Praise for Mira Lyn Kelly
‘Wild Fling or a Wedding Ring? is a hot, steamy romance that takes the main characters by surprise … Take note, I predict that début author Mira Lyn Kelly will soon become a soaring star rising in the world of romance writers.’ —www.cataromance.com on Wild Fling or a Wedding Ring?
‘This debut book was incredible and a well-crafted,
super-charged romance!’
—www.marilyns-romance-reviews.blogspot.com on
Wild Fling or a Wedding Ring?
About the Author
About Mira Lyn Kelly
MIRA LYN KELLY grew up in the Chicago area and earned her degree in Fine Arts from Loyola University. She met the love of her life while studying abroad in Rome, only to discover he’d been living right around the corner from her for the previous two years. Having spent her twenties working and playing in the Windy City, she’s now settled with her husband in rural Minnesota where their four beautiful children provide an excess of action, adventure and entertainment.
With writing as her passion, and inspiration striking at the most unpredictable times, Mira can always be found with a notebook at the ready. (More than once she’s been caught by the neighbours, covered in grass clippings, scribbling away atop the compost container!)
When she isn’t reading, writing, or running to keep up with the kids, she loves watching movies, blabbing with the girls, and cooking with her husband and friends.
Check out her website www.miralynkelly.com for the latest dish!
Also by Mira Lyn Kelly
Wild Fling or a Wedding Ring?
Tabloid Affair, Secretly Pregnant!
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The S Before Ex
Mira Lyn Kelly
To my sister Jena—
for her endless support, love, humor,
talkdowns from the edge, and stylish tips.
CHAPTER ONE
“OH, my God, isn’t that your husband?”
Claire Brady stiffened at the urgent whisper. An instant before, she’d been basking in the afterglow of a deal that, now struck, concluded her business for the next week—mostly. The gallery was too much a part of who she was to ever truly be put aside, even for a single day. But in that moment, her phone had been quiet, her mind at peace, her senses drifting with the gentle breeze as she’d absorbed the bustle and beauty of Rome’s Piazza Navona while light circles, courtesy of a dishy Italian seated to her right, stroked over her palm.
It felt good. She felt good. And she’d wondered if maybe this time …
Well, so much for that.
She shook her head apologetically at Paulo, the dishy Italian under consideration, and then shot Sally, her best friend, assistant and perpetual alarmist, an emphatic no.
She’d known sharing the secret of her ex would come back to bite her, but balanced against the isolation of holding herself apart for so many years, Sally’s occasional false alarm was a price she’d been more than willing to pay. Still, this was the third “Ryan sighting” this month alone.
“The man lives in California. The United States. Besides, if he were traveling abroad, we’d already know it,” she promised with a nod toward the newsstand at the corner of the piazza.
When all else failed, fell short or slipped away, there was one thing in her marriage to Ryan Brady that Claire could count on. And that was the media keeping her abreast of every sordid detail of his liaisons, financial conquests and daily adventures. No waiting by the door with a cocktail at five for her. She had the world news to tell her how his day had been and with whom he’d spent the night. And in this case, she had it on reliable authority that as of fifteen hours ago, Ryan Brady had been meeting with his lawyer in downtown L.A.
Sally’s mouth pulled into a sideways twist that suggested she wasn’t convinced. Her gaze darted between the newsstand and the fountain across the way. “Hmm. But this guy really looked like him.”
Sure he did. “Like the homeless guy at the station looked like that actor … Gerard Bu—”
“Hey, he could have been in disguise.”
“Eating out of a Dumpster?” Claire tried to stifle her laughter, but then simply gave herself over to it. At the stubborn jut of Sally’s jaw, she pulled her in for a quick hug, earning herself a good-natured pinch in the process. “Ouch!”
“Hey, maybe he’s a method actor or something.”
Laughter subsiding, she grinned at her friend and conceded, “Maybe.”
She sipped her espresso, enjoying the rich flavor rolling over her tongue, and set the shot-glass-size cup back on the paper-covered table.
Their trip couldn’t be shaping up better. Getting away was good for both of them. Sally, because she needed more of a life outside the gallery than she’d allowed herself over the last year, and Claire … well, the timing had worked out providing a convenient excuse when she’d rather desperately needed one.
Claire cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi where its Egyptian obelisk needled the washed-blue sky above—not so much looking for Ryan in the crush of milling tourists, as perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of this stranger who resembled him. Though as quickly as the thought processed, she pushed it back.
Seated in the shadow of the church of Sant’Agnese in Agone, amid the splendor of baroque Roman sculpture and architecture, the last thing she should have been looking for was a man who reminded her of her estranged husband. It wasn’t a healthy pastime. In fact, it fell only one rung below “looking for men who resembled Ryan and were toting babies with them” on the ladder of exceptionally bad and self-destructive ideas.
She’d moved on. Long ago. Really.
And yet she couldn’t resist one last sweeping glance across the piazza. Chalk it up to morbid curiosity, but she wanted a look.
Her gaze tripped from one lacking male physique to another without need to stop—not one of them could even remotely pass for Ryan.
Good.
Sally’s brow smoothed as she shrugged back into her chair, snuggling beneath the outstretched arm of her date, Massimo. “Okay, maybe I was wrong. I don’t even see him now. Sorry.”
“No problem,” Claire assured with a dismissive wave.
Only, there was a problem. The damage had already been done. Whatever mood had been set mere moments before seemed to have evaporated beneath the reminder of a life Claire had put behind her. As if to illustrate the point, Paulo’s seductive caress moved from her palm to the pulse point at her wrist … eliciting zero response. Not that he’d exactly had her enraptured before. But there’d been potential. Hope that this tall, dark, Roman stranger would spark something long dead within her to life.
Only now, the whole interaction—them seated beneath the open Italian sky, surrounded by the throngs of tourists populating Piazza Navona, with Paulo doing his best to seduce her across a small outdoor