The Ex Factor

by Anne Oliver

  In the silence that followed, she heard a shower of sparks in the fireplace, the spit of rain against the window as the storm picked up again. Finally he turned, the fire reflecting in his sharp brown eyes as he watched her. Accusing? Assessing? Condemning?

  Yet he was the one with the sexual magnetism and the wealth and power to make sure it happened with any woman he fancied. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been with a woman in five years.’ She watched the flicker of admission in those eyes and wanted to cry. Hugging her arms against the stab of jealousy, she met his gaze. ‘I wrote to you.’

  The instant the words were out, her heart tumbled inside her ribcage and she cursed her too-hasty tongue. Now she watched for a reaction. Any reaction that would tell her whether he received it—a business-sized envelope, name typed, no return info on the back.

  She felt the immediate change in the atmosphere, the abrupt shift in tension as Luke straightened, the creases between his brows deepening. Watching her differently now through narrowed eyes. ‘When?’

  ‘A few weeks later. I sent it to your parents’ address.’

  His eyes flickered once before he blanked all expression. ‘I never got it.’

  Because they never forwarded it. ‘I always wondered.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I never got a—’

  ‘Why did you write?’

  She looked into the eyes of the man who’d changed her life for ever. ‘Because your mobile phone number didn’t work, my emails bounced back. It was my last hope.’

  His expression sharpened further, his lips pulling tight as he worked through her words. ‘Last hope?’ His voice was harsh, derisive. ‘If it had been that important you could’ve tried the next logical step of contacting my parents by phone.’

  Oh, how she burned to tell him, but what good would it do now? He was obviously back here to reconnect with them and no way did she want to sabotage that. She’d have given anything to have her own parents back; their deaths had rocked her world. No, she simply couldn’t do it.

  Anyway, who would he believe—a five-minute lover or his father? No contest. So she gave him a deliberately vague shrug. ‘I…wanted to make sure it was over between us.’

  ‘I thought you made yourself perfectly clear on that last night.’

  Her body suddenly felt drained and limp and she had to stop herself from reaching out to touch him, to absorb some of his strength, to tell him. ‘I took your non-reply as your answer.’

  His jaw clenched, he closed his eyes briefly. ‘I’m sorry.’ He reached for the barely touched bottle of wine still on the table from dinner and poured himself a full glass. ‘I stepped straight into a promotion and was overseas a month after I’d started in Queensland. I changed my phone number and my email address.’

  And didn’t give me another thought. ‘Yeah, well, it’s all rain down the drain now.’

  She watched him raise the crystal, sparking in the firelight, its ruby liquid caress his upper lip a moment before he drank.

  She heard him swallow, felt her own throat tighten in response. If she leaned closer…would that potent blend of heat and wine and Luke still taste the same? Still lead her down that same dizzy, out-of-control course? Or, in this case, to that warm and tempting king size bed a few quick steps from here?

  She picked up her mug, wrapped her stiff fingers around it and tried to sip the chocolate, but there was a lump in her throat and it wasn’t the marshmallow. It was resentment, hard and bitter and impossible to swallow.

  Ignoring his own mug, Luke drank the rest of his wine, poured himself another. Mel started to warn him he’d pay for it in the morning but instantly bit down on her words. If he wanted to get quietly drunk that was his business. Cripes, she was almost tempted to join him, but someone needed to be alert if the storm did any more damage.

  So she leaned back and let her lips caress the china. What would Carissa make of all this? Oh, she knew already what her stepsister would say and she was sick of hearing about signs and fate and soul mates. Which was why she hadn’t told Carissa about Luke’s return yet.

  Well, the official part of the evening was over. Hostess duties were way over. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, pushing up off the couch.

  He turned slowly and met her eyes and the moment sizzled with possibilities. It didn’t help that his robe had parted. Firelight stroked the contours of his chest with flickering shadow and bronze.

  Her skin tightened, her blood heated, and in that tension-filled silence, broken only by the snap and crackle of the fire, she noticed that the wind had dropped. That the rain was only a soft sibilance of sound on the roof.

  That his eyes held the same intense awareness she knew hers held.

  They’d be sleeping those few quick steps from each other. If they wanted, they could take all this tempting heat, the restless throbbing, the aching anticipation and light another kind of fire.

  While she held her breath he continued watching her as if weighing that decision in his mind, then said, ‘Thanks for the meal, Melanie. Goodnight.’ He turned away to look back into the fire.

  That breath whooshed out. ‘Goodnight.’ With one of the fat candles in her hand, she walked to the bedroom, closed the door softly behind her. Then shook her head. No toothbrush, no pyjamas. She took off her trousers and jumper and crawled between the sheets in her underwear, then blew out the candle.

  The chill of the linen against her hot skin made her shiver. Awareness chased over her body as surely as if he stood watching her. She knew he was thinking about her alone in this white-on-white bedroom. That he was wondering if she’d stripped bare. Her nipples puckered beneath the satin bra, she couldn’t seem to stop her legs from moving. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to try to sleep. An impossibility.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS still dark when Melanie opened her eyes again. Her mouth was dust dry and she needed the bathroom. She found her jumper in the grey light beyond the window, pulled it on and crept to the door. A chink of light glowed as she inched it open and made her way quietly to the living area.

  The fire had burned low but there was enough light to see Luke asleep on the big leather couch, the empty wine bottle and an open bottle of gin on the coffee-table. He’d found Ben’s liquor cabinet. Which meant he’d be out cold. She checked her watch by firelight, blinked in amazement. Three a.m. She’d managed to sleep a good five hours.

  She used the bathroom then returned to the kitchen. The tap hissed, preternaturally loud in the silence as she filled a glass. She drank it down, refilled it, then took it with her through the living area on her way back to bed. And paused. Just to check, she told herself. Night duty and checking on sleeping patients was ingrained into her life.

  Luke was stretched out on his back, all long, masculine limbs and hard, honed body. The edges of his robe had fallen apart long ago. He’d left his briefs on, thank God. The hard curve of his jaw seemed softer, relaxed, and she longed to smooth her palm against it and feel the texture. His lips were slightly apart, as if waiting for hers.

  She bit her own lips to stop the tingling. If things had been different, that was probably just what she’d be doing about now. Locking lips with Luke.

  Shaking herself into action, she cast a quick eye around the room for a throwover. He might look hot, but conscience wouldn’t allow her to walk away from a sleeping body without offering the comfort of a blanket.

  Luke knew she was there, but right now he couldn’t summon up anything even remotely physical. He was trapped in an uncooperative body that refused to allow him even the pleasure of watching her watch him.

  His head pounded, his throat burned. He was never going to drink to excess again. He thought he might just be able to ask for a glass of water. He lifted one eyelid. Couldn’t manage two.

  And there she was. Nurse Nightingale with a glass of water in one hand and a blanket in the other. In her sweater and purple panties with those mile-long pale legs she looked as cool as the crystal-clear liq
uid he craved. And if she’d come closer he knew she’d be as warm and soft as that very welcome blanket.

  On a low groan that seemed to come with no assistance from him, he started to raise his head, but someone was hammering it to the couch. ‘Hey, Mel.’ He sounded pathetic and he knew from previous experience she was going to tell him so.

  But she took a hasty step back, her eyes wide and stunned. ‘You’re awake.’

  Unfortunately, yes. He forced his rubber tongue to work. ‘You wouldn’t have a couple painkillers round here to go with that water, would you?’

  She looked down as if surprised to find the glass in her hand. ‘Oh, this is for— I thought you were asleep. I’ll go check the first-aid box.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He closed the eye, almost sighed with relief as he felt the mohair blanket settle over his body.

  An indeterminate time later cool hands lifted his head, two pills were placed on his tongue, then a glass raised to his lips. A gentle voice near his ear murmured, ‘Swallow.’

  With a supreme effort he raised himself up on an elbow and carefully took the glass from her hand, wrapped his own clumsy fingers around it. For God’s sake, he could do it himself. He hoped.

  She smelled like the fresh green of spring but underlying that was the familiar scent of her skin. A scent he’d never been able to rid his senses of. Her eyes—when he focused—weren’t the serves-you-right ones he expected, but soft with sympathy and something like understanding.

  Not Melanie the girl who’d loved a good booze-up but any overindulgence on his part had meant he was history until he recovered.

  This was Melanie the Nurse.

  ‘More,’ she urged when he would have stopped to stare into her wondrous grey eyes, to forget his discomfort a moment and immerse himself in those depths.

  Light fingers traced his brow. ‘You’re dehydrated.’ She made a clucking sound against her teeth. ‘I’d’ve thought you’d have gotten past this by now.’

  The reason for his binge mine-blasted through him, the pounding in his skull increased. ‘Your news about the letter and trying to contact me.’ Not that it changed anything now. ‘I never kn—’

  ‘Shh.’ Her breath was warm and sweet against his face as she took the empty glass and let him lie back, murmuring something about tension and rest, a soothing wash of sound that seemed to seep into his bones. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Remember that time you threw up at Janice’s party?’ she said, sliding an arm beneath his head and propping him up.

  ‘How could I forget? You took off and left me there.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.’

  Before his sluggish brain could react, she was on the couch beside him. Behind him. Her warmth surrounded him like the blanket as she slid her body beneath his so that his head was cradled against her belly, her legs on either side of him.

  His whole body tensed, sensation streaked over his skin and the old longing burned bright in his heart. Then he surrendered with a sigh of surprise and sheer pleasure.

  ‘That’s it. Relax.’ Her voice was a calming whisper against his ear. He remembered other times when her whispers had been hoarse and demanding. This was a layer to Melanie that she’d never revealed. Perhaps she’d not known she had it back then. Or for her own reasons, she’d not shown it to him.

  Her fingers massaged lazy circles on his temples, drawing away the pain, then worked through his hair to knead the base of his skull, easing away the tension.

  ‘That perfume…’

  ‘I’m not wearing any. Unless it’s the bubble bath I had earlier.’

  The one she’d had before he arrived, he thought hazily as she dug her thumbs deep into his neck. Oh, yeah. He groaned. Right there. He damn near lifted off the couch in bliss.

  ‘Easy,’ she said, a hint of amusement in the softly spoken word. ‘This is strictly professional.’

  ‘You can be professional with me any time you like.’

  What might have been a ripple of laughter was nothing but a whisper against his brow, but it was powerful enough to fan the slow burning in his gut, to suck the air from his lungs. To distract him from the throbbing in his brain to another more insistent throbbing in his groin.

  Which only made him more aware that nothing but a strip of satin separated his head from the smooth female flesh of her belly.

  The best, and worst kind of torture. Hot with need, restless with longing—unwilling and unable to act on it. Knowing it might never happen. ‘Melanie…’

  Her fingers touched his lips. ‘Sleep.’

  ‘No. I need to tell you…’ He tried to push up, but was held down by a firm hand. ‘I should have left a forwarding address. With Carissa…’

  He felt the hand curl and tighten into a fist against him. ‘But you didn’t,’ she said, softly.

  Surprised at the depth of emotion in her voice, he forced his eyes open, tilted his head back, and was disturbed to read that same intensity in her eyes.

  Then it was gone, blanked out. She huffed a breath, disturbing the hair at his temples. ‘We were good together while it lasted.’

  ‘I—’

  The decisive slash of her hand stirred the air. ‘Just a fling. Leave it, Luke. Go back to sleep.’

  Because he didn’t want to deal with their past fuzzy-headed and sluggish with alcohol, he closed his eyes. Just a fling. It should have relieved him. But as he slipped into unconsciousness he didn’t feel relief. He felt regret.

  * * *

  When Luke woke in the watery morning light he became aware of two things simultaneously. His headache had gone. Melanie hadn’t. Somehow she’d extricated herself from behind without disturbing him and now lay alongside—he could feel the tangle of long limbs and hair.

  Entwined was probably a more apt—and disturbing—description, since one of her arms was flung over his chest, her legs snug up against his. He let out a slow breath and kept very, very still. Two king-size beds to choose from and they were stretched out on a sofa barely wide enough for one.

  How many times had he fantasised about waking up like this? With Melanie’s body pressed against him, her face inches from his, her breath warm in his ear?

  He opened his eyes slowly, checked to see if she was still asleep. Yep. Inky lashes resting on perfect ivory-coloured skin. Breathing slow and even.

  But not for long. She shifted, a frown creasing her brow as she snuggled closer, away from the cold edge of the couch. He shifted too, against the torturous slide of her knee as it moved closer to dangerous territory. Her fingers, curled into the lapel of his robe, flexed and tightened. She’d always been a messy sleeper, he remembered. Even in sleep she couldn’t stay still.

  Outside, the birds’ dawn chorus rang through the bush. A red glow tinted the fireplace, the room was still warm. Melanie must have added more fuel before she’d fallen asleep. Another disturbing thought—how long had she watched him through the night?

  Turnabout was fair play, he decided, and looked at her again, torturing himself with what he couldn’t have, couldn’t touch. At least not the way he wanted to touch. He had most of the blanket, a plus since it gave him the opportunity to look his fill at the smooth curve of a naked thigh and hip with its sexy strip of purple lace.

  On the downside, her jumper covered the rest of her, leaving him to remember what he’d seen beneath it last night. But her face—still the same. What would she do if he traced that delicate bone structure with his lips? With his tongue? If he kissed her now on that wide sleep-softened mouth?

  Her lashes flickered. Grey eyes met his, first in confusion, then awareness.

  He couldn’t stop himself—he reached out and smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Hi.’

  Her husky voice sent a torrent of heat through his body. It didn’t help that she stretched languorously, sliding those sinuous legs against his. She stopped abruptly, the knowledge of what she was doing—to him, to herself—dark and smouldering in her eyes.


  ‘I…guess I fell asleep too.’

  He could feel her pulling away, physically and emotionally. Without thinking he reached out, curled a hand around her nape. Saw wariness sharpen her sleepy gaze. ‘I guess you did. Thanks for being my guardian angel last night.’

  Before she could answer, he closed those inches between them and laid his lips on hers. Sparks, heat, the quick flare of lust, the slower burn of something remembered, something deeper.

  A few stunned seconds passed, then her mouth went pliant beneath his. He felt the faint shiver run through her body and his own jerked in response. Oh, yeah, they still had it. That same recognition, that same magnetic attraction that had drawn him across the crowded function centre the instant he’d laid eyes on her again at his father’s cocktail party.

  He sifted the silky waterfall of hair through his fingers. Natural and easy to shift atop her, holding her prisoner against his burgeoning need. Damp heat to heat, hard against yielding, male to female.

  Then he felt her hand against his chest, heard the muffled sound in her throat. His primitive instincts howled in protest as he pulled back to search her eyes. Enough time to see the light of passion fade to that wariness again.

  He felt a sudden stab of loss and stroked her cheek. ‘It’s okay, Mel, it’s just a kiss.’

  ‘It’s never “just a kiss” with you, Luke. You wipe my mind, make me forget.’

  She wasn’t the only one forgetting, he tried to remind himself as he moved closer again, but she rolled out of his arms off the couch, scrambling up and leaving him grasping thin air.

  ‘You make me forget…everything,’ she whispered, touching her mouth.

  ‘Why is that a bad thing?’ he said, not understanding why words that should flatter his male ego sounded more like a rejection. A rejection he’d be a darn sight better off accepting than fighting.

  ‘I’m different now, we both are.’

  ‘You never know, that might work for us. It was working fine a moment ago.’

  For another moment she met his gaze, an honest and open longing that echoed deep in his gut, then as if she’d flicked a switch her expression changed. Unseen shadows prowled the space that had been humming with promise. She hugged her arms and turned away. ‘I don’t think so.’