Best Man's Conquest (8 page)

He shrugged. “I was just fooling around.”

“Fooling around?” She took a step toward him, raising both her arms. For a second he thought she was going to deck him, or wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze. Instead she planted both hands on his chest and gave him a good, hard shove. Because he was prepared and outweighed her by almost half, he didn't go very far.

“Fooling around?”
she repeated. Then she gave him another shove, harder this time, knocking him back a couple of inches and darn near forcing the air from his lungs. “You scared me to death, you idiot! I thought you drowned! I thought you were
dead.
”

The tears flowed over and rolled down her cheeks, and whatever pride remained of his victory fizzled away. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

An explosive combination of fear and fury burned hot and lethal in her eyes. She wound up again, but before she could shove him he grabbed her wrists. She tried to jerk away, but this time he held on.

“Let go of me!” She twisted and yanked, struggling to break free, and he began to worry that she was so hysterical, she would hurt not only him, but herself.

“Ivy, calm down! I didn't mean to scare you.” He pulled her against him, managed to get his arms around her, pinning her close to his body to protect them both. She was cold, wet and trembling all over.
“I'm sorry.”

Has your ex frustrated you to the breaking point? Physical violence, though tempting, is not the answer. Try a punching bag or a voodoo doll instead.

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

I
vy wrestled with him another second or two, then went still in his arms.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, since that seemed to do the trick. He pressed his cheek to the top of her soggy head.

Her body went lax, as if she'd burned up every last bit of energy, and she all but collapsed against him. Her arms circled his waist and she clung to him, a dripping, trembling, emotional catastrophe.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The game had gotten way out of hand this time. Hadn't they hurt each other enough?

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, and her arms squeezed him tighter. He would say it a million times if it would take back what he'd done.

“I th-thought you were dead,” she hiccupped, her cheek pressed against his wet shirt. His throat felt tight with emotion.

Jesus, what was wrong with him?

May be it was a little crazy—or a lot crazy—but he liked her this way. Soft and sweet and vulnerable. She was usually so independent, so driven, he'd rarely had the opportunity to play the role of the hero. The protector.

He stroked her soggy, tangled hair, and for one of those brief, fleeting moments remembered all the reasons he'd fallen in love with her. And wondered why in the hell he'd let her get away.

But it was tough to keep someone around who didn't want to be there.

“You're going to wish you had drowned, because when I stop shaking, I'm going to kill you,” she warned him, but she didn't let go. Didn't even loosen her grip.

Why would she get so upset if she didn't still care about him, didn't still love him somewhere deep down?

And what difference would it make if she did? They'd had their go-around, and it had been a disaster. They may have loved each other, but that didn't mean they could get along.

That didn't mean there hadn't been good times, too.

He cupped a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. She gazed up at him with watery, bloodshot eyes, mascara running down her face, and he couldn't stop himself from smiling.

“I must look awful,” she said with a sniffle.

He rubbed his thumbs across her cheeks, wiping away the last of her tears. “Not at all.”

In fact, he couldn't remember her ever looking more beautiful, more appealing than she did at that very second.

He brushed his thumbs over her full lips. Her mouth looked soft and inviting. He tried to recall what it felt like to kiss her, and not that taunting little peck she'd laid on him earlier. A real, honest to goodness, I'll-go-nuts-if-I-can't-have-you-this-second kiss.

When he looked in her eyes he could swear she was thinking the exact same thing.

In that instant he knew he needed to kiss her. Not wanted. He
needed
to.

It wasn't about revenge or breaking her spirit. It wasn't even about sex. It was just something he
had
to do.

He lowered his head and she rose up to meet him halfway. They came together swift and firm. With purpose. As though they both knew what they wanted and they weren't afraid to take it, the consequences be damned.

She took him into her mouth, against her tongue. She tasted warm and familiar and exciting.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't for Ivy to grab his ass and drive herself hard against him. He was so surprised and so turned on, he just about embarrassed himself. He didn't even know it was possible to get a boner wearing ice-cold wet denim.

He bit down on her lip, the way he used to, and she moaned her appreciation. The sound slipped over him like exquisite Italian silk, cranking his level of arousal up yet another notch. Then she slipped her hand between their tightly fused bodies and rubbed it over his crotch, and he was the one moaning.

He knew without a doubt that kissing her was not going to cut it. He needed to get her naked. He wouldn't be satisfied until he was driving himself deep inside her. Watching her shatter in his arms.

He tugged at her soggy shirt, trying to push it up and out of the way, so he could get his hands on some skin. She must have had the same idea, because he could feel her wrestling with the hem of his shirt. At least they were on the same page.

But these wet clothes had to go.

He nipped her lip again, and Ivy moaned. She fisted her hands in his shirt, her nails scraping his skin. Everything in her body language begged,
take me now,
and he couldn't come up with a single reason why he shouldn't. Not that he was trying all that hard to come up with one.

Then he heard a door open and voices in the foyer. An obnoxious, earsplitting cackle of laughter rang through his ears. That was the laugh of a Tweedle. He could feel his hard-on instantly begin to deflate.

Looked as if they were about to have company.

Why the hell hadn't he swept her up and carried her to his room? Or her room. Or the bathroom?
Anywhere
that they would have a little privacy.

As abruptly as they had come together, they broke apart. Both dazed and breathless. And still soaking wet.

Ivy blinked a few times, gazing around as if she'd completely forgotten where she was.

The Tweedles and Blake's brothers appeared in the hallway a second later, like crashers at a private party.
His
party. They were still dressed in their golf gear, and Dee, or was it Dum—he still couldn't tell them apart—was laughing. Awfully jovial, weren't they, considering what had happened to Deidre?

He absently wondered which one had pegged her, and if she felt even a modicum of regret. If she cared about anyone but herself.

All four stopped abruptly when they noticed Ivy and Dillon standing there. The one he was pretty sure was Dum inspected them from head toe, a look of revulsion on her face. “Oh, my God. What happened to you?”

Ivy looked from Dillon, to herself, then back to their captivated audience. He couldn't wait to see how she explained this one.

She shrugged, the picture of innocence, and said, “We went swimming.” As if that was obvious, and not at all unusual despite the fact that they were both fully dressed.

She always did have a way of making the ridiculous or unlikely seem completely rational.

Not that he gave a damn what the four Musketeers did or didn't know.

Of course, at some point the news would have gotten back to his mother. He didn't really give a damn what she thought, either. But the business of trying to explain and assuring her that there was no way in hell he and Ivy would ever try to reconcile would be a big pain in the behind. A hassle he didn't need. Or want.

If they were going to do this, it would be best to keep it to themselves.

And they were. Even if Ivy didn't realize it yet.

“You're dripping everywhere,” the other Tweedle said, mirroring her counterpart's distaste.

Those two really needed to lighten up.

Ivy looked down at the growing puddle of water around her feet. “Oops. Guess I should go change into some dry clothes.”

Gathering her wet skirt, she bolted for the stairs, but not before he saw the mildly shocked, what-the-hell-have-I-done look on her face.

“Guess I should change, too,” Dillon said, heading after her, leaving the others looking thoroughly confused.

“Who's going to clean up this mess?” one of the Tweedles called after him, but he was more concerned with the pound of Ivy's footsteps up the stairs. She was moving awfully fast.

By the time he reached the foot of the stairs she was already at the top.

“Ivy, wait,” he called to her, but either she didn't hear him or she was ignoring him.

He was guessing the latter.

She disappeared down the hall and a second later he heard her bedroom door slam. From where he stood he couldn't actually hear her turn the lock but knew that she had.

It didn't take a genius to realize she was running away again.

 

Dillon was worse than lint, Ivy decided as she stepped out of the shower into the steamy bathroom and dried off with a soft, fluffy orange towel. She'd scrubbed and scrubbed, run the water as hot as she could stand, and she could still feel the ghost of his touch. She could still smell his scent on her skin.

She'd brushed her teeth twice and rinsed with mouth-wash, but she could still taste him.

He wasn't just clinging to her sleeve or the leg of her slacks. He was under her skin, coursing through her bloodstream. She could feel him inside her head, making things she used to believe, things she counted on, hazy and unclear.

She rubbed the steam from a section of the mirror and looked at herself. Really looked. Same hair, same eyes, same nothing special body.

Then why did she feel so…
different?

Confused and frustrated and scared…and more
alive
than she had in years.

She slipped her robe on and opened the bathroom door, letting out a startled squeak when she realized she wasn't alone.

No, Dillon wasn't lint.

He was a virus. A full-blown flu that made her feel weak and feverish and blew her judgment all to hell. A highly contagious bug who had broken into her room while she showered and made himself comfortable on her bed.

“Howdy.” He lay on his back, propped up on both elbows, one leg crossed over the other. Like he had every right to be there. He'd showered and changed into casual slacks and a slightly transparent, white linen pullover that all but screamed, look at my tan! The scent of freshly scrubbed man reached across the room and wrapped itself around her like a tentacle, tempting her closer.

Did viruses have tentacles?

She tugged the belt on her robe a little tighter. Just in case.

She didn't trust Dillon, and even worse, she didn't trust herself. That kiss downstairs would have knocked her out of her shoes had she been wearing any. She never thought the day would come when she would say she was happy to see the Tweedles, but thank goodness they had walked in, jaws flapping. They were the only thing that had stopped her from making another huge mistake.

“Good shower?” Dillon asked, looking her up and down with warm, blue bedroom eyes.

Every one of her billion or so nerve endings went on full alert. Her brain kicked into overdrive to compensate and threatened a complete shutdown.

Why in the hell had she kissed him again? Hadn't she learned her lesson the first time? Hadn't she learned it
ten
stinking years ago?

The lack of oxygen from staying under the water so long had clearly damaged her brain.

Or May be he really was a virus, and she just didn't have the antibodies to fight him off.

“I know I locked the door before I got in the shower,” she said, doing her best to sound stern. So he wouldn't know that she was thinking of how much better he would look out of his clothes than in them.

He looked at the door, then back to her. “What's your point?”

Could he be more arrogant? Any cooler or more composed? More of a pain in the behind?

“A closed, locked door generally means the person on the other side doesn't want to be disturbed.”

He just grinned. The frustratingly charming grin she both loved and hated. She would order him to leave if she thought he would actually listen. Hell, she'd even try hosing him down with Lysol. But she knew it was a futile battle. All the disinfectant and antibiotics in the world wouldn't fend him off. Like every other virus she'd had, he would simply have to run his course.

This time she wouldn't give in and let him become a full-blown epidemic.

She shoved her wet, tangled hair back from her eyes. “Do I even want to know how you got the door unlocked?”

He reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a credit card. “I used my Visa.”

So much for her plan of staying barricaded in her room for the rest of a trip. Not even a locked door could keep him out. Besides, wouldn't that be like letting him win?

This game he was playing was getting more complicated by the hour. It would be so much easier if she knew the rules, but she had the uneasy suspicion that there weren't any.

She tried to work up the enthusiasm to be annoyed but didn't see the point. Her anger was wasted on him. If anything, he seemed to enjoy getting her riled up. “Was there something you wanted?”

He flashed her that sexy, simmering grin and wiggled his eyebrows. “You know what I want, darlin'.”

Oh,
that.
And here she had been hoping he wanted to play checkers.

Then he—
Oh, my God
—pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the bed beside him.

Hunk alert.

All that bronzed skin and lean muscle was making her eyes cross.