“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Thought about you.”
Bad. This was the bad part. He was saying exactly what anyone with half a brain cell wanted to hear. And she had whole brain cells, and though they’d taken a short sabbatical, her synapses were starting to fire again. Wriggling her hands free from his grip, she locked her knees and came at him from underneath. She refused to take note of exactly how firm his abs felt as she slipped both hands between their bodies. She didn’t even want to register the fact that his pecs were every bit as hard as the rest of him. His nipples were like chips of diamond beneath the smooth knit of his shirt—but she’d think about all these details later.
Much later.
After she’d done her job and he’d secured a divorce. Those had to be her priorities.
With a groan as heartfelt as his protest, she pushed away. They stood staring at one another, his gaze steady if a tad unfocused. His lips were wet and wonderful, but his thick, dark brows drew together in a V of confusion. Ty took several seconds to catch up, but she saw when reality clicked for him. She also saw the flash of hurt in those beautiful, golden-brown eyes.
“We can’t do this now,” she said, forcing a note of quiet calm she wasn’t anywhere close to feeling into her voice. She wasn’t rejecting him. Needing to make him understand, she risked taking one of his big hands between both of hers. “We can’t, Ty. I have work to do. You have things to sort out.”
He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. The force of the exhalation made him sway.
“Go home, Millie. I’m fine.”
Knowing one minute could mean the difference between repair and ruin, she nodded once, then headed for the sliding door. “I wanted to check on you.” The lock clicked as she released the latch. She eyed the wavering shadow in the darkness warily. “Answer your phone when I call, okay? I’m not cut out to be a cat burglar. But only answer for me,” she added. “No reporters.”
“Only for you.”
Not knowing exactly how to respond to that or to any of the events of the previous five minutes, Millie decided to let him have the last word. She slipped out the door and slid the heavy pane of glass closed behind her. Avoiding the patio furniture, she hustled past the dimly lit swimming pool and into the safety of the darkness beyond the skirting. She waited until her Jimmy Choos touched the plush, green lawn before allowing her steps to slow. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she pressed her fingertips to her lips, trying to seal those heady kisses in.
He had a career to salvage, and it was her job to help him. A public and possibly ugly divorce was in the offing, and she had to make sure he came out smelling like a champion and not a chump. And once all her job was done, when he was stone sober and seeing her in the harsh light of day, if he still wanted a woman six years his senior as the antidote for being burned by his much younger bride, well, then, they could talk about the possibility of acting on their urges. Reasonably. Rationally. And without any crazy expectations of romance.
Because Millie Jensen didn’t do romance. She didn’t believe in happily ever after. Hadn’t for the last twenty years, and she saw absolutely no reason to start now.
Chapter 2
The sound of the Marching Warriors blaring the school’s fight song, “War Cry,” filled the air, and Ty’s entire body went rigid. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for his cell, but he came up empty. He groped blindly at the area around him. Nothing. Then, mercifully, the phone fell silent.
Ty felt the light pouring through the wall of glass before he even dared to crack an eyelid. It wasn’t the good kind of light, the sort that welcomed and warmed a guy. No, this was diabolical light. Light determined to leech the last of his life force right out of him. He could feel his liver shriveling. The roar of his own blood in his ears. The persistent throbbing of a brain counting down the seconds to implosion. His eyes remained glued shut. If he wasn’t mistaken, someone had cut out his tongue and replaced it with a swatch of suede.
The phone chirped to indicate a missed call, and he groaned. He wasn’t dead.
Damn.
He winced as he peeled his cheek off the cushion. A dark patch marked the spot where he’d drooled in his sleep. Stupor, he corrected, pushing up on shaky arms. He hadn’t been asleep; he’d been sleeping off an epic bender. One that started the minute Millie walked out his door.
Tired of women leaving him high and dry, he’d decided to get wet. Soused.
Ty swung his feet to the floor. His knees popped and creaked, as usual. His head thumped like a subwoofer. His vision swam and his stomach lurched. The second he felt the bile rise, he slammed his eyes shut again.
Funny, he’d always considered the floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room an asset. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking. The massive panes of reflective glass allowed an obscene amount of light into the room. Sliding his parched tongue over cracked lips, he grunted and forced himself to sit up straighter. This injury was self-inflicted. “Man up,” he whispered.
Shuffling across the room, he marveled at the fact that he’d managed the distance to the wet bar. The bottles marked vodka and scotch stood empty. Only the bourbon survived, but it had taken a hit as well.
Millie hadn’t been far off in her assessment on how much it would take to get him drunk. No surprise. Millie was rarely wrong.
Ignoring the mini fridge
