Best Man's Conquest (4 page)

He
wasn't
attacking her. His observations were aimed directly at the twins.

“That is true,” she told him, in her therapist's, I'm-not-speaking-of-anyone-in-particular-just-stating-the-scientific-evidence tone.

Dale and Calvin weren't looking so cocky now, and a grateful smile had begun to creep over Deidre's face.

The Tweedles were a bit slower to catch on.

Ivy watched with guilty pleasure as the two of them digested his words with brains no doubt impaired by bleach overexposure. She relished the look of stunned indignation on their faces when the meaning hit home.

She had never been an advocate of “an eye for an eye” and preferred not to lower herself to the Tweedles' level, but it felt damned good to knock those two down a peg.

“In fact,” she continued, “self-esteem is one of the most widely studied areas of psychology.”

“Why is that?” Dillon asked, feeding the flames, while the Tweedles grew increasingly uncomfortable.

Her conscience told her that what she was about to do was childish and just plain mean, but she couldn't deny the satisfaction she felt watching the Tweedles squirm. And who knows, May be her words would strike some sort of chord, and they would think of other people's feelings for a change.

Should she or shouldn't she?

Oh, what the hell.

“Because self-esteem plays a role in virtually everything we do,” she explained. “A lack of it can have dire effects. People who are unsure of themselves sometimes have trouble sustaining healthy relationships. Since they often feel embarrassed and ashamed without due cause, their irrational reactions tend to baffle and alienate others.”

“That
is
fascinating,” Deidre agreed, casting a grin Ivy's way.

On a roll now, Ivy added, “Even worse, low self-esteem can cause or contribute to neurosis, anxiety, defensiveness, eating disorders and even alcohol and drug abuse.”

“How tragic,” Dillon said, looking pointedly to Blake's brothers. “Don't you think?”

Dale and Calvin exchanged an uneasy look, but neither uttered a sound. It was clear they were of the collective opinion that they shouldn't mess with the billionaire oil man.

The balance of power had just been established. At least for once Dillon had used that clout and influence for someone's benefit other than his own.

She would have to thank him later.

“Well, I think I'll take a walk on the beach before it gets dark,” Dillon said, rising to his feet, and with his eyes on Ivy asked, “Anyone care to join me?”

As if
. She wasn't
that
grateful.

“I will!” Deidre said, popping up from her chair with such enthusiasm that she bumped the table and sent her champagne glass teetering precariously. Blake grabbed it before it could topple over and shatter against the glass-top table. It was a nice save and, if Deidre's doe-eyed smile was any indication, might just compensate for his letting her down earlier.

Blake stood, brushing remnants of his dinner from the front of his clothes. Clothes that hung on his narrow, gangly frame. No matter how well he dressed, he always looked a tad…untidy. “I'll come, too.”

“We're going into town to hit the bars,” Dale said, answering for that side of the table. All four of them looked as though they could use a stiff drink. Or May be five. Hopefully, in the future they would take the time to think about what they were saying before they opened their mouths, and realize there were certain people you just didn't mess with. Not without getting burned.

Ivy rose from her chair. “I'm going to head up to my room. I have to check my e-mail.”

“But you promised no work this week,” Deidre said with a pout.

“I know, but I'm expecting a message from my editor,” she lied. The truth was, she'd told her editor, agent and writing partner that this week had been reserved strictly for relaxation.

What a joke. There would be nothing relaxing about this week. She would be lucky if she didn't return to Texas a certified Froot Loop in need of intensive psychotherapy.

Deidre clutched Ivy's hand in a death grip. “Come with us.
Please
.”

Ivy knew what she was trying to do, and it wasn't going to work. She wanted Ivy to forgive Dillon. To “get past it,” whatever “it” was.

Yes, Dillon had done something nice, shown that he had an unselfish side, but it didn't excuse the way he'd taunted her all evening. It also didn't change the fact that he would most likely continue to taunt and harass her until she boarded the plane Sunday morning.

She pried her hand free. “Next time. I promise.”

Deidre looked as if she wanted to press the issue but let it drop.

Everyone went their separate ways, and Ivy headed upstairs, feeling uneasy and not quite sure why. Something weird had just happened down there. Something disturbing that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

She stepped into her room, closed the door and leaned against it.

A disaster had been diverted, thanks to Dillon. She would go so far as to say the entire situation, while childish and petty, had actually been fun—

Wait a minute.
Fun?
With
Dillon?

The truth grabbed hold and shook her silly for a second.

That's what was so weird. Tonight had reminded her, if only for a few seconds, that at one time she and Dillon had made a good team. They used to have fun.

Even worse, she was pretty sure she actually disliked him a little less than she had this morning.

Oh, this was bad.

Hating Dillon was her only defense, her only ammunition. She depended on it.

Without that hate, she could no longer ignore the fact that he'd irreparably broken her heart.

Do you suspect your man is lying to you? Trust your intuition. Odds are, he probably is.

—excerpt from
The Modern Woman's Guide to Divorce (And the Joy of Staying Single)

I
vy learned two important lessons that night.

The first was that the only thing worse than having to face her ex again was having to face him in her ratty old nightshirt with the sleeves torn off, wet, tangled hair and no makeup.

The second, more valuable, lesson was always lock your bedroom door.

“Whoops,” Dillon said from the open doorway when he saw her lying in bed on her stomach, on top of the covers, her laptop open in front of her.

She scrambled onto her knees, tugging the shirt down over her pale, sun-deprived legs, kicking herself for not visiting the tanning bed a few times before she left. Then kicking herself a second time for caring what he thought. “What are you doing in here?”

He looked genuinely baffled. “Guess I got the wrong room.”

She couldn't help wondering how he'd managed that, since Deidre had had the decency not to put them in adjacent rooms and his was located at the opposite end of the house.

“Huh.” Dillon glanced down the hall in the direction he'd come from. “I must'a made a wrong turn at the stairs.”

She dragged her fingers through her knotted hair, cursing herself for not running a brush through it. Her mother, the cosmetologist, had spent years hammering into her head that to avoid damage to the ends and give her thin hair more body, it should be brushed
after
it dried. Which shouldn't have been a problem since she hadn't been anticipating company.

Or in Dillon's case, an intruder.

You don't care,
she reminded herself.

“Well, as you can see, this isn't your room, so…good night.”

He looked casually around, as if he had every right to be there. “Hey, this is nice.”

“Yeah, it's great.” And she knew for a fact it was not much different than his room.

Rather than leave, Dillon stepped farther inside, wedging his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. A move completely nonthreatening, but she felt herself tense. “I think your room is bigger than mine. And damn, look at that view.”

Without invitation, and in a move arrogantly typical of him, he crossed the room to the open French doors and stepped outside onto the balcony.

Ugh! The man was insufferable!

Forgetting about her unsightly white skin, she jumped up out of bed and followed him. Staring at her from a balcony a dozen yards away was one thing. She could even live with the teasing, but this was her room, her only refuge this week, and he had no right to just barge in uninvited. “What do you think you're doing?”

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only a hazy magenta ghost in its wake, and specks of glittering light dotted the heavens. And in the not so far distance she could hear the waves crashing against the bluff. Add to that the cool breeze blowing off the water and it was a perfect night. If not for the man standing there.

He whistled low and shook his head. “Yes, ma'am, quite a view.”

“Your room faces the same ocean, so I doubt the view is all that different at the opposite end of the house. Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you go check.”

Ignoring the razor-sharp edge of irritation in her voice, he propped both hands on the railing and made himself comfortable. “No, sir, you don't see stars like this in Dallas.” He sucked in a long, deep breath and blew it out. “No smog, either.”

She wasn't quite sure of the point of the “aw, shucks” routine, but it was getting really annoying. “Dillon, I want you to leave.”

He turned to her, his face partially doused in shadow, wearing that crooked grin. “No, you don't.”

Damn him. He still knew exactly which buttons to push. But she wasn't going to take the bait. She wasn't the young, emotionally adolescent girl he remembered. She was going to stay calm. “Yes,
I do
.”

“It's been ten years. We have a lot of catching up to do.” His eyes strayed to the front of the threadbare, oversize shirt and the grin went from amused to carnal.

Exactly what kind of catching up did he think they would be doing? And was he familiar with the phrase,
when hell freezes over?

“You always did wear T-shirts to bed. Usually mine.” He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and something dangerously hot flickered in his eyes.

“You said you liked 'em ' cause they smelled like me.”

She crossed her arms and shot him a chilling look.

Undaunted, his eyes wandered over her. “And I see that you still wait until your hair is dry to brush it.”

She hated that he still knew her so well. That he'd bothered to remember anything about her at all. And the only reason he had was to use it against her. To make her uncomfortable. To knock her off balance and lower her defenses so he could go in for the kill.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

“I'll bet you do all those things subconsciously,” he mused. “Because deep down you still love me and you want me back.”

The mercury on her temper began a steady climb, and she clamped her teeth over the sarcastic reply that was trying like hell to jump out of her mouth.

You will not show this man how angry he's making you,
she chanted to herself.
You will not let him get the best of you.

“Isn't there a technical term for that?” he asked.

Yeah, there was a term for it.

Nuts.

Which he was if he honestly believed she had any feelings left for him. Favorable ones, that is.

“Don't we have a high opinion of ourselves,” she said.

He grinned. “May be, but you can't say that I'm not consistent.”

No, she definitely couldn't say that. He'd never once failed to let her down.

And this conversation was going nowhere.

“Look, I appreciate the way you defended Deidre against the Tweedles at dinner, but let's not pretend that I don't know exactly what you're doing and why you're doing it.”

Amusement quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Tweedles?”

Ivy slapped a hand over her mouth. Oh, jeez. Had she really said that out loud?

“Like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?” A deep rumble of infectious laughter rolled from his chest and had a grin tugging at the corners of her own mouth.

And just as quickly it fizzled away.

Ugh!

He was doing it again. Softening her up. Lowering the ick factor of just being near him.

“You need to leave,” she said. “I have work to finish.”

He didn't move. “I guess you got that e-mail from your editor, huh?”

“That's right,” she fibbed. “I'm incredibly busy right now.”

“Why don't I believe you?” He eased away from the ledge, and she resisted the urge to step back. “You know, I could always tell when you were lying.”

“I guess it takes one to know one,” she snapped.

The humor slipped from his face, and she could see that she'd hit a nerve. Well, good. He had it coming.

Then why did she feel like such a louse?

He took another step closer. “Did I ever lie to you, Ivy?”

“I am not doing this.” She turned and walked to the closet. She flung the door open and snatched her robe from the hanger. “I refuse to get sucked into a conversation about a relationship that has been over for ten years.”

She thrust her arms through the sleeves and bound the belt securely at her waist. She swung around and nearly plowed into him. He was right behind her.

“The truth, Ivy.” Every trace of playful cockiness had disappeared from his voice. “Did I ever once lie to you?”

Her heart rattled around in her chest. She remembered this man. The quiet, serious, alter ego. His appearances had been rare, but they had always intimidated the hell out of her. And Dillon knew it.

Had he been hiding in the background all this time, waiting for just the right moment to pounce?

“I don't owe you a thing.”

He stepped closer, his eyes locked on her face, and every cell in her body went on full alert, every neuron in her brain lit off like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“Did I
ever
lie to you?”

Don't do it, she warned her traitorous subconscious. Don't you dare say what you're thinking. It doesn't matter anymore. It will only make things worse.

Don't say a word.

He stepped closer, until he was only inches away. His hair was a little windblown from his walk along the beach, and she could smell the scent of the ocean on his skin and clothes. Steel-blue eyes bore through her, stripping her bare, and her feet felt cemented to the floor.

She couldn't move.

“Ivy?”

“No!” she shrieked, no longer able to contain the anger and frustration and hurt that had been festering for far too long. “You never lied to me, Dillon. In fact, you made it distinctly clear just how little our marriage meant to you.”

She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth, but it was too late to take them back. She was still bitter and hurt by the divorce and now he knew it. And she didn't doubt he would use it against her.

For several long seconds he just stared at her, his expression impossible to decipher. Finally, his voice neither warm nor cold, he said, “I wasn't the one who walked out the door.”

His words felt like a slap across the face and literally knocked her back a step. He wasn't suggesting the demise of their marriage was
her
fault, was he? There was only one person to blame, and he was standing right in front of her.

Who had repeatedly stayed out every night and come home drunk while she had done her best to get an education? Who had blown his money gambling week after week?

And who had sicced his father on the grant committee and had her scholarship revoked?

May be he hadn't lied, but what he'd done was worse.

He'd let her down.

For a second they just stood there looking at each other, then he shook his head, so subtly she had to wonder if she'd really seen it or if it had been a trick of the light.

“Good night, Ivy.” He turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

And for some stupid reason she felt like crying.

She didn't care what he believed. What had happened to their marriage was not her fault. She may have been the one to physically walk out the door, but emotionally, Dillon had already been long gone.

 

Ivy dove into the pool, limbs slicing across the still water like a hot knife through cool butter. Thanks to Mr. I-never-lied-to-you, she'd slept like hell and woke at dawn. But with each stroke she could feel the stress from the previous night begin to evaporate, burned away by the adrenaline and endorphins coursing through her bloodstream.

She'd always had something of a love/hate relationship with exercise. She'd been blessed with a naturally slim figure, so her sporadic visits to the gym never caused her concern. In the last few years, however, she'd noticed things gradually beginning to expand and spread.

Hence her daily morning swim. It was the one thing that felt the least like real exercise. And while it wouldn't bring back the figure of her youth, she was able to comfortably maintain her present weight.

She only wished some of that extra weight had been redistributed to her less than impressive bustline.

She completed her laps and surfaced, and there, not three feet away, lay Dillon in a lounge chair beside the pool, a mug of coffee in one hand. Watching her, of course.

Here we go again.

She couldn't see what he had on from the waist down, other than the fact that his feet and calves were bare, but from the waist up he wore a deep tan and a sleepy smile. One that said,
hmm, how can I mess with Ivy today?

She ignored the sudden lightness in her chest, the jittery, nervous feeling in her stomach. She repressed the
why me
groan working its way up her chest.

“Morning,” he said. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw and his hair had that mussed, just-rolled-out-of-the-sack look.

She wondered how long he'd been sitting there watching her. She'd never seen him crawl out of bed before ten in the morning. Usually it was closer to noon.

She swam to the ladder and climbed out, facing away from him, feeling uncomfortable despite her modest one-piece suit. It was still too revealing. Too likely to show off the changes in her body, when his own physique appeared to have only improved with age.

And really, why did she care?

She wrapped herself in a towel, squeezing the excess water from her hair. “You're awake early.”