Best Man's Conquest (5 page)

“I'm an early riser these days.”

Just her luck. More time he could spend harassing her.

Yet nothing good would come of letting him see that he was irritating her. Last night was an unfortunate setback. It was imperative that today she play it cool. She had to be patient.

She grabbed her iced coffee from the table where she'd left it and turned to her ex. When she realized how he was dressed, the cup nearly slipped from her grasp.

Deep down in the rational part of her brain, she knew he was going for shock value. She knew the appropriate reaction was no reaction at all.

Unfortunately, at the moment, her rational brain was not calling the shots.
“What are you wearing?”

He looked down to his lap, at what appeared to be a pair of very expensive black silk boxers. “Skivvies,” he said casually, as though there was nothing at all inappropriate about walking around a strange house in his underwear. “I would have put on pajamas, but as I'm sure you recall, I don't wear any. Besides,” he said, with a slight wiggle of his eyebrows, “it's nothing you haven't seen before.”

“There are six other people in this house, you know.”

“And they're all sound asleep.”

“Not to mention the housekeep—” She stopped abruptly and spun away from him. “For pity's sake, at least have the decency to button your fly.”

“Whoops,” she heard him say, although he didn't sound all that concerned with his faux pas. The man would go to any lengths to make her uncomfortable.

“No wonder the housekeeper looked at me funny when I was pouring my coffee.” There was a short pause, then he said, “The stallion is locked back in the stable. You can turn around now.”

Facing him meant he would possibly see the red patches of embarrassment blooming across her cheeks. But not facing him would be even worse.

She turned, keeping her eyes above neck level. Looking at his bare chest reminded her of touching his bare chest, which reminded her of other things they used to do. Which would only make the blush burn brighter.

“When did you start swimming?” he asked. “I seemed to recall you hating exercise.”

“I still do, but some of us have to work at it.”

“And you're assumin' I don't? Would it surprise you to learn that I go to the gym every morning before work?”

Being surprised wasn't the issue. She didn't want to know about his life. It humanized him, made him seem like a regular guy. She preferred to keep him in the niche she'd carved out for him. That place in her mind where he would always be arrogant and cocky and totally unappealing.

“Although I never did learn how to swim,” he said, which she found incredibly hard to swallow. True, she'd never actually seen him swim, but his home had been highlighted on some decorating show on cable television—or so someone had told her. From what she heard he owned a big, fancy mansion—she might have even driven past it one time, accidentally, of course—where he'd installed an Olympic-size indoor pool. He wasn't married, didn't have children. Why install a pool if he didn't plan to use it?

“You should try it sometime,” she said.

“Are you going golfing today?” he asked, referring to the golf outing Blake and Deidre had scheduled.

Apparently, he didn't remember everything about her. She did not golf.

She was about to tell him no, she didn't plan to go, but caught herself. There was only one thing Dillon had loved more than drinking and gambling. That was golfing. But if he knew she wasn't going, he might very well skip it and spend the entire day harassing her.

“I'm going,” she lied.

“Blake said we're meeting in the foyer at ten-fifteen.”

That could be a problem. If she didn't show, he would know she wasn't going. Of course, if she was already gone by ten-fifteen, he would have no idea where to look for her. It shouldn't be all that tough to slip away. “Well then, I should hurry back to my room and get ready.”

“Wear something cool,” he called after her as she rushed inside. “It's going to be a scorcher.”

“Will do!” she shot back. She could sneak out of the house by ten, and Dillon would never be the wiser. And she would have the entire day all to herself.

Is your ex harassing you? Trying to intimidate you? Take action and beat him at his own game! It's easier than you may think.

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

H
e'd reduced himself to stalking.

Dillon followed several yards behind Ivy as she browsed the merchandise lining the streets of the shopping district. He'd been following her since she snuck out of the house this morning.

He couldn't help thinking that he'd sunk pitifully low, but he had to keep his eye on the prize. Seeing Ivy broken and begging for forgiveness.

The sun brought out the reddish-gold highlights in her hair, and a cool breeze blowing off the ocean ruffled the full, filmy-looking skirt she wore, playing a tantalizing game of peek-a-boo with those long, toned, milky-white legs.

She wore a simple, pale blue tank top that settled nicely on shoulders that, on someone else, would have been too narrow and angular. But everything about her body fit just right. He wasn't the only one who noticed, either. As she wandered down the cobblestone street, dignified and May be a touch aloof, heads turned and eyes looked on with interest.

But he knew something they didn't. He knew the feisty, passionate girl she hid behind that curtain of quiet grace. There were times when he missed that woman. But she had disappeared the moment they'd said
I do.

He wondered what it would take to draw her out. If she even existed any longer. Somehow he doubted it.

It might be fun finding out though.

Ivy picked up a bottle of something from a table, perfume May be, and lifted it to her nose. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, a dreamy look on her face.

The vendor behind the table said something, and she smiled and shook her head. A genuine, easy smile. One he hadn't seen in a very long time. Even on the inside jacket of her book, which he had grudgingly skimmed at Barnes & Noble, she'd been all business. And near the end of their marriage neither had done much in the way of smiling. Not at each other, anyway.

That had always been Ivy's problem. She was too repressed and too driven. She'd never learned how to have fun. At least, not out of the bedroom. And it wasn't as if he hadn't tried to teach her. They had been making good progress, then they got married and she did a one-eighty on him.

After a bit of haggling, she reached into the pack she wore around her waist, pulled out several bills and handed them to the vendor. She slipped her purchase inside her pack and moved on to the next canopy.

She looked so relaxed and serene. At peace with herself and the world.

A grin curled his mouth. What better time to mosey up and say hello?

“Well, well, what a coincidence,” he drawled from behind her in that counterfeit twang he knew grated on her nerves.

Her hand stilled midair, just short of the colorful silk shawl she'd been about to look at, and every inch of her went rigid.

This was too easy. Better than greeting her this morning in his underwear, although that had been pretty damned funny. She obviously hadn't noticed the robe draped over the chair beside him.

Still only seeing what she wanted to see, believing what she wanted to believe.

Ivy paused and took a deep breath, as if gathering her strength—or May be her patience—then turned to face him. She'd sufficiently wiped any trace of emotion from her face, but she forgot who she was dealing with. He picked up on the subtle signs no one else noticed. The crinkle in her brow and the slight tightening of her jaw. The way she ground her teeth and narrowed her eyes the tiniest bit.

Things she probably wasn't even aware she was doing.

She could pretend she wasn't annoyed, but he knew better.

“Why do I sincerely doubt this is a coincidence?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It wouldn't have anything to do with you bein' somethin' of a pessimist, now would it?”

“What are you doing here?”

He flashed her a grin and held up the bag he was carrying. “Souvenirs. For my secretary.”

“Lingerie?” she guessed.

“Nah. My preferences in sleepwear lean toward the casual. Oversize T-shirts…” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Or nothing at all.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Not to mention the fact that my secretary is sixty-eight.”

“Aren't you supposed to be playing golf?”

“Shopping sounded like more fun.”

She let an undignified snort slip out. “Now I
know
you're lying. You love playing golf, and you always hated shopping.”

“That is true. It's the company I wasn't all that thrilled about. What was it you called them? The Tweedles?”

It wasn't a lie. He'd had more of those two than he could stomach at dinner last night. And torturing Ivy won out over golf any day of the week. He just had to accidentally bump into her, the way he'd “accidentally” walked into her room. What he hadn't counted on last night was getting himself sucked into a touchy-feely debate about their failed marriage.

She was still trying to pin the blame on him. No big surprise there.

Miss Perfect. Miss Nothing-is-ever-good-enough-for-me. May be he'd made a mistake or two,
minor ones,
but if anyone was ultimately responsible for the divorce, it was her.

And why had she assumed that what he'd done at dinner last night had anything to do with her? He was merely helping a friend. Blake was a good guy, the kind who would give a stranger the shirt off his back in the middle of a blizzard. But as long as Dillon had known him, Blake let his family walk all over him. With golf cleats on.

Deidre was the perfect match for him. Soft-spoken and demure, and May be a little awkward. Although Dillon sensed there was more to her than met the eye, the spark of something more complex. A confidence that she hadn't let herself explore. If that was the case, Dillon suspected that she would only take so much more from his family before she blew a gasket.

He hoped so. Otherwise, they would eat her for breakfast.

“Well,” Ivy said with a forced smile. “It was…nice seeing you again.”

He chuckled. “Now, that's a lie if I ever heard one.”

“You're right, it is a lie. Goodbye.” She turned and marched off, weaving her way through the crowd of people clogging the streets. Did she really think he was going to let her off that easy?

This was a vacation, and he intended to have fun.

 

Ivy zigzagged her way through the crowd, resisting the urge to break into a run and let Dillon see her desperation.

The market was hot and noisy, the air filled with the spicy scent of unfamiliar and delectable foods she had been hoping to sample. There were a million different things to see and do, places to explore.

And she'd planned to do it alone.

Barely thirty seconds passed before she heard Dillon say, “Where's the fire?”

She groaned to herself. He wasn't going to leave her alone. He was going to dog her all afternoon, like a joy-sucking leech. And how had he managed to find her? She'd waited until no one was around to sneak out of the house, and she hadn't told anyone, not even Deidre, where she was going.

Had he lied about golf? Had he hidden somewhere and waited for her to leave, then followed her? Would he be that devious?

Dumb question. Of course he would.

What had she done to deserve this?

She could play this two ways. She could act as though she didn't care, or she could bluntly tell him to leave her the hell alone. But she knew Dillon. Admitting he was annoying her would only fuel his determination. The best way to possibly get rid of him, the
only
way, was to pretend she didn't care either way. Eventually he would get bored and find someone else to torture. She hoped.

Either way she would be stuck with him for the rest of the afternoon. May be longer.

Yahoo. She could hardly wait.

She cast him a sideways glance. He walked beside her, thumbs hooked loosely in the front pockets of his jeans, casual as you please, and for an instant she felt a tiny bit breathless. He wore a pair of faded Levi's, polished cowboy boots and a white tank top that accentuated the golden tan of his shoulders, the lean definition in his biceps. His hair had that casual, slightly mussed look, as if he'd just rolled out of bed and run his fingers through it. Which is what he used to do ten years ago.

But when a person looked at him, really looked, it was clear there was more to him than just a pretty face. You could see the breeding, the auspicious roots.

He wore his status well. It complemented, but didn't define him.

“So, you're a hotshot author now,” he said.

“If you say so.” She tried to keep it light and brief. She didn't want to say the wrong thing and give him a new round of ammunition to fire her way.

“I heard you're writing a followup to that little book of yours.”

“Did you?” He could condescend all he liked, but that “little” book had made more money than she and the coauthor, Miranda Reed, had ever imagined possible.

Having both endured grueling, nasty divorces, the project had been more therapeutic than financially motivated. They hadn't even been sure anyone would want to publish it. In fact, they had been fairly certain the manuscript would sit untouched on some apathetic editor's desk, yellowing at the edges and gathering dust.

Not only did it sell, it became ensnared in a bidding war between several publishing houses. Since its release it had been topping the bestseller lists. It was a pure fluke that it had struck a chord with so many readers. And disturbing to discover the staggering number of women who had endured, or were presently experiencing, painful divorces.

It had solidified Ivy's belief that happy, successful marriages were a rare anomaly not experienced by the majority of the population. And with very few exceptions, women were better off staying single.

“I would think you'd have run out of material by now,” Dillon said.

Was the hotshot billionaire afraid he would be seeing his checkered past in print again?

Well, well. This was interesting.

“Do I detect a note of concern?” she asked.

“The truth is, I was thinkin' May be I'll write a book, too.”

If he was trying to scare her, he would have to do better. “Good luck with that.”

“A tell-all with every intimate detail of our marriage.” He grinned and nodded his head, as if he was really warming to the idea. “Yeah. Or better yet, May be I should send a letter or two to
Penthouse Forum.
”

“Sex with you was not that exciting,” she said, knowing as well as he did that it was a big fat lie. Near the end, their sex life had been as volatile as their tempers, as if they had been taking out all their frustrations in bed.

“Are you forgetting the time we got creative with that bottle of hot fudge and you let me lick it off your—”

“I remember,” she interjected, fighting the blush that had begun to creep up from her collar. Hot fudge hadn't been the only food they'd experimented with. She had fond memories of a can of whipped cream and a bottle of maraschino cherries.

“And if memory serves, you had a particularly sensitive spot, right here…” He reached up and brushed the tip of his index finger against the spot just below her ear.

She instinctively batted his hand away, but not before a ripple of erotic sensation whispered across her skin, making her feel warm and shivery at the same time. She shot him a warning look.

His victory triggered a triumphant, smug grin. “Yes, ma'am, it's still there.”

“Try it again and you'll lose that finger.” Verbal torment was one thing. Touching was off limits.

“I think I just figured out your problem.”

So had she. He was walking right beside her.

But she had to ask, “Which problem would that be?”

“Sex.”

Sex?
Oh, she couldn't wait to see where he was going with this. “My problem is sex?”

“I'll bet you haven't had it in a long time.”

She thought back to Deidre's comment about Ivy's less than active sex life. The truth was, she hadn't been with a man, hadn't had time for a relationship, much less a one-night stand, in so long she wasn't sure she remembered how. But as she told Deidre, she didn't need a man to complete her. And if she was looking for sexual release, she didn't need a man for that, either.

“And you're basing this assumption on what exactly?” she asked Dillon.

“Though you try to repress it, you're a very passionate person. Passionate people need sex regularly or they get cranky. And darlin', you are about as cranky as they come.”

Did it ever occur to him that
he
was the one making her cranky?

“It can't be just any sex, either,” he went on. “It has to be damned good, preferably with someone who knows exactly what it takes to light their fire.”