Danny clicked his tongue. The guy really was a moron. If he had a wife as passionate, beautiful and barely reined as Abby, he’d never let her out of his sight.
Of course, he didn’t have a wife like Abby and that was no one’s fault but his own.
“So,” he said, wanting to put himself out of his misery sooner rather than later. “Where is the lucky guy? I never did offer my congratulations on your nuptials.”
“That’s probably best, don’t you think?”
“I’m not known for doing what is best,” he reminded her.
“Sure you are,” she said, sliding on the bar stool beside him and signaling for the bartender. “As long as it’s best for you. Trust me, you and Marshall running into each other would not have been good for anyone.”
While she ordered a bottle of champagne, Danny swigged the last of his scotch and wondered how the hell the past couple of days had gone from bad to worse. First, he’d left California for Louisiana, hoping to find his brother Michael and maybe make good on his plan to steal their father’s ring, sell it and use the profit to start a new life somewhere fresh…or at least, somewhere that didn’t have Wanted posters with his name on them.
The Netherlands, perhaps? Outer Botswana?
But once he’d arrived in the Crescent City, he’d ended up helping his brother, an FBI agent, solve a case and save the woman he loved. On top of that mess, Michael had ended up giving Danny the damned ring voluntarily, which took all the fun out of it.
For revenge, the stupid gold-and-emerald heirloom was now nearly cutting off the circulation in his right hand. And as the pièce de résistance, the one woman who’d broken his heart had, for some unknown reason, now traveled cross-country to rub his nose in her long and happy marriage.
This was karma. It had to be.
“So, what are you doing here, so far from the man who stole you away from me?”
She laughed, but there was no trace of humor in those brandy-colored irises.
“Is that how you remember things? Because as I recall, you were the one who did all the stealing.”
Five years of time and distance, plus wearing, even under duress, his infamous ancestor’s ring, gave him the balls to snag her by the waist and pull her in close.
Five years of marriage gave her the confidence to remain still, a curious grin playing on her lips while she waited to see what he’d do next.
Those five years did not, however, protect him from the instantaneous slam of need that exploded through his system from the scent of her perfume and the silky warmth of her skin.
“You stole my heart,” he murmured.
She twisted away from him, but she probably hadn’t even heard him over the music and clanging sounds of the casino. “You lost the right to touch me a long time ago.”
He leaned back into his chair. Maybe if he exuded his typical casual air, the heartbeat ramming against his chest wouldn’t be so obvious.
She hadn’t meant to lose her cool. Danny could see the combination of anger and shock in her eyes. But her intense reaction proved one thing—she hadn’t gotten over him. Maybe she still hated him. Maybe she spent every day cursing his name. But at least she hadn’t forgotten him. That was something.
“You’re right.” He took another drink, grateful for the smooth burn of the scotch as it slid down his throat. “But you know exactly who I am, Abby. If you wanted to rub my face in how hot you look after five years of marriage, then you’ve accomplished your goal. If you want to slap my face or have me arrested, then go ahead.” He leaned forward, his newly acquired ring glittering on his hand. “But don’t parade that luscious body of yours so close to mine and expect me to keep my hands off. Every man has his limits. Even me.”
“I’m counting on you to push past those limits, then,” she said stiffly.
For the first time, he caught a glimpse of the haughty, privileged princess he’d met five years ago. But only a glimpse.
“What are you talking about?”
“I came here to find you.”
“And your husband let you? What is he, a moron?”
“Don’t speak that way about Marshall,” she shot back. “He was a good man who didn’t deserve what I did to him.”
Was?
Danny stood. “No, he didn’t deserve any pain we caused him.”
She pressed her mouth into a tight line—a line Danny couldn’t help but want to breach. On a normal day, at a normal hour, Abigail was a classic Mediterranean beauty, with her thick, dark hair, smooth olive skin and expressive amber eyes. But when she was angry—when she let her control slip even a little—she knocked the breath from his lungs.
“Very true,” she conceded. “But I didn’t expect to hear compassion from Daniel Burnett, or is it David Brandon again?”
“I haven’t been David Brandon for—” He cut his claim short. He’d actually used the name the day before. He’d developed a habit of trying it every so often, to see if the pain of losing Abby had lessened any in the years since she’d kicked him out of her life.
It hadn’t.
“Why’d you come looking for me?”
His voice was as strangled as the skin beneath his ring finger. Her mouth curved into a tiny smile—the first one that flashed all the way up to her irises. His pain gave her pleasure. He couldn’t blame her.
She sidled closer, then danced the tips of her fingers up his shirt, from his waistband to his collar. “I have a job for you.”
With a flick of her nail up the underside of his chin, a fire sparked through Danny’s body that made him want to drown himself in the moisture of her mouth. She was taunting him. Making him pay, one hormone at a time, for nearly destroying her future.
He not only didn’t blame her—he wanted more.
His brain might have registered all the reasons why he should stay half a country away from Abigail Albertini Chamberlain, but his dick hadn’t gotten the memo. Blood rushed down so fast, Danny had to grab the edge of the bar to keep from losing his balance.
“No way.”
“You owe me,” she said.
“So? You’re playing with fire, Abby. I can’t promise you won’t get burned again. And this time, Marshall won’t forgive you. I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t have the first time.”
She took her time tracing her fingers up his neck and then tousling the strands of hair at his temples. When her gaze locked with his, he saw none of the naive, uncertain girl she used to be.
She was all woman now—and she had something up her sleeve, figuratively speaking. Something that wasn’t going to be good—at least, not for him.
“No,” he conceded. “I wouldn’t have forgiven you.”
“Good,” she said, pushing away from him and snatching the flute of champagne the bartender had delivered. “Then you haven’t changed. I’m counting on you being the same lowlife, conscienceless thief you used to be.”
He forced a chuckle. “Why would you hope for that?”
She