Her breath blew out in a huff and she threw open the closet door. Blouses, skirts, pants and dresses hung on the short rod, neatly organized by outfit and occasion. So much for that. Gathering everything into a single armload, she turned and dumped the lot onto the bed, returning to the closet for the luggage she’d stored at the bottom. She’d planned to stay a week, and now here she was packing up after less than a full day.
Irritating, but in the greater scheme of things, it wasn’t anything she wouldn’t recover from. And if it meant being able to finally close the book on that life they’d shared, then cutting her vacation short was a sacrifice she’d gladly make.
Efficiently slipping the hanger free of a washed silk crepe de chine top, she shot a glance at Ryan as he rubbed a hand over his opposite shoulder. The fabric of his tailored shirt pulled taut across the broad expanse of his back, revealing the flex and pull of muscles she used to massage at the end of a long day. He’d been in his prime then, but now, somehow he seemed broader. More powerfully built than he’d been at twenty-two.
A sharp pain bit into her hand, snapping her attention to the hanger jabbing into her palm and the blouse inadvertently mangled within her grasp.
She didn’t like being this close to Ryan. She hadn’t wanted to meet with him at all. Hadn’t wanted to know what changes so many years had wrought in the man she’d once loved beyond measure. She’d seen the headlines. Heard the rumors. Hated the idea that he could be so different. And yet, here and now, a part of her was hoping everything she’d read was true. That the man he’d been was gone and all that remained was a body vaguely reminiscent of the one she’d known. It would be so much easier to defend this heart she’d painstakingly pieced back together against a body alone.
The pity of it was, she wouldn’t even have to try.
Twenty minutes later, Ryan stood at the window looking out over downtown Rome, his back to the chaos erupting behind him.
“No, you heard me right,” Claire grumbled into the phone wedged between her shoulder and ear. “He says two hours. Sally, I’m sorry to do this to you.”
Yes, he got the point. He was the villain, inconveniencing everyone with his outrageous demands. Whatever. He was done with the placating and appeasement. Claire might not like that he’d cut into her vacation, but ultimately, she’d started the ball rolling with that fast pitch of papers. He’d just caught her off guard by being ready with a mitt and then calling her out.
By his count, they were even.
“Wait, when did the email come in …? They have instructions already on the East Wing exhibit. Drew has the insurance information too …”
The corner of Ryan’s mouth kicked up. This was the fifth segue the conversation had taken back to gallery business in so many minutes. That after three calls on the taxi ride back from the piazza alone. Claire was as tied to her work as he was, and by all accounts loving every minute of it. She was good. Efficient. And decisive with a professional polish and an authoritative edge that hadn’t been part of her makeup when they’d been together.
Gone was that pretty princess who was just a little bit spoiled but so very sweet he’d been rubbing his hands together at the prospect of taking care of her.
And gone too was the broken shell of a girl reality had all but shattered.
She was so different.
In some ways. In others … well, even his reactions were the same.
With her attention split between Sally and packing, he allowed his gaze to meander slowly down the length of her—from where the silky fall of her dark hair spilled over the too-thin, fuzzy white of her clingy sweater. The trim tuck of her waist and the filmy skirt that covered hips and legs he’d once known every curve and cut of, but now could only imagine, based on the hints revealed beneath the flow of fabric. And then there they were. Slim ankles, supported by the damnedest contraptions he’d ever laid eyes on.
Too many inches of slender spike to be safe strutting the downtown streets of Rome.
She leaned over the bed, one leg planted on the floor, the other cocked at the knee, toe to the carpet, heel swiveling in a slow turn.
Ryan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, his chest tight. Too many inches to be safe from him.
He was not thinking of the bite of that heel at his back. Or the way those legs felt wrapped around his hips. Over his shoulders.
Bad idea.
His gaze tracked up again, following the delicate turn of her ankle, the curve of her calf where it played a tantalizing game of peekaboo beneath the swaying hem of her skirt. Over round hips and a smooth spine that bowed into a soft arch as she reached—
Get a grip, Brady.
So being with Claire was nothing like the few times they’d shared space in the last nine years. Big deal. It wasn’t like that first year either—when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her. When everything was so damn right, before it suddenly, completely, went so damn wrong.
So what was with the leering and observation at a nonplatonic level?
Whatever it was, it stopped then. He’d made an international reputation for himself based on an ability to judge a situation or opportunity. Evaluate risk and return. And no good could come from letting Claire crawl under his skin.
A clatter of hangers over the bed snapped his attention back to the conversation taking place. “… a week, he says, to get the settlement worked out.”
“Why?” A hiss of feminine breath sounded, easing into something that might have been a distant cousin to resignation. Her voice dropped, as though to mask an unwilling concession. “I want it over with.”
A punch of guilt landed with her words.
Ah, Claire. Why did we wait so long?
But really, he already knew the answer. It was one he didn’t want to think about now.
A quiet moment passed and then, “I’m glad to hear it’s working out so well with Massimo—you know I am—but you’ve just met.”
So Sally was staying behind.
“If you’re really sure … Okay. No, that’s great.”
Fine with him. The fewer distractions the better. And maybe he wanted Claire for himself.
Not to drag her off to his bed. Hell, no. He was just curious about who exactly this woman was. Though he’d quietly kept abreast of her activities over the years, her endeavors and achievements, he’d done it with a few dozen layers—in the form of secretaries, lawyers, accountants and assistants—between them. Sure, he’d known what a success she’d become. Even if he hadn’t seen the write-ups in the Times, the tax statements said it all. But all that was on paper. And the woman behind the profits and reviews—the one who had apparently been changing in ways he couldn’t imagine—was one he’d insulated himself from.
So, yeah, he was curious.
“No, no. Sally, that’s wonderful … I’m happy for you. I’ll talk to you in a week then … Okay, you too. Goodbye.”
Shoulder propped against the window casing, Ryan nodded toward the phone Claire had tossed into on open tote by the door. “So it’s settled?”
“It’s settled,” she answered, assessing the mess atop the bed. “I’ll finish here and we’ll be ready to go.”
He jut his chin toward the first overflowing case, making a point not to look too closely at the bits of brightly colored femininity strewn about in a haphazard mix with the other garments. “You need help with that?”
A