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In his car, Sophie felt the strangest emotion—crazy emotion—longing, regret, desperation. She thought she’d do just about anything to go back in time and find the teenagers they’d all once been.
“I’ve missed you, Sophie,” he said quietly.
Her heart lurched. You’re far too lonely, she chided herself even as her heart lurched again. It was a painful jump, much like the painful jumps she’d felt as a teenager when she knew he wanted her and she didn’t know what to think, or what to feel.
Hot tears started to her eyes and she blinked. It was embarrassing, being so emotional. She hadn’t felt this way in ages. Ever since Clive died she’d been very controlled, very contained, but here she was about to leap out of her skin.
She wanted to blame her nerves on fatigue, stress, holiday jitters, but it was Lon. He’d always done this to her. Tied her up in knots. Made her feel so many things.
He was still magnetic. Compelling. His unusual coloring—very black hair and very light blue eyes—drew attention. He certainly wasn’t your typical Englishman, and maybe that’s what fascinated the women. He looked foreign. Dangerous.
But then, he was dangerous.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, shifting and accelerating.
“You.” She tried to disguise the intensity of her feelings, but wasn’t succeeding. She shouldn’t be here alone with him. She couldn’t let herself get close to him. They weren’t teenagers anymore, and she knew Lon didn’t play games. No, Lon played for keeps.
And she didn’t do keeps. At least, not with Alonso. He was still too unpredictable, still too intimidating.
Her gaze traveled his broad forehead, the wide jaw, the strong nose before settling on the thin scar running along the edge of Lon’s right cheekbone. The scar hadn’t been there five years ago. “How did you get that scar?”
“Nicked myself shaving.” He leaned back in his deep leather seat. It was a deep scar, an ugly scar. It wasn’t a shaving mishap.
“Must have been a big razor.”
The corner of his mouth twisted. “Huge.”
She couldn’t look away from the scar. It should have ruined his hard face. Instead it added strength. Character. With the creases at his eyes and the scar high on his cheek, he looked like a man that knew his way around the world. Like a man who’d come to terms with life. “Did it hurt?”
“Losing you hurt more.”
She sucked in a breath and glanced down at her bare hands. Her left hand felt so empty without her heavy ring.
“So you’ve never married?” she asked, swiftly changing subjects, trying to find safer ground. Clive had told her once that Lon maintained homes and offices in Bogota and Buenos Aires but it seemed like a universe away from her life in England.
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Live-in girlfriend?”
“You’re quite curious, muñeca. Are you interested in applying for the job?”
His slow, mocking smile set her heart racing and her limbs felt like lead. Oh, he was still dangerous. He still turned her inside out, made her feel shaky and jittery. “Sorry. Not interested.” She should have never gotten into his car, should never have agreed to this. “Living-in is less exciting than fairy tales would lead us to believe.”
“The disillusioned princess.”
“Hardly a princess.”
“No, just an impoverished lady forced to sell her house, her car, and now her wedding ring.”
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. He could hurt her in ways no one else could. “They’re just things,” she whispered.
“And what are things when you’re surrounded by warmth and tenderness and love?”
She almost hated him right now. He was so cold, so cynical. He had to know she was living alone with the Countess, Clive’s mother. He knew the Countess, too. He knew she wasn’t warm, and he had to know Sophie was virtually trapped at Melrose Court with no personal space, or freedom, anymore.
But she didn’t say that, didn’t say a word. If he wanted to be cruel, fine, let him. He’d be gone soon. He’d drop her at Melrose Court and drive off into the night and she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.
“I would have paid you twice as much for your ring, Sophie.” Lon’s voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity. The emerald alone was worth twenty thousand pounds. The setting was another ten to fifteen.”
She shrugged. Don’t think about it, she told herself. You didn’t know, and even if you did, you wouldn’t have been able to get more. “I’m happy with what he paid me.”
“As long as you’re happy,” he answered, running a hand across his brow, rubbing tiredly.
His hair was long, longer than he’d ever worn it ten years earlier, and the back nearly touched his shoulders. He was too big for the black Porsche. His shoulders filled the car. His hands on the steering wheel were large, his skin burnished from hours in the sun.
But he wasn’t just big. He was strong. Immensely powerful. She knew Lon had worked in the mines personally, years before he’d ever bought his share. He hadn’t been afraid of the explosives, the tight quarters, the perils of collapsing tunnels and elevator shafts.
What an odd pair they were. Lon, afraid of nothing, and Sophie, afraid of everything.
“How long did the honeymoon last, Sophie?”
She startled, shocked by his nerve. “That’s none of your business.”
His smile was cool. “I want to know. Tell me. How long did it take before you knew you’d made a mistake?”
Her mouth went dry. She struggled to swallow. “Take that back!”
“Not a chance.”
“You have no right—”
“I loved you.” Lon’s voice dropped, his jaw tightening with anger. “Clive never loved you. He just didn’t want me to have you.”
“No.”
“Yes. And you, silly girl, were so damn afraid of your feelings, you ran straight into his arms.”
Her head swam, Lon’s words nearly making her ill. She reached for the door handle as if she could escape.
But there was no escape. Lon had found her. Lon still wanted her. And deep inside she knew this time Lon would never let her go.
“Do you know what it was like, realizing I’d lost you forever?” He ground his teeth together as he stared straight out the windshield, night falling all around them. But the strain showed in his face, reflected by the dashboard lights, and the greenish dashboard light heightened the paleness of his scar. “I knew you’d never have an affair, either. Good sweet Sophie Johnson would be true to her husband. And you were, weren’t you?”
His leather coat had fallen open and his black cashmere sweater was v-necked, a fairly deep v-neck that showed tanned skin and hard muscles. Lon’s chest was wide, deep, the thick muscles wrapping his rib cage in sinewy bands.
She blinked back stinging tears. “Of course I was loyal.”
“Of course.” He smiled but there was no warmth, no mercy in his eyes. “You’re loyal to everyone—but me.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks and she felt hot and prickly all over. “We were young, Lon. I was young.”
“Not that young.”
“And it was a long time ago.”
“Not long enough for me to forget.”
“Lon.”
“Don’t think it’s over, Sophie.” His deep voice held her, trancelike, and she found herself looking up at him. His eyes should have been black, but they were the lightest, clearest blue. “It’s not even close to being over. You’re not even twenty-eight. I’m thirty-two. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
By the time they arrived at Melrose Court, Sophie felt dizzy, her stomach churning so hard she was certain she’d soon be ill. Lon shot her a hard look after parking. “Did you eat anything today?”
“I’m fine.” But stepping from the car she was anything but fine. Her legs nearly buckled under her and tears of rage filled her eyes.
Ignoring her protest, Lon swept her up the stairs. “She’s feeling a little faint,” he informed a startled Countess Wilkins, his arm still wrapped around Sophie’s waist. “Could you get a glass of water?”
The Countess disappeared and Lon stared down in her face. “You’re looking a little pale, Sophie.”
Only Lon would be so ruthless. Only Lon would want to punish her. Yes, she’d liked him all those years ago. And maybe yes, she’d loved him, but he wanted more than her love. He’d wanted everything. All of her. He was like a vortex and he scared the hell out of her.
“I’m not ready to date again,” she whispered, conscious that Louisa would return any moment.
“No?”
“No.”
“So it’s not true about you and…what’s his name? Rich, good-looking man. Dark hair, rather like mine, dark eyes—”
“Federico,” she interrupted with a soft strangled sound.
“Federico,” Lon said slowly, thoughtfully drawing the name out. “Sounds foreign.”
Sophie shivered, and her dark blue gaze, dropped. “Aren’t we all?”
Any other time Alonso would have smiled. It was true. Just as Lon and Sophie had met as teenagers in Latin America, most people in their sphere had lived all over the world. Diplomats, engineers, miners, bankers, foreign investors. But Lon couldn’t smile, not when they were discussing Federico Alvare.
Miguel Valdez was one of Latin America’s biggest druglords and Federico Alvare served as his right-hand man. A former MI6 agent, Lon knew Federico personally, and Federico would drag Sophie to hell if he could.
“It’s all right if you have a new boyfriend,” he continued conversationally, trying to ignore the fire burning through his middle. Sophie and another man? Possibly. Maybe. Barely. Sophie and Federico Alvare? Never. And it was this rumor that had brought him back to England. His contacts said Lady Wilkins was in trouble, that she was associating with one of the world’s most dangerous criminals. He hadn’t believed it until now. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be dating. It’s been two years.”
“I’ve no interest in dating again, and he’s not a boyfriend. He’s just a…friend.” Sophie couldn’t even meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on a point on the floor. “Federico used to work with Clive.”
She was either painfully innocent or damn brazen. Right now Lon couldn’t figure out which. “I had no idea.”
Sophie’s lower lip quivered and she pressed her lips together, pressing down. Her small pale face suddenly looked tight and a damp tendril slipped from the twist of dark hair pinned up at the back. “No, you wouldn’t know. After Clive and I married, you wouldn’t have anything to do with us.”
He watched, fascinated, as the long tendril clung to the side of her neck. Lucky tendril. Lucky neck. Now he had to protect that pretty neck before something tragic happened. “It was a two way street, Sophie.”
“Clive tried,” she gritted, her blue eyes fierce. She was wearing a cream sweater dress and the top two buttons had popped open giving him a glimpse of an ivory bra strap.
“Not very hard.”
“You never returned his calls. You’ve no idea how much it hurt him, how much it hurt both of us.”
Lon was perfectly happy letting Sophie talk. He was too interested in the open buttons of her sweater dress, the hint of creamy breast, the long pale column of her throat, her very sweet mouth…
Sophie’s lips, even without lipstick, were full and pink and right now all he wanted to do was drink the angry words from her mouth, draw the air from her lungs, fold her into him.
His body hardened just looking at her. He physically craved Sophie. His mind wanted her mind. His skin wanted her skin. His body wanted to be lost in hers.
“You could have called me,” he said even as the Countess returned with the glass of water.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you,” Louisa Wilkins said, giving Alonso a brief embrace. “It’s been years. Two years. Since Clive’s funeral, I believe.”
Lon heard Sophie’s swift inhale and felt her stiffen. “I think you’re right,” he answered, anxious to move on to less sensitive topics. “But you look wonderful, Louisa, not a day older.”
The Countess practically beamed. She’d missed male company, too. “Thank you, Alonso. Very kind of you to say. And you are staying for dinner, aren’t you?”
Sophie’s blue eyes looked panicked. “I think he’s busy, Louisa.”
“Not that busy,” Lon corrected. “I’d love to stay.”
The Countess folded her hands over her stomach. “I’ll have Cook add another place to the table.” She turned to Sophie. “And Sophie, show Alonso the whiskey. If I remember, he likes a good drink before dinner.”
In the library Sophie watched Lon pour himself a neat shot. “It seems she’s developed a soft spot for you.”
Alonso capped the crystal whiskey decanter. “It’s the holiday season. She’s feeling nostalgic.” He sipped from his crystal tumbler. “I imagine Christmas is quite difficult for her.”
Sophie said nothing. She just took a seat on the slip-covered sofa and curled her legs beneath her.
“It must be difficult for you living alone with the Countess here,” he said far more calmly than he felt. On the inside he was growing angry. Irritated. He didn’t like losing his temper.
Other officers had kidded him that when pushed, he had an almost superhuman strength, and it was true, he could lift twice his body weight. Easily. Once in training camp he’d clean and jerked 600 kilos and others had just gaped. He’d told them it ran in his family, that his dad was a miner from Scotland, but it was only part of the truth.
His stepfather was Scottish, and a miner. His biological father was an Argentine aristocrat who killed himself by driving a hundred miles an hour into a tree. Drunk, of course.
It was Lon’s Argentine blood that got him in trouble.
Sophie shifted miserably. “Louisa’s been very good to me.”
