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)
He’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