Christine Bell - A Valentine from Harlequin: Six Degrees of Romance

She let her eyebrows rise just a fraction, forcing cold amusement into her eyes, while deep down she was dying to know what else he’d wondered. Had he thought about her over the months since she’d dumped him? Wished he’d done things differently? Wished he’d remained faithful? At least until the damn wedding?

The sass went out of her as she thought of everything he’d thrown away. Maybe she’d never see him again, and suddenly, she had to know. “How could you do it?”

The anger that flashed in his eyes startled her. “Do what?”

“You weren’t playing canasta in your hotel room at two in the morning.”

“So quick to judge.” He moved so fast she didn’t have a chance to avoid him this time. His hand swooped, catching her arm, and where his fingers contacted her flesh she felt a sizzle all the way to her toes. No one had ever affected her like this. Not before and not since.

“So quick to betray,” she countered, hating the quiver in her voice even as she heard it tremble in the mist-soaked air.

“Do you really think so little of me? Of yourself? You think I’d cheat on you only a few weeks away from our wedding?”

Her chin went up at that. “I was home making out the invitation list for our wedding!”

“Ah,” he said, and the anger dulled, edged with humor now. “I always wondered what frightened you that night.” 

“I was not frightened.” Charlotte pulled herself erect, stretching out every one of her five feet and eight inches. She looked tall, svelte, and madder than hell.

Scared, too. John saw it in her eyes, in the tensed shoulders exposed by her dress.

In the two months since she’d tossed his ring back in his face, he’d plotted revenge, tried to forget her, to move on as all his well-wishers urged, but it was hopeless. He’d suspected as much before. Now that she was standing in front of him, every delectable inch of her quivering with disdain, her scent reaching him, her skin begging to be touched, he knew he had to get her back.

He leaned a hip against the rail considering just how he was going to go about convincing the most stubborn woman he’d ever known that she’d been wrong. And that she wanted him back as much as he wanted her.

No, want didn’t begin to cover the feelings that swelled within him just being close to her again. Need was a closer fit. He needed her like he needed food, water, and shelter. It was that basic.

Of course, admitting she was wrong was not something Charlotte did gracefully, or well. Still, his life was on the line here. Both of their lives. And he had a small advantage in knowing his way past her defenses.

If straight talk wouldn’t convince her she’d been a fool to throw their happiness away, he could ambush her in the most underhanded way possible. He’d use his knowledge of her body against her. He could whisper in her ear and know her toes were curling without so much as peeking beneath her hem. A soft kiss on her nape would raise goose bumps down her spine, cause her to sigh and her nostrils to dilate.

And if he took his tongue to her—

Her soft gasp made him realize he was staring at her chest, which must have given her a pretty good idea what was on his mind, for those nipples he could almost feel against his tongue had come to full alert.

Charlotte might want to reject him, but her body had other ideas.

If he could get her into bed he could get her into the mood to talk. If she’d just talk to him, just listen to what he had to say, they could straighten this whole thing out.

She crossed her arms under her breasts, and if she thought it would hide her pebbled nipples she was sadly mistaken. The gesture lifted her breasts like a silent offering.

Oh, and how he wanted to take the offered dish and taste it, savor it, devour it.

“I’d better get back inside,” she said. Even her voice gave her away. It was as husky as a torch song.

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “What made you panic that night, Charlotte? I’ve wondered. I’ve imagined you so many times writing name after name of important people in your life. People you respected. Was it that? Were you so afraid to make a public mistake that you deep-sixed our future together?”

Angry red stained her cheeks until her face almost matched her dress. “I wasn’t the one caught cheating with another woman at two in the morning.”

He couldn’t help his grin. “That’s quite a picture you paint.”

She withered him with a glance. “You know what I mean.”

“You’ve always been the perfect one, and with the history of divorce in your family I think you couldn’t take the chance at failure. So you panicked.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He eyed her speculatively. “If you weren’t afraid of failure, then…”

The angry flush had died down and he’d caught her interest, as he’d known he would.

Her eyes gleamed like melting chocolate in the moonlight. “Then what?”

“Then you were more afraid of this.” Before she saw his intention, he’d fisted his hand round the elegant French braid at her neck, pulled her to him, and brought his lips down hard over hers.

Giving in to the temptation that had teased him from the instant he saw her again was heaven. And hell.

For a moment he felt her lips quiver open on a startled gasp. Soft and cool, they yielded beneath his.

But only for a second. Just as she started to melt into him, he felt her murmured objection against his lips. Her body went rigid as she pulled away.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, her eyes flashing, hands fisting, her lips wet and luscious from his kiss.

“Looks like I came back too soon,” Sonya said, and he could have cursed his old friend for her untimely entrance.

Glaring at him, Charlotte said, “No. Not at all. I was just leaving. I have a headache—and I feel a little sick to my stomach. Something at the party must have disagreed with me.” She stalked through the French doors without a backward glance.

“Well,” Sonja said on a quiet laugh, coming to his side. “I think kissing me worked. She’s certainly jealous.”

A smug grin tugged at his lips. If Charlotte was jealous, then she still cared. 

Yoga was supposed to be relaxing. Charlotte had been deep-breathing for twenty minutes, curling her body into various positions, working toward the serenity she knew was in her somewhere.

Except she was panting like a marathon runner—and twisting her body into a pretzel only made her feel foolish. And as for the meditation exercises, she no sooner closed her eyes than she began meditating on all the really rotten things she’d like to do to John for breaking her heart.

Her doorbell rang and she gasped, her one-legged Tree position turning into Quaking Aspen Felled by Strong Wind.

Thumping down onto both bare feet, she padded to her door and peered through the peephole.

She felt like pounding her head on the door in frustration. John. Just what she needed when she was trying to relax. She’d ignore him until he left.

“Char, I know you’re on the other side of the door. I saw your car in the garage.”

So much for ignoring him. “Go away.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I can say it privately inside or I can yell the whole spiel through the door. Your call.”

He was just stubborn enough to do it, too. And then she’d feel embarrassed every time she saw one of her neighbors at the elevator. She unlatched the door and let him in.

The minute he crossed her threshold, she wished she’d made him shout at her from the hall. Him, her, and this apartment brought back too many memories. All the times they’d made love in her bed, on the floor in front of the fireplace, in the moonlight out on the balcony. All the plans they’d made curled up on the couch with a bottle of wine.

Like the wine he now held out to her.

Her eyes narrowed. “If you came here to talk me back into our engagement, you’re wasting your time.”

“No,” he said. “I came to say goodbye.”

Her eyes widened and her legs felt more wobbly than when she’d trembled in the Tree position. “Goodbye?”

“Yes. So long as Atlanta’s between us, I know there’s no hope.”

She ushered him into the living area, motioned him to sit anywhere and flopped to the couch. Her heart ached as she took in his meaning. He wouldn’t try to get her back anymore. No more calls. No more emails. No more deliveries from the florist. She was relieved, of course.

Instead of sitting, he moved to the cabinet where she kept wineglasses and removed two. Then he opened the drawer and took out her corkscrew, as assured as though he’d done it hundreds of times. Which, of course, he had.

He handed her a glass and she swirled the ruby liquid absentmindedly and then sipped, fighting an urge to cry. “So, you finally admit you were unfaithful?”

He sat next to her and his eyes resembled gray metal—cold and hard. “I was never unfaithful to you. Sonya was in my room at two in the morning, as I’ve told you, running numbers, trying to save the deal before our final presentation the next morning. You don’t believe me. Fine. I won’t marry someone who doesn’t trust me.”

She couldn’t hold his gaze or she’d do something pathetic, such as sobbing her heart out. Instead she sipped her wine again, then slumped back against the couch cushions. “You could have told me that on the phone.”