The S Before Ex

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A guest suite wouldn’t be enough. “I’m sure it is, but that’s not the point. I need my own space. Room to work. You aren’t the only one with a business to run.”

“You’re on vacation,” he countered smoothly, though she couldn’t miss the flinty edge in his eyes.

He didn’t like being challenged, and so far that’s all she’d done.

“That was more for Sally’s benefit than mine, and since she’s not around, I won’t have to sneak off to keep up with the work I’ve got.” She let out a steadying breath and searched his face for understanding. Found only a will she’d rarely had need to defy.

“So we’ll be working out the settlement around our other obligations. Working early, working late, working whenever we can make it happen. It’ll be easier if you’re available.”

Sure. His beck-and-call girl. That wasn’t going to hap pen.

“I’ll have an office set up for you in the house.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, he swept a thumb across the screen. “Just tell me what you need—”

“A hotel, Ryan.”

He remained silent. It was a tactical move in a power game she wasn’t interested in playing. “You really do always get your way, don’t you?”

Ryan held her stare, until the challenge between them dissolved.

“No, Claire. Not always.”

She swallowed down the desire to find out just what he meant by that, and straightened her spine instead. “Good. Then this won’t come as too hard of a blow.” She wasn’t giving in. And it was as much about self-preservation as it was about pride. “You’re not getting it now.”

CHAPTER FIVE

MINUTES later, her eyes wide with stylistic appreciation, Claire walked through the front entrance of Ryan’s La Jolla Shores beachfront home. She’d be staying at one of the local hotels as soon as the room could be booked, but she had agreed to view the alternative. Ryan hadn’t overstated the place. It was immense.

Three stories of slate gray, steel and glass stretched from a gated driveway, through a lush private garden, and back to the sandy expanse of beach it butted against. The architecture itself was masculine to the extreme—all clean lines and open spaces, suspended stairwells and stone floors. But the interior colors and decor were anything but minimalist or stark.

A vivid array of hues taken from the ocean and setting sun adorned each room in bold contrast and yet flawlessly matched perfection. And the artwork was spectacular, blending ancient Eastern and modern European with an eclectic mix that spoke volumes about style and taste.

The floor plan through the center of the house was primarily open layout, offering unobstructed views of the ocean from the main entrance, living room, kitchen and bar, with a few walled divisions to the left side. Because the house was built on a gradient, what had been the ground level at the front door was actually the second floor, resulting in the illusion that the terrace floated above the ocean beyond.

“This is stunning, Ryan.”

He stood at a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows and grinned. “It gets better. Let me show you.”

Releasing one latch after another, he swung the wide glass panels ninety degrees on their axis and turned the living room into an extension of the terrace beyond. A cool, briny breeze wound through the house, carrying the low rumble of waves, and catching the creamy sheers in a billowing dance of light, motion and sound.

Ryan nearly bounced on the balls of his feet, his obvious pride and pleasure in his home making him look ten years younger. “Pretty great, huh?”

Yes. Enough that she was aching to knot her hair on top of her head, stretch out her arms and let that delicious breeze tickle the back of her neck and tease through her clothes. Instead, she simply nodded her agreement with a genuine smile. “It is.”

“So, kitchen, dining room and living area are here on the main level. My rooms are on the third floor. If you’d like to clean up before we get you into a hotel, I’ll show you the guest suite.”

Downstairs, Ryan held open the last door on the left, revealing a sitting area, full bath, bedroom and yet another spectacular view of the ocean beyond. Drawn by the opulence of a suite she imagined remained largely unused, she walked toward the back, by habit cataloging each piece of art and elegant adornment along the way. His collection was spectacular.

The bedroom opened to a second, lower terrace, partially shaded by the one above. Crossing to the window, she wondered how Ryan was able to accomplish any work with views like these available from every vantage in the house.

And then she remembered. “You don’t really live here, do you?”

He stood against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest. “No. It’s more of a retreat. I split most of my time between Boston and L.A., but I thought we’d be better off down here. Less visible.”

“Trying to keep me hush-hush?” Claire teased with a crooked smirk, knowing full well the accommodation was entirely for her benefit. She was the only one with something to lose if their relationship became public knowledge. “Am I your dirty little secret?”

“Right,” he answered with a short laugh. “Think how my reputation would suffer if news of my scandalous child bride got out.”

“I was eighteen.”

Another bark of laughter. “I should have been shot.”

Ah, the old argument. Only this time, rather than give in to the usual go-round, she felt the need to voice her feelings while she still had the chance. “Hey, it was good for a while. We were both just … naive.”

The lightness of the moment was gone as quickly as it had come. Ryan’s dark brown eyes fixed on hers, then shifted out toward the horizon. He didn’t believe her. But then, they both knew why they’d married in the first place. Despite how she’d wished it were otherwise, the marriage had been an honorable act. Ryan doing the right thing by her.

“Yeah, we were.”

The words were simple enough, but there was a hollow, almost desolate, quality to them that pulled at the places in her soul Claire didn’t like to revisit. And just like that, the memories were there. The good, the bad, the bitter and heartbreaking. Turning heavy and dark, they swamped her with emotions she no longer acknowledged. Weighted her shoulders with echoes of the bleak despair that had nearly stolen her life.

No. She wouldn’t give in again.

Her vision swam and she took an unsteady step back from the glass, felt the ground give and the world go thick and slow.

“Claire!” And then Ryan was there, one hand clamped tight around her upper arm, the other locked across her waist as he caught her to him.

Awareness returned in a breath-seizing crash at the press of his chest, hips and thighs against her back. The solid strength of him bracketing her body. Pieces of a puzzle long ago abandoned, coming together in a dangerous alignment of hard and soft.

Her equilibrium returned and she steadied her footing.

“God, I’m sorry,” she managed to say weakly, trying to step free of the arms enveloping her, but Ryan held fast. “I’m okay.”

“Like hell.” The gravel-rough words hit her ear, low and accusing. “What happened?”

Wondering the same, she drew a shallow breath. Then another. Deeper. Only, the next breath met the rhythm of Ryan’s and set their bodies into synchronized movement that was … intimate. Her gaze dropped to her abdomen where Ryan’s hand splayed low and wide, securing her to him in a hold that was almost erotic. She closed her eyes to it, but she could still feel the heat of his hand against her, the strength of his body behind. Remembering his hands moving over her the way they once had. One cupping, plucking at her breast … as the other slid lower to where achy heat had now begun to throb between her legs.

God, this was crazy.

No, she was crazy. Because it wasn’t the memories causing her to sway on her feet. It wasn’t Ryan or the past or the present or any kind of emotional weakness. It was her own stupidity.

“I should have eaten on the plane.” Had some water. Slept a little. But then she’d been too keyed up to register the basic needs of her body.

“Food?”

A harsh breath sounded above her head, and in an abrupt shift, Ryan swung her into his arms and carried her the few steps to the bed, depositing her without finesse.

“Stay there.”

Ryan took the stairs three at a time, rounding the second level in a matter of seconds.

Food.

He’d nearly had a heart attack when Claire stumbled back on legs that looked as if they’d gone to jelly beneath her, her features slipping from that irritatingly controlled mask she’d been giving him to lax. Through reflex alone, he’d caught her against him before the reality of what was happening registered in his brain. And then she’d been in his arms and his blood stopped cold in his veins.

He’d been there before. Helpless. A bystander as the woman who’d been his wife bled from the body in his arms.

But that wasn’t what was happening now. Claire hadn’t eaten. When he thought about it, she hadn’t slept either. She’d been a workhorse for that gallery of hers, keeping pace with him through their entire day of travel. But then, not only had he eaten, he was also accustomed to pushing through more hours than these. Did it on a regular basis.

What Claire was used to, he had no idea.

He should have paid more attention on the flight.

Only, every time he’d looked too closely at her, he found himself wanting to reach out and touch. To test the texture of her skin. See what she felt like again.

Well, he’d had his chance. He’d had her in his arms and now he knew. She felt good. So good that when she’d regained her senses and he should have let her go, he’d held on. Stealing those extra seconds of contact—

Shaking loose the fists balled at his sides, he held them out, assessing their steadiness. Swore and shook them again before wrenching open the door to the Sub-Zero.

No more touching. That was for damn sure.

A minute later he was back in the guest suite twisting the cap free from a sports drink and thrusting it into Claire’s hand. “First this.”

“Thank you.” She turned the bottle in her hands, scanning the label before bringing it to her lips to drink. Several swallows later she rested the bottle against her knee and accepted the energy bar he’d opened.

He watched her eat. Followed each dainty bite until the pink tip of her tongue swept across the swell of her bottom lip to capture a stray crumb … And then he looked away. Willed the tightening in his groin to cease, calling up memories of the vegetable drawer in his college apartment as a last but amazingly effective resort.

“Feeling better?” he asked, tracking the empty stretch of damp packed sand to where it curved off into the cove. He needed to run. To push past his endurance and find that state of grace where the tether between mind and body stretched taut and thin. Where the world reordered in his head. And the tension twisting around his every nerve slipped loose.

“Yes … Just embarrassed more than anything.”

He turned back to her. The color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes were clear and alert. “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

“No. Not at all.”

That was a relief to hear, but at the same time, what if it was something more serious than a nosedive in blood sugar? Or what if she wasn’t being straight with him?

He didn’t know anything about her anymore.

Catching her chin between finger and thumb, he tipped her face to his, searching for signs of wear. Maybe a longer-term hunger or extreme fatigue. Anything to suggest things weren’t as she’d said.