She refused to label the loosening in her chest, because it felt a little too much like relief for her own peace of mind. She arched an eyebrow in his direction. “Good to know my company still ranks higher than incarceration.”
“Just barely,” he mumbled, and with that unflattering summation, he purposefully and studiously ignored her for the rest of the trip which, thanks to the notorious LA traffic, took three times as long as it should have.
Not that it mattered. His opinion didn’t concern her, and he’d proven a long time ago that he wasn’t susceptible to anything as basic as human emotion, so the state of his feelings was irrelevant. Vivienne was going to set things right, and his cooperation was neither essential nor desired. She would do what needed to be done, and once she had, she could finally lance this painful, recurring boil that sprang up every time their lives intersected.
Besides, Vivienne reasoned, flipping on the signal light, his silence was no more than she deserved.
She was, after all, the reason he’d gone to jail in the first place.
CHAPTER TWO
WES HAD SPENT a lot of years convinced that prison was his worst nightmare.
He’d had only a vague notion of what it meant to be locked up back then, but he was intimately familiar with how it affected those you left behind. He’d watched his mother wait for his father, first with dreamy idealism, then with stalwart resolution, and finally with glassy, narcotic-numbed indifference. At six years of age, Wes had promised himself he’d never end up like his dad, never do that to his own family.
His scoff was silent and self-directed. He’d managed to keep only half that bargain, and on a technicality, no less. Because he didn’t have a family of his own. Ironic, then, that his punishment was to be a court-enforced game of playing house with Vivienne Grant.
Maybe jail hadn’t been so bad after all.
The erroneous thought hit him just as Vivienne glided the luxury automobile into its designated spot in the underground parking garage of her high-rise condominium.
The building was posh. Top-of-the-line. The kind of place he’d been determined to be able to afford for her one day. Their relationship had been long dead by the time he’d reached that goal.
She’d changed a lot since then, a lifetime ago, but not this. Not her easy familiarity with the best the world had to offer.
There were some physical differences, of course, but nothing that couldn’t easily be attributed to the passage of time.
A sleek, straight haircut, a rigidly professional wardrobe, and the daring glint in her eyes had mellowed and morphed into confident determination.
But the shift from the girl he’d loved to the woman he resented wasn’t in her surroundings, or her appearance, so much as a tectonic shift in her essence. As though some part of the Vivienne he’d known had not made it through the carnage.
She was still a force to be reckoned with, but there was nothing scattershot about her anymore. She was laser focused. Precise. A corporate warrior who’d abandoned the volatile bow and flaming arrow of her youth in favor of the cold, exact steel of a scalpel. And her new weapon of choice suited her well. So well that Wes wondered if his memories of her, wild and reckless and overwhelming, were mistaken. The woman getting out of the car seemed impenetrable to him, an avatar.
Wes closed the door on his useless musings and followed her through the parking garage toward the elevator, the staccato beat of her heels bouncing in the cavernous structure lined with expensive cars. He watched as Vivienne swiped a small fob in front of the receiver before dropping her keys into her purse. The brass door slid open to reveal the elevator car, paneled in dark, carved wood that had been polished to a gleaming shine. An intricate brass handrail bordered the interior, glinting in the diffused light of the crystal chandelier.
Since he was closer, Wes lifted his hand to press the button before realizing that he didn’t know where she lived.
Vivienne slanted him a glance that felt significant, before she reached past him and pressed the button numbered 37 with a perfectly manicured finger. Scarlet.
The spicy, sultry fragrance of her signature scent hit him in the gut. Made especially for her at the same little French parfumerie that her mother used to frequent. He wasn’t sure if he liked the fact that the stranger beside him still smelled like Viv.
Wes took a self-preserving step backward. “I promised you the day we met that I’d never use my tech skills to find out anything about you,” he reminded her.
He knew it was the wrong thing to say the second it came out of his mouth, even before her spine stiffened and accusation flooded her eyes. Despite his best intentions, all he’d managed to do was conjure the ghost of another vow he’d made to her, one that he’d reneged on.
Promise me, Wes, that no matter what, I’ll always be more important to you than work. That we’ll always put each other first.
Stupid, childish notions that had been selfishly asked and callously disregarded.
But obviously not forgotten.
“How very chivalrous of you, Wesley.” His name on her lips dripped with scorn.
She wasn’t so bad with invectives herself.
Any other time, he’d be glad the building was too distinguished to subject them to Muzak, but not today. Not when the silence between them was thick with tension. With history.
Hell, he’d have given his left nut for a little soft jazz right now, and he hated soft jazz.
This wasn’t going to work. Them. Together.
Not if the past was going to haunt them like this. And how could it not?
You’ve been remanded into my care until the trial.
What the hell had she been thinking accepting that deal? And what the hell was he doing, going along with it, like the proverbial lamb?
When they passed the twentieth floor, Wes pulled the shell of
