Just go ahead and say what’s on your mind. Don’t worry about my feelings.

  “She left me and broke my heart,” Dillon said, flashing Ivy a wry grin.

  A look passed between the twins, like sharks who had just smelled blood in the water and were gearing up for a feast.

  “She left you?” Dee, who obviously missed the sarcasm oozing from his words, clucked sympathetically, shooting Ivy a look of disdain. She reached across the table to pat Dillon’s hand and assured him, “You deserve better.”

  Oh, please. Ivy experienced a severe mental eye roll. Even if she had wronged him somehow, which she absolutely hadn’t, it had been ten years ago.

  “It’s no wonder,” Dum said. “Blake, didn’t you say she hates men?”

  Deidre’s jaw fell and she shot Blake a look.

  “That’s not what I said,” Blake told her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He turned to Ivy, looking as though he wanted to disappear. “I swear, that’s not what I said. I was just telling them about your book. Man-hating never entered the conversation.”

  Ivy believed him. In all the time she’d known Blake, she’d never heard him say a disparaging word about anyone. But she could see the needle on Deidre’s stress meter creeping into the red zone. Deidre eyed the Tweedles’ untouched chocolate mousse with ravenous eyes and asked, “Would anyone like seconds on dessert?”

  “Not me,” Dillon said, rubbing a hand across what Ivy was sure was still a washboard stomach. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Like she needs seconds,” Dee mumbled under her breath, but conveniently loud enough for the entire table to hear. Dum snickered and Blake’s brothers exchanged a look, one that said Deidre’s fluctuating weight had been a topic of conversation in the past.

  That didn’t surprise Ivy. The Tweedles hadn’t exactly been Deidre’s first choice for bridesmaids. In fact, they weren’t her last choice, either. They ranked somewhere just below the never-in-a-million-years category. But Blake’s brothers were the groomsmen, per their gazillionaire father’s demands, and they had refused to stand up in the wedding without their girlfriends.

  Since Deidre would be stuck as a part of the family for the next fifty years or so, and Daddy was footing the bill for the wedding—and the house they were moving into after the honeymoon, and the cars they would be driving—Deidre felt it best to acquiesce.

  The whole arrangement set off warning bells for Ivy, but she was keeping her mouth shut. Deidre seemed happy, and Ivy didn’t want to burst her bubble. There was a very slim chance it would all work out, and Ivy was clinging to that hope.

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the table, and Deidre lowered her eyes to her lap, shame flaring in red-hot splotches across her cheeks. Blake looked awkwardly around, everywhere but at the woman he should have been speaking up to defend. Ivy felt torn between defending her cousin and not wanting to make things worse.

  Blake was a genuinely nice guy, and he loved Deidre. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much in the way of a backbone.

  Of the three brothers he was the youngest, and while he hadn’t taken a beating with the ugly stick, he wasn’t what you would call a looker, either. He was sort of…nondescript, and he let everyone, including his family—especially his family—walk all over him.

  Which is why Ivy feared Deidre would be bowing to her in-laws’ wishes for the rest of her natural life.

  “So, Ivy, I hear you’re a practicing psychologist now,” Dillon said.

  Uh-oh. She distinctly felt an attack coming on.

  Wonderful.

  At the very least, taking potshots at her would deflect the attention from Deidre. It would be worth a little humiliation.

  “Yes, I am,” Ivy said, unable to keep the defensive lilt from her voice. One corner of Dillon’s mouth quirked up in a very subtle grin, and Ivy raised her chin, bracing for the onslaught of insults. The “shrink” jokes she’d already heard a million times. The “little book” jabs.

  She fisted her hands in her lap, digging her nails in the heels of her palms, her foot tapping like mad under the table, steeling herself for the worst.

  Bring it on, pal.

  “I find it truly fascinating,” Dillon said, and Ivy thought, sure you do.

  Dee covered a yawn with fingers tipped in bright pink, clawlike nails, and Dum made a production of looking at her watch. Did they think they were the queens of stimulating conversation?

  Dale and Calvin, on the other hand, looked thoroughly amused by the entire situation. Those two were even worse than Dillon. They needed to grow up and get a life.

  “Her book has been on the New York Times bestseller list for months,” Deidre said, a note of pride in her voice. “She’s famous.”

  Unimpressed, the Tweedles rolled their eyes.

  “I’m particularly interested in the study of self-esteem,” Dillon said.

  Self-esteem?

  Was that some sort of veiled insult? Was he honestly suggesting that Ivy had low self-esteem?

  She felt her blood pressure shoot up to a dangerously high level, and her foot was cramping up from the workout it was getting.

  She was incredibly comfortable with herself, thank you very much.

  “I once read that people with a negative or low self-esteem will insult and belittle other people to boost their own egos.” His expression was serious, but there was a spark of pure mischief in Dillon’s eyes. His gaze strayed briefly to the Tweedles, then back to Ivy. “Is that true?”

  It took a full ten seconds for the impact of his words to settle in, and when it did, Ivy was so surprised she nearly laughed out loud.

  He wasn’t attacking her. His observations were aimed directly at the twins.

  “That is true,” she told him, in her therapist’s, I’m-not-speaking-of-anyone-in-particular-just-stating-the-scientific-evidence tone.

  Dale and Calvin weren’t looking so cocky now, and a grateful smile had begun to creep over Deidre’s face.

  The Tweedles were a bit slower to catch on.

  Ivy watched with guilty pleasure as the two of them digested his words with brains no doubt impaired by bleach overexposure. She relished the look of stunned indignation on their faces when the meaning hit home.

  She had never been an advocate of “an eye for an eye” and preferred not to lower herself to the Tweedles’ level, but it felt damned good to knock those two down a peg.

  “In fact,” she continued, “self-esteem is one of the most widely studied areas of psychology.”

  “Why is that?” Dillon asked, feeding the flames, while the Tweedles grew increasingly uncomfortable.

  Her conscience told her that what she was about to do was childish and just plain mean, but she couldn’t deny the satisfaction she felt watching the Tweedles squirm. And who knows, May be her words would strike some sort of chord, and they would think of other people’s feelings for a change.

  Should she or shouldn’t she?

  Oh, what the hell.

  “Because self-esteem plays a role in virtually everything we do,” she explained. “A lack of it can have dire effects. People who are unsure of themselves sometimes have trouble sustaining healthy relationships. Since they often feel embarras
sed and ashamed without due cause, their irrational reactions tend to baffle and alienate others.”

  “That is fascinating,” Deidre agreed, casting a grin Ivy’s way.

  On a roll now, Ivy added, “Even worse, low self-esteem can cause or contribute to neurosis, anxiety, defensiveness, eating disorders and even alcohol and drug abuse.”

  “How tragic,” Dillon said, looking pointedly to Blake’s brothers. “Don’t you think?”

  Dale and Calvin exchanged an uneasy look, but neither uttered a sound. It was clear they were of the collective opinion that they shouldn’t mess with the billionaire oil man.

  The balance of power had just been established. At least for once Dillon had used that clout and influence for someone’s benefit other than his own.

  She would have to thank him later.

  “Well, I think I’ll take a walk on the beach before it gets dark,” Dillon said, rising to his feet, and with his eyes on Ivy asked, “Anyone care to join me?”

  As if. She wasn’t that grateful.

  “I will!” Deidre said, popping up from her chair with such enthusiasm that she bumped the table and sent her champagne glass teetering precariously. Blake grabbed it before it could topple over and shatter against the glass-top table. It was a nice save and, if Deidre’s doe-eyed smile was any indication, might just compensate for his letting her down earlier.

  Blake stood, brushing remnants of his dinner from the front of his clothes. Clothes that hung on his narrow, gangly frame. No matter how well he dressed, he always looked a tad…untidy. “I’ll come, too.”

  “We’re going into town to hit the bars,” Dale said, answering for that side of the table. All four of them looked as though they could use a stiff drink. Or May be five. Hopefully, in the future they would take the time to think about what they were saying before they opened their mouths, and realize there were certain people you just didn’t mess with. Not without getting burned.

  Ivy rose from her chair. “I’m going to head up to my room. I have to check my e-mail.”

  “But you promised no work this week,” Deidre said with a pout.

  “I know, but I’m expecting a message from my editor,” she lied. The truth was, she’d told her editor, agent and writing partner that this week had been reserved strictly for relaxation.

  What a joke. There would be nothing relaxing about this week. She would be lucky if she didn’t return to Texas a certified Froot Loop in need of intensive psychotherapy.

  Deidre clutched Ivy’s hand in a death grip. “Come with us. Please.”

  Ivy knew what she was trying to do, and it wasn’t going to work. She wanted Ivy to forgive Dillon. To “get past it,” whatever “it” was.

  Yes, Dillon had done something nice, shown that he had an unselfish side, but it didn’t excuse the way he’d taunted her all evening. It also didn’t change the fact that he would most likely continue to taunt and harass her until she boarded the plane Sunday morning.

  She pried her hand free. “Next time. I promise.”

  Deidre looked as if she wanted to press the issue but let it drop.

  Everyone went their separate ways, and Ivy headed upstairs, feeling uneasy and not quite sure why. Something weird had just happened down there. Something disturbing that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  She stepped into her room, closed the door and leaned against it.

  A disaster had been diverted, thanks to Dillon. She would go so far as to say the entire situation, while childish and petty, had actually been fun—

  Wait a minute. Fun? With Dillon?

  The truth grabbed hold and shook her silly for a second.

  That’s what was so weird. Tonight had reminded her, if only for a few seconds, that at one time she and Dillon had made a good team. They used to have fun.

  Even worse, she was pretty sure she actually disliked him a little less than she had this morning.

  Oh, this was bad.

  Hating Dillon was her only defense, her only ammunition. She depended on it.

  Without that hate, she could no longer ignore the fact that he’d irreparably broken her heart.

  Four

  Do you suspect your man is lying to you? Trust your intuition. Odds are, he probably is.

  —excerpt from The Modern Woman’s Guide to Divorce (And the Joy of Staying Single)

  Ivy learned two important lessons that night.

  The first was that the only thing worse than having to face her ex again was having to face him in her ratty old nightshirt with the sleeves torn off, wet, tangled hair and no makeup.

  The second, more valuable, lesson was always lock your bedroom door.

  “Whoops,” Dillon said from the open doorway when he saw her lying in bed on her stomach, on top of the covers, her laptop open in front of her.

  She scrambled onto her knees, tugging the shirt down over her pale, sun-deprived legs, kicking herself for not visiting the tanning bed a few times before she left. Then kicking herself a second time for caring what he thought. “What are you doing in here?”

  He looked genuinely baffled. “Guess I got the wrong room.”

  She couldn’t help wondering how he’d managed that, since Deidre had had the decency not to put them in adjacent rooms and his was located at the opposite end of the house.

  “Huh.” Dillon glanced down the hall in the direction he’d come from. “I must’a made a wrong turn at the stairs.”

  She dragged her fingers through her knotted hair, cursing herself for not running a brush through it. Her mother, the cosmetologist, had spent years hammering into her head that to avoid damage to the ends and give her thin hair more body, it should be brushed after it dried. Which shouldn’t have been a problem since she hadn’t been anticipating company.

  Or in Dillon’s case, an intruder.

  You don’t care, she reminded herself.

  “Well, as you can see, this isn’t your room, so…good night.”

  He looked casually around, as if he had every right to be there. “Hey, this is nice.”

  “Yeah, it’s great.” And she knew for a fact it was not much different than his room.

  Rather than leave, Dillon stepped farther inside, wedging his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. A move completely nonthreatening, but she felt herself tense. “I think your room is bigger than mine. And damn, look at that view.”

  Without invitation, and in a move arrogantly typical of him, he crossed the room to the open French doors and stepped outside onto the balcony.

  Ugh! The man was insufferable!

  Forgetting about her unsightly white skin, she jumped up out of bed and followed him. Staring at her from a balcony a dozen yards away was one thing. She could even live with the teasing, but this was her room, her only refuge this week, and he had no right to just barge in uninvited. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only a hazy magenta ghost in its wake, and specks of glittering light dotted the heavens. And in the not so far distance she could hear the waves crashing against the bluff. Add to that the cool breeze blowing off the water and it was a perfect night. If not for the man standing there.

  He whistled low and shook his head. “Yes, ma’am, quite a view.”

  “Your room faces the same ocean, so I doubt the view is all that different at the opposite end of the house. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you go check.”

  Ignoring the razor-sharp edge of irritation in her voice, he propped both hands on the railing and made himself comfortable. “No, sir, you don’t see stars like this in Dallas.” He sucked in a long, deep breath and blew it out. “No smog, either.”

  She wasn’t quite sure of the point of the “aw, shucks” routine, but it was getting really annoying. “Dillon, I want you to leave.”

  He turned to her, his face partially doused in shadow, wearing that crooked grin. “No, you don’t.”

  Damn him. He still knew exactly which buttons to push. But she wasn’t
going to take the bait. She wasn’t the young, emotionally adolescent girl he remembered. She was going to stay calm. “Yes, I do.”

  “It’s been ten years. We have a lot of catching up to do.” His eyes strayed to the front of the threadbare, oversize shirt and the grin went from amused to carnal.

  Exactly what kind of catching up did he think they would be doing? And was he familiar with the phrase, when hell freezes over?

  “You always did wear T-shirts to bed. Usually mine.” He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and something dangerously hot flickered in his eyes.

  “You said you liked ’em ’ cause they smelled like me.”

  She crossed her arms and shot him a chilling look.

  Undaunted, his eyes wandered over her. “And I see that you still wait until your hair is dry to brush it.”

  She hated that he still knew her so well. That he’d bothered to remember anything about her at all. And the only reason he had was to use it against her. To make her uncomfortable. To knock her off balance and lower her defenses so he could go in for the kill.

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “I’ll bet you do all those things subconsciously,” he mused. “Because deep down you still love me and you want me back.”

  The mercury on her temper began a steady climb, and she clamped her teeth over the sarcastic reply that was trying like hell to jump out of her mouth.

  You will not show this man how angry he’s making you, she chanted to herself. You will not let him get the best of you.

  “Isn’t there a technical term for that?” he asked.

  Yeah, there was a term for it.

  Nuts.

  Which he was if he honestly believed she had any feelings left for him. Favorable ones, that is.

  “Don’t we have a high opinion of ourselves,” she said.

  He grinned. “May be, but you can’t say that I’m not consistent.”

  No, she definitely couldn’t say that. He’d never once failed to let her down.

  And this conversation was going nowhere.