Best Man's Conquest (7 page)

“Did Blake see?”

“Lucky for you he was looking the other way. And before you ask, no, I didn't say anything to him. And if you ask me not to, I won't. But do not think for a second that I'm going to let you off the hook. I expect an explanation.”

Ivy opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She didn't have a clue what to say.

“Well?” Deidre asked, all but tapping her foot, waiting impatiently. “What's the deal?”

“You know, if we don't get to the table soon, the men are going to send in a search party.” She made a move toward the door, but Deidre blocked her way.

“I'm not letting you leave until you tell me the truth.”

Ivy sighed. She may as well come clean. The worst Deidre could say is I told you so. “Okay, so I kissed him. But I did it to prove I was completely over him. That I'm not attracted to him anymore.”

Deidre nodded. “I see. And did it work?”

“Umm…” She bit her lip.

“The truth, Ivy.”

“I may have been a little…
flustered.
”

“I saw your face, honey. You were more than a little flustered. You looked as if you'd gone ten rounds with the ghost of Christmas past.”

Okay, so May be I told you so
wasn't
the worst she could say.

If her feelings had been so clear to Deidre, Dillon must have known exactly what she was feeling. The man always did have an uncanny way of reading her thoughts, her body language.

“Proving that what you said was right,” she told Deidre. “I haven't had sex in a long time. Too long, obviously. And it had nothing at all to do with Dillon.”

“That's good, Ivy.” Deidre reached for the knob and pulled the door open. “If you keep telling yourself that you might start believing it.”

Want to discover the secret (and dirty!) tactics men use to make our lives hell? (Shh…don't tell them we know!)

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

T
he man clung to her like lint on a black wool blazer.

After lunch, which she grudgingly admitted was not as bad as she'd anticipated, Deidre, Blake and Dillon took off to sightsee. Ivy headed back to the house and found it blissfully empty. No Tweedles, no ex-husbands or neurotic battered brides. Only tranquil silence.

Thirty seconds later Dillon strolled through the door.

She felt like throwing up her hands in surrender, breaking down and crying, and shoving Dillon over the balcony, down the rocky bluff and into the ocean below. All at the same time.

Just remember, he's doing this on purpose, she reminded herself. He's doing it to annoy you. Do not let him know it's working.

“I thought you were going sightseeing,” she said in a flat, I'm-only-asking-to-be-polite voice.

He just shrugged—a slight hunch of his shoulders and an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. “Changed my mind.”

No, he hadn't. This had been the plan all along.

Tease her with a hint of freedom, a few precious moments of peace, before he was back annoying her again.

Despite how many times she brushed him off, cosmic static cling kept drawing him back.

Just like lint.

Only, in this case, a dryer sheet wouldn't be much help. They didn't make one big enough or powerful enough to get rid of someone like him. The way to avoid Dillon, Ivy realized, would be to shut herself away in her room for the remainder of the week.

It couldn't be any worse than spending a week with him.

“I'm going up to my room to rest. I'll see you later.” Much,
much
later.

“I understand why you might need some time alone,” he said, a devilish glint in his eyes. “That kiss did get you pretty hot and bothered. You go ahead and take care of business.”

“Business?” For a second she was confused, then it hit her. She realized exactly what he meant by
business
. Did he really think she was going upstairs to—

“I have nothing against going solo.” He stepped closer, eyes sparking with desire. His voice dropped a few decibels, even though they were the only ones there. “In fact, you might not remember, but I love to watch.”

Oh, she remembered.

The things he'd talked her into doing back then still made her blush. Unlike past boyfriends, he'd never played the if-you-loved-me-you-would card. He'd been patient. A tender, generous lover. The kind of man who never failed to put her needs before his own.

The memory poured over Ivy like melted milk chocolate. Rich and sweet and warm. And her head had begun to get that light, fuzzy feeling…

Damn, damn, damn.

He was pulling that sexy, simmering thing he did so well. And like an idiot she was falling for it.
Again!
How could someone she disliked as much as Dillon be so darned appealing? Could it be that she didn't dislike him as much as she thought?

Or was she just losing her mind?

The worst part was he knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, and he was loving every second of it.

Someone needed to cool that man's engines.

Since tossing him over the balcony into the ocean wasn't an option, she would have to settle for the next best thing.

“On second thought, May be I'll dip my feet in the pool for a second and cool off.” She switched direction, heading instead for the French doors that would take her to the pool deck. She knew he would follow, and he didn't disappoint her.

The man's libido had been bound to get him into trouble one of these days. She was just glad she would be around to see him get a dose of his own medicine. And even better, she would be the one to dispense the bitter pill.

He reached past her, like the gentleman he'd always been, and opened the door.

She stepped outside, a wall of dry, sweltering heat drawing her into its grip.

“Damn!” Dillon said. “Sure is hot out here.”

Not to worry, he would be cooled off soon enough.

“I could use a cold drink,” he said. “Can I get you something?”

“Whatever you're having.”

“Two mineral waters comin' right up.”

His arrogance, his unshakable self-confidence, would be his undoing.

She walked to the deep end of the pool, hiked her skirt up to the midthigh region so it wouldn't get wet—and hell, why not give him a decent view before he went down—and sat on the edge, the hot tile scorching the backs of her legs. She dipped her feet in and cool water lapped around her ankles. The midday sun reflecting off the surface strobed in her eyes and made her squint.

She watched as Dillon stepped around the bar and fished two bottles of water from the refrigerator. With the exception of a sip of champagne, she still hadn't seen him drink a single alcoholic beverage.

“You don't drink anymore?” she asked.

He opened both waters and added a wedge of lime to each one. “Occasionally.”

Keep a casual conversation going so he doesn't suspect, she told herself. Act as if everything is normal. “What made you quit?”

“You ever try to run a billion-dollar corporation with a raging hangover?” He carried them both over to where she sat, and the anticipation was killing her.

“So it was interfering with your work?”

He shrugged. “The truth is, I didn't make a conscious effort to stop. I guess I just outgrew it.” He leaned slightly forward to hand her a bottle. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” She cast him a bright smile. This was going to feel
so
good.

She reached up to grab it, but instead she wrapped her hand around his wrist and yanked as hard as she could. He teetered for a second, trying to catch his balance, then he laughed and cursed and let himself fall.

He landed with a noisy, messy
kersploosh,
bottles and all, splashing her from head to toe with pool water.

“Yes!” She jumped to her feet, cherishing her victory. May be now he would stop messing with her; he would see she meant business. And even if he didn't, it had been a lot of fun.

She gazed down into the water. Any second now, he would rise to the top and see her smug smile, the satisfaction in her eyes. May be the kiss idea had been a disaster, but this would be her moment of triumph.

Yep, any second now.

She squinted to make out his shadowy form against the dark tile lining the bottom of the pool. He was still
way
down there. May be he was looking for the water bottles. So someone didn't accidentally step on one and cut their foot. Only thing was, he didn't appear to be moving.

A pocket of air rose and bubbled to the surface but still no Dillon.

What if he'd hurt himself?

No, that was silly. She had seen him go in. He hadn't hit his head or twisted anything. At least, she didn't think so. He was fine. He was just trying to get her to jump in after him.

Well, she wasn't falling for it.

But how long could someone hold their breath? It had already been a while, hadn't it? Close to a minute even. At least it seemed that way.

As every second ticked past, her confidence began to fizzle.

What if there was something really wrong? What if he wasn't breathing? What if he'd been telling the truth and he really didn't know how to swim?

He'd told her he never learned how and she'd pushed him in regardless, meaning she would be responsible if he was hurt.

If he
died
.

Her heart dropped hard and fast, leaving a sick, empty hole in her chest as a dozen gruesome images flashed through her brain at the speed of light. Dillon being dragged from the pool, his tanned skin gray and waxy, his lips a deathly shade of blue.

Dillon's funeral. Having to face his family and admit it had been her fault.

She thought of all the things she could have said to him,
should have said,
and had never gotten the chance.

Her stomach churned with the possibilities, and her head swam with disbelief. She didn't like Dillon, but she didn't want him dead, either.

And what if no one believed it was an accident? She could see the headlines now.
Bestselling author murders ex-husband after publicly berating him in her tell-all book.

Dillon had floated closer to the surface, but he still wasn't moving, and she was running out of time. There was no way he could hold his breath for that long.

Oh, hell.

She kicked off her sandals and dove in, the cool water swallowing her up like a hungry beast, numbing her senses. All she could feel was the dull throb of panic squeezing her chest, hear the beat of her own pulse in her ears, louder and louder as she descended. She opened her eyes, blinking against the burn of chlorine. Her gaze darted back and forth as she searched, desperate to spot his floating form. She would have to hoist him from the pool and do mouth-to-mouth, get his airway cleared. She'd been certified in first aid and CPR for years, but she'd never actually had to use it. She only hoped she remembered how.

But she would have to find him first. He was gone, as if he had vanished into thin air, or been sucked into an alternate universe.

She hit the bottom at the ten-foot mark and flipped over, her long skirt tangling around her legs. She looked up and saw a pair of booted feet and blue jeans and the lower half of a male torso. The rest of him was out of the water.

And he was very much alive.

She heard a muffled noise above her and realized it was laughter. He was laughing.

He was okay. All this time he'd been okay, and now he was
laughing
at her.

She pushed off the bottom of the pool and sailed to the surface, her lungs screaming for air.

A minute ago all she could think about was saving his sorry behind. Now she wanted to kill him.

 

Dillon hoisted himself up onto the pool edge beside the ladder, wiping water from his eyes and sweeping his dripping hair back from his forehead. His wet jeans clung to him like a cloying second skin, his boots were toast and his lungs burned like the devil from holding his breath for too long. But it would be worth it. Worth the look on Ivy's face when she re-surfaced.

Would she never learn? No matter how dirty she played, he always sank an inch lower. He always won.

Ivy popped up out of the water, blinking rapidly to clear her eyes. Her auburn ponytail hung lopsided and limp and one side of her tank top drooped down her arm.

She looked like a drowned rat.

He smiled and said, “Gottcha.”

She didn't yell, didn't call him a jerk. She didn't even look at him. She just swam to the ladder in a few long, easy strokes and grabbed the rail. For a second he thought she might try to dunk him, but she only pulled herself up from the water. Her wet skirt stuck to her legs and was considerably more transparent than it had been before.

Was that a pink thong she was wearing?

Her eyes were rimmed with red, her mouth pulled into a rigid line.

“Hey.” He reached out and grabbed her arm but she jerked it away. Without a word she walked across the patio to the house, wet feet slapping, clothes dripping.

He knew every one of Ivy's expressions and he could swear he'd just seen her on-the-verge-of-tears face.

Of all the reactions she could have possibly had, why would she cry? Anger he could understand. He'd expected her to be furious. But tears?

Or May be she was crying because he
hadn't
drowned.

No. If she'd wanted him dead, she wouldn't have jumped in to rescue him. May be she was just embarrassed that once again he had bested her. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to apologize, even though she'd started it, then May be rub it in her a face one more time for good measure.

He jumped up and went after her, his feet squishing in his sodden boots. “Ivy, hold up.”

But she didn't stop moving. If anything, she walked faster. She flung open the door, but, thanks to a much longer stride, he caught her just inside the threshold.

“Come on, Ivy, stop.” He reached for her, wrapping his hand around her wrist. Once again she jerked free and marched through the living room. She wasn't just a little angry that he'd gotten the best of her. She was seriously peeved.

“Come on, Ivy, it was a joke. Lighten up.”

She stopped abruptly and swung around to face him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale, and tears hovered just inside her eyelids.

“A joke?” she asked incredulously. Her lower lip quivered and her hands were trembling. “You call
that
a joke?”