The S Before Ex

by Mira Lyn Kelly

  Too many inches of slender spike to be safe strutting the downtown streets of Rome.

  She leaned over the bed, one leg planted on the floor, the other cocked at the knee, toe to the carpet, heel swiveling in a slow turn.

  Ryan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, his chest tight. Too many inches to be safe from him.

  He was not thinking of the bite of that heel at his back. Or the way those legs felt wrapped around his hips. Over his shoulders.

  Bad idea.

  His gaze tracked up again, following the delicate turn of her ankle, the curve of her calf where it played a tantalizing game of peekaboo beneath the swaying hem of her skirt. Over round hips and a smooth spine that bowed into a soft arch as she reached—

  Get a grip, Brady.

  So being with Claire was nothing like the few times they’d shared space in the last nine years. Big deal. It wasn’t like that first year either—when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her. When everything was so damn right, before it suddenly, completely, went so damn wrong.

  So what was with the leering and observation at a nonplatonic level?

  Whatever it was, it stopped then. He’d made an international reputation for himself based on an ability to judge a situation or opportunity. Evaluate risk and return. And no good could come from letting Claire crawl under his skin.

  A clatter of hangers over the bed snapped his attention back to the conversation taking place. “…a week, he says, to get the settlement worked out.”

  “Why?” A hiss of feminine breath sounded, easing into something that might have been a distant cousin to resignation. Her voice dropped, as though to mask an unwilling concession. “I want it over with.”

  A punch of guilt landed with her words.

  Ah, Claire. Why did we wait so long?

  But really, he already knew the answer. It was one he didn’t want to think about now.

  A quiet moment passed and then, “I’m glad to hear it’s working out so well with Massimo—you know I am—but you’ve just met.”

  So Sally was staying behind.

  “If you’re really sure… Okay. No, that’s great.”

  Fine with him. The fewer distractions the better. And maybe he wanted Claire for himself.

  Not to drag her off to his bed. Hell, no. He was just curious about who exactly this woman was. Though he’d quietly kept abreast of her activities over the years, her endeavors and achievements, he’d done it with a few dozen layers—in the form of secretaries, lawyers, accountants and assistants—between them. Sure, he’d known what a success she’d become. Even if he hadn’t seen the write-ups in the Times, the tax statements said it all. But all that was on paper. And the woman behind the profits and reviews—the one who had apparently been changing in ways he couldn’t imagine—was one he’d insulated himself from.

  So, yeah, he was curious.

  “No, no. Sally, that’s wonderful…I’m happy for you. I’ll talk to you in a week then… Okay, you too. Goodbye.”

  Shoulder propped against the window casing, Ryan nodded toward the phone Claire had tossed into on open tote by the door. “So it’s settled?”

  “It’s settled,” she answered, assessing the mess atop the bed. “I’ll finish here and we’ll be ready to go.”

  He jut his chin toward the first overflowing case, making a point not to look too closely at the bits of brightly colored femininity strewn about in a haphazard mix with the other garments. “You need help with that?”

  A distracted nod as she scanned the room. “You could close it for me and take it over by the door.”

  Ryan crossed to the bed and then, flipping the lid shut, stared guiltily at the cotton-candy-pink thong that seemed to have sprung free at the last second.

  It was tiny.

  Delicate.

  Sexy.

  Cotton-candy-pink for crying out loud, and if he knew anything about Claire, it had at least one matching partner in crime buried beneath the clothes she’d shoveled into the case.

  “Ryan?”

  Hooking the slight scrap over his index finger, he held it up. “Escapee.”

  Claire shook her head in confusion. Escapee? What was he—and then she saw. Pink lace and silk, shimmering against the golden hue of his hand. Embarrassed heat rushed her cheeks at the sight of Ryan dangling her panties in a wicked taunt.

  “Jumped right into my hands,” he claimed, totally unrepentant. “What’s a man to do?”

  Another man might pass the garment off, or at least avert his eyes. Not Ryan though. No, he stood blatantly fingering the delicate trim with that nefarious curve to his lips.

  The things she forgot. Like his admiration for lingerie…and high heels. Together.

  Wear this for me…

  A frisson of nerves rippled through her, spurring an odd clench low in her belly. The seductive echo from another time teased through her mind, spurring a hundred memories to life. Each flash of skin and heat more vivid, more dangerous than the one before—

  Ryan taking her in the hall when they hadn’t been able to make it to the bedroom three feet away… In the kitchen…the closet…the car…

  Powerful memories that stole her breath and shocked her body into a state of desire it hadn’t known in altogether too long. Yearning heat slid through her, winding a disturbing channel of waking awareness down through the very center of her.

  No! Not now. Not after all this time.

  Not Ryan.

  She’d given him up. Let him go. She’d just filed for divorce! Of all the men in the world, he was the dead last one she could look to.

  It would be crazy. Futile. Utter stupidity.

  Ryan flipped the renegade lingerie in his palm, offering it to her as the deep brown of his eyes held her captive. “Pretty.” It was a single, simple word. And yet, the rough midnight sound of it sent a shiver coursing through her. And the certainty… It would be hot. Intense. Utterly incredible.

  What was the matter with her? An hour ago she’d been ready to go toe to toe with this man, and now…now she was ready go— No! She needed to look away, get off the path of destruction on which she’d suddenly found herself—and before it led them both to a place that couldn’t end in anything but embarrassment, the inevitable frustration she knew all too well and more of the guilt neither of them needed.

  Fortunately for both of them, if there was one thing Claire had plenty of experience with, it was breaking a mood. “Sorry, they don’t come in men’s sizes.”

  Ryan gave in to a bark of laughter. Pulled the garment just beyond reach as she grabbed, then caught her wrist. She shuddered at the heat of his hand winding up her arm, snaking through her system and pushing her heart into a staccato beat that pulsed…everywhere.

  The amused smile died on his lips and the stillness of the room hovered around them. The fingers circling her wrist tightened, held firm, pulling her closer until only an inch of charged air separated their bodies. His brow drew down and a harsh question darkened his stare.

  There was nothing she could do. No place to hide.

  No more playful banter between them, quick comebacks or easy laughter. Just the stretch of silence. Building tension. And Ryan’s eyes trailing a hot path to her mouth.

  Everything slowed. Went warm. Heavy.

  Her lips parted.

  Good God, this was Ryan. This was her life. The one she’d struggled and scraped and so slowly, painstakingly rebuilt. A life too precious to risk on rash or impetuous.

  “Sorry,” she managed to say on a shaky breath. “No souvenirs.”

  Ryan blinked, his hand jerking loose from her wrist as if he’d been burned.

  Well, he had. They’d both been burned. Years ago. An ocean away. A lifetime before. And neither of them were fool enough to play with that kind of fire again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CLAIRE stared out the back window of Ryan’s chauffeured car, following the cut of highway through the Southern California valleys. At either side land swelled in green
hills dotted with homes, palms, brush and the frequent sandy scar of sheered-off earth. It was beautiful even with the gray wash of inclement weather darkening the landscape and early-evening sky.

  Somehow the gloomy weather seemed fitting. As if it held a sullen, quiet kind of ache in the air. No stormy, tumultuous hurricane or even weepy rain. This was simply a touch of melancholy, an apropos backdrop to the conclusion of a marriage that had, for all intents and purposes, ceased to be years ago.

  The sound of a clearing throat drew her attention back to the man seated across from her in the car. Ryan reclined in a long-limbed sprawl. Tie loose and slightly askew, top button open at his neck, shirt sleeves rolled to mid forearm where they folded behind his head. His laptop was still open beside him—an array of files cluttering the seat beyond—giving the impression that his break from work was intended to be as brief as hers. “So, what do you say we give the conversation thing another go?”

  Leave it to Ryan to lay it out on the table.

  The communication between them had been limited to a few stilted exchanges following that one charged moment in her hotel room. The one she was working overtime to put out of her head, but, defying her efforts with the tenacity of a garden weed, had given root to a thousand questions Ryan was the absolute wrong man to help her answer. By unspoken mutual agreement they’d taken refuge in work during the long hours of the flight. Though, somewhere over the Atlantic those questions had spread through her consciousness, seeding thoughts of repercussions and what-ifs and no-ways until they’d tangled to the point that business became impossible to focus on…and she’d found her gaze drifting across the buttery leather and walnut interior of the luxury cabin, her gaze roving over the details of Ryan’s powerful physique. Wondering again, why Ryan? How, after so many years?

  More than once he’d caught her staring. Their eyes would hold as if in quiet challenge. Each testing the strength of a disconcerting connection lingering between them, and their ability to withstand the spatial intimacy that was the ironic prelude to the dissolution of their marriage. And then he would look away, or she would. Without a word they’d return to the solace of their work.

  Only spending the next week in silence wouldn’t get the divorce finalized. So here Ryan was, making the communication happen.

  Who was she to stand in his way? “What do you have in mind?”

  His head rocked from one side to the other as he let out a rush of breath, considering. “Let’s take it slow. Weather seems safe.”

  Claire swallowed, fighting to keep the twitch at the corner of her mouth from giving in to a grin. “Polite.”

  “Superficial.”

  “Benign,” she offered with a little wave of her hand, amused by the preliminaries of selecting a suitable topic for discussion.

  “Mundane. But what the hell…” He yawned with an indifferent gesture toward the window. “It’s a shame you’re seeing the place like this. Two days ago it was gorgeous. Sun shining, temps up about seventy-five. This time of year the weather can change on a dime.”

  Mundane was right. There’d been a time when they’d made a habit of talking the whole night through. When conversation between them was so compelling it physically hurt to end a call or say good night. To her recollection the weather had played into their interaction only once. A quiet Sunday morning in bed. Ryan’s strong hands running soft across her hips as he pulled her astride him, describing in exquisite detail how he wanted to make love to her in the rain. What the scattered beads of water would look like across her breasts, how the cool chill of them would make her nipples tight, hard, achy…and the hot contrast of his mouth as he closed over her, licked and sucked, would make her moan.

  Her nipples puckered as the memory of Ryan sliding hot and hard inside her racked her body and stole her breath.

  Oh, no. Not good.

  Suddenly, the weather seemed a threat beyond compare and Claire was anything but amused. She didn’t want to think about how it had been. She didn’t want to react to the point where it was taking every ounce of will not to squirm in her seat.

  Rubbing her temple with two fingers, she stared at her knees, wondering how she could still feel the sheets beneath them.

  “Your turn, Claire.”

  The combination of her name and the unsubtle snapping of fingers jerked her attention to Ryan’s eyes steadily focused on her. Waiting, watching, studying her with an intensity that did nothing to diffuse the slow, stirring heat deep in her belly.

  God, what did he see?

  She needed out of this car. Away from this man before he caught on to the wet, rain-soaked direction her thoughts had taken or how shocking her response to them truly was.

  “H-hotel,” she stammered stupidly, immediately wanting to slap her forehead in the hopes of jarring her brain loose.

  Ryan looked out the window, scanning their surroundings, and then back to her again. “What?”

  “The hotel where I’m staying,” she clarified, managing a “silly me” roll of her eyes, though there was nothing silly about how she felt. Desperate, more like. Confused. “Just drop me on the way in. I’ll get settled and then—”

  “No hotel,” he cut in with a dismissive wave, his brow smoothing in understanding. “You’ll stay at the house.”

  He couldn’t be serious. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Sure it is. There’s a small day staff to clean and shop while we’re there. Don’t be surprised if you don’t see much of them. They’ve got a knack for being conveniently absent and yet amazingly available. Anything you need, they’ll get. And I’ve got a car for you in the garage.”

  “No.” The single word snapped out with more force than she’d intended, but suddenly she felt cornered. After spending hours trapped in close quarters together, the only thing that had kept her from bursting out of her skin had been the promise of having some time to herself. Knowing she’d be able to get away. Have a private refuge from her body’s disconcerting reaction to the proximity of his. A place where the subtle, sexy, masculine scent of Ryan didn’t permeate every corner of the space she inhabited, as it had for the last dozen hours of travel.

  And that was before he’d gone and brought up the weather!

  No way. Trapped in his house, she’d be breathing him in for seven days straight.

  “Not even willing to discuss it, Claire?” Ryan asked, irritation evident in his tone.

  She turned to him, striving for a calm that threatened to slip fast from her grasp. “We’re hashing out a settlement—even under the most amicable terms, by the end of the day I’d imagine we’d both appreciate having some distance between us. Being able to unwind without the other there breathing down their neck.”

  Ryan’s lips twitched at one corner and then pressed flat as he turned to study the passing terrain. “So it’s the neck breathing that’s the problem then. And here I’d always assumed you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

  Oh, that was perfect. A little sexually charged banter between them. Just what she needed.

  Not.

  Eyes fixed on the roof of the car, she shook her head. “You never change.”

  “Everybody changes, Claire. And everyone stays the same.” He drew a deep breath, and let his head fall back against the rest. “It’s just not always easy to see exactly how, is all.”

  The suggestive teasing tone of a few seconds before was gone.

  No doubt he recognized how utterly out of place it was in an exchange with the woman he was divorcing, and packed it away for a more appropriate partner.

  Easing back against her seat, she thought about what he’d said. About the changes between them.

  He was right, of course. In too many ways, the man seated across from her wasn’t the one she saw when she let her mind’s eye search for her husband’s face in her memories. The one who jogged the streets of downtown Chicago with that deceptively easy stride of a natural athlete, or sprinted the steps of their Boston walk-up, dressed sharply in suit and tie, workin
g his pitch for some meeting or another. In her mind, he was forever the man he’d been, burgeoning with boundless optimism and ideas. A visionary yet to hit success. Young. Enthusiastic. And so gentle and tender, it made her heart ache to remember what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that kind of care.

  Ryan was a multibillionaire now. Riding around the globe in his sleek private jet. So smooth and cool. No more nerves. No more pitches. Not since the Journal had started calling him Midas and the world at large began lining up to pitch to him. But that was just success. A surface change, like the deepened lines and furrows around his mouth and eyes.

  Inside? She couldn’t say. There were a few obvious things. He was harder now. More callous. Cynical. But beyond that basic awareness, she didn’t know him. Didn’t know if she wanted to.

  And she imagined Ryan felt the same way.

  Looking past her hair and eyes, he probably couldn’t even recognize the girl she’d been.

  But then, there wasn’t much left of that girl now.

  At eighteen years old her wants, hopes and dreams had been painfully simple and completely revolved around Ryan. She’d barely known her own mind back then. Hadn’t even tried to figure out all there was to her. She’d been about looking pretty. Having fun. Laughing. Music, parties, clothes, shoes and dates. She’d enjoyed school, done well at it. But she’d been a freshman and hadn’t had the time to find her niche before circumstances required her to drop out and everything changed so completely. When her parents discovered how she’d let them down, and all the love and support that, to that point, had been the foundation for her life was suddenly revealed as conditional.

  She’d been so grateful to Ryan for being there for her. Standing by her. He’d taken care of her. Loved her. Married her. Brought her with him when he’d moved for his career.

  He’d treated her like gold, but she’d treated herself like some kind of accessory to his life, rather than an equal partner in it. So dependent on him she’d been afraid to step outside his shadow. So in love she’d convinced herself he was the only thing she needed.