Читать книгу Hard To Handle - Jamie Denton Ann - Страница 9

MIKKI WAS EVEN MORE beautiful than Nolan remembered. Seeing her again had him recalling plenty, too. Not just how incredibly sexy she looked in that skimpy black dress clinging to her voluptuous curves, but the passion and how they’d never been able to get enough of each other. The laughter, the good times and, unfortunately, the arguments and mistakes made by two people who’d been too young and headstrong were equally prominent.

Mikki always did have a short fuse. One look reminded him of just how volatile she could be as her shock segued into apprehension, followed by a distinct flare of hot temper evident in those sapphire-blue eyes that defied her heritage.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Not the greeting he’d hoped for, yet no less than he’d expected, or even deserved, for that matter. “Nice to see you again, too, Mikki,” he said, tucking the key into his pocket.

“The name is Michaela,” she said with an unmistakable chill. “Only people I care about call me Mikki.”

A smarter man than he would’ve taken her icy retort as a signal to keep his distance. God knew they could be poison to each other, but that hadn’t ever kept them apart for long in the past. Probably because the makeup sex had always been phenomenal. Besides, when it came to the onyx-haired, curvaceous spitfire with contempt in her eyes as she stared at him, he never had been all that bright.

“Is that any way to greet an old…” He intentionally left her hanging. Behind him, his oldest friend, Tucker Schulz, muttered something about a death wish. “…Friend?”

Mikki shifted nervously on her stool, then issued a short, derisive bark of laughter. Her hand trembled as she reached blindly for her drink. The contents sloshed close to the rim and she shot him another frosty glare. “That isn’t the term I’d use.”

He chuckled. “No, I don’t imagine you would.” Any one of the choice phrases she’d occasionally hurled at him whenever he’d riled her hot Sicilian and fiery Irish blood were no doubt already hovering on her tongue.

Before the night ended, he thought, she’d have more than enough opportunity.

After the way they’d parted, with her calling him a selfish, egotistical bastard and him responding with equally hateful words he wasn’t exactly proud of, he hadn’t expected her to welcome him back to San Francisco with open arms. If she was this ticked off at just seeing him, she’d rupture something vital when she learned he’d moved back for good. And that was only the beginning.

He’d anticipated her anger, but he sure as hell hadn’t been prepared for the stirring of his blood. An unfortunate miscalculation on his part, he decided, because he really should have been prepared for nothing less. He might be older, but he’d just been handed proof he hadn’t gained an ounce of wisdom where Mikki was concerned.

The passion between them had always been white-hot and explosive, but in the end, it hadn’t been enough to keep them together. He understood now their relationship had been built on sexual attraction, which hadn’t prepared either of them for the day-to-day struggles of marriage, let alone coping with the problems that eventually led to their divorce.

“You remember Tuck,” he said, needing a diversion. He stepped aside in hopes of allowing his libido a chance to cool. Not that he actually believed it possible now that he was within touching distance of her again. She was the kind of woman that dug under a man’s skin. And stayed there.

“Oh, my God. Tuck.” A genuine smile softened her expression as she came off the bar stool and moved right past him to greet Tucker with a warm hug. “It’s been such a long time,” she said, stepping back. “You’re looking yummy. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“As little as possible.” Tucker gave her an appreciative once-over. “Since you and Nolan split, he’s taken to working hard enough for both of us.”

She made no comment, not that Nolan expected her to. Slipping her arm through Tuck’s, she steered him toward the table. “I don’t think you’ve ever met my sisters. Rory Constable,” she said, indicating a woman Nolan hardly recognized. Mikki’s older sister had matured into an elegant, Rubenesque beauty. The Rory he remembered had been a friendly frump in granny glasses and long hair, a golden retriever following on the heels of her Birkenstock sandals.

“And this is Lauren Massey.” She looked to her sisters. “Tucker Schulz. He and Nolan have been friends for…” She smiled at Tucker, studiously ignoring Nolan.

“More years than I care to keep track of,” Tucker returned with a dimple-deepening grin as he eyed Lauren. His gaze then skimmed over Rory. She stared into a glass of white wine, her complexion becoming ruddy.

Mikki cast a quick, nervous glance in Nolan’s direction before turning back to Tucker. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I was just leaving.” Rising up onto her toes, she reached across the table for a set of keys in front of Rory. The hem of her slinky black dress hiked up a good two inches to reveal her shapely thighs. More than his blood stirred as Nolan took in his fill.

Rory lifted her gaze in time to beat her to the keys. She slid them off the table and into her handbag. “Actually,” she said with a hint of a smile on her lips, “we’ve only just arrived.”

He didn’t miss the heated glare Mikki shot her sister or how Rory’s smile shifted into a distinct retaliatory smirk.

Lauren suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said quietly, slipping off the red-padded stool. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

He knew how Mikki’s mind worked. No doubt she considered Lauren’s abrupt desertion and Rory’s non-compliance as a betrayal, but one she’d easily forgive. When Mikki loved, she did so with her entire heart, no holds barred. He’d seen it in the way she’d always looked out for her sisters and in the little things she’d once done for him. Like the times she’d wait up for him to come home from whatever crappy job he’d been working to help support them, even though she’d had an early class in the morning. Or the time she’d skipped classes for a week and refused to leave the apartment because he’d been knocked on his rear end by a nasty flu bug.

Tucker took the stool Lauren vacated and caught the attention of a passing waiter.

Mikki snatched her purse from the table. “I have a sudden need for fresh air.”

“Good idea.” Nolan came up behind her, fighting the need to touch her, to skim his hands over the generous dips and swells of her bombshell curves. He fished the white gold key out of his pocket. “I’ll join you.”

She stiffened. “That won’t be necessary,” she said tightly.

He dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “Now what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you wander outside all on your own at night?”

The scent of her cologne teased him, resurrecting another long-forgotten memory. They’d been in law school, a time when he’d rarely had more than a couple of quarters to rub together. He’d taken on a tutoring job to earn extra money to buy her a stupid bottle of expensive perfume for Christmas. He’d be a fool to read too much into the fact that she still wore the scent, but that didn’t prevent the razor-thin slice of satisfaction from knifing through his common sense.

“‘Gentleman’?” She pulled away and pinned him with her gaze. “I wouldn’t use that term where you’re concerned, either.”

Selfish prick, more likely.

“Ouch,” he said, gripping his chest in a mocking gesture.

Facing Tucker, Mikki said, “Good to see you again, Tuck.” She cast a look in Rory’s direction and mouthed something he couldn’t see but that sent Tuck’s eyebrows skyward.

Swiping one of the tall, narrow glasses from the table in front of her, she quickly drained the contents, then exchanged the empty for the full one to carry with her. She bolted toward the back of the bar to the outdoor deck with its inspiring view of the harbor. He admired the brisk swing of the black fabric covering her sweet, rounded ass. How could one woman have that much power? he wondered, feeling as if he were tied in knots he’d never unravel.

He let out a sigh and turned to Rory. “I get the feeling she’s not too happy to see me.” He’d always liked Rory, but he wasn’t about to hazard a guess as to whether she currently returned the sentiment. Rory’s devotion to her sisters was as fierce as Mikki’s protectiveness of them.

“Can’t say I blame her,” she said without an ounce of sympathy.

Neither could he, but after all this time he’d thought Mikki’s temper might have cooled. At least a little. Apparently all that hot blood in her veins ran deeper than he’d anticipated. He only hoped she hadn’t inherited her ancestral desire for vendettas or he’d be a dead man before midnight.

Tucker clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, pal.”

“Thanks, I’m gonna need it.”

“You’ll need more than that when she finds out you’re back in town for good,” Tucker reminded him. “And why you’re here tonight.”

Tuck had a point. “Know where I can get a deal on a bulletproof vest?”

Now that he thought about it, full body armor sounded like a wise choice. And some riot gear. A few stiff shots of tequila to bolster his courage couldn’t hurt, either.

He left his friend in Rory’s capable hands and took off for the bar, placing an order for a Mexican boiler-maker, a double shot of Cuervo Gold with a beer chaser. As he waited for the bartender to return, a leggy redhead sidled up beside him with a smile that promised ample warmth against the evening chill. Once upon a time he would’ve taken advantage of the blatant come-on, but after Mikki, he just hadn’t been all that interested in other women. Besides, he hadn’t shelled out a sizable donation to Maureen Baxter’s pet cause to ensure he’d be given the key to Mikki’s locket because he’d been in a generous mood. He and Mikki had unfinished business.

“You look like you’d be a perfect fit,” the redhead purred, showing off the locket wedged between her impressive cleavage.

He wasn’t so much as tempted. “Sorry. This key is spoken for.”

She let out a breathy sigh. “Pity.”

He shrugged apologetically, unmoved by her practiced pout or her sleek curves wrapped in glittering electric blue. The redhead sashayed away, her attention already on another prospective key holder.

Drumming his fingers impatiently on the highly polished wood of the bar, he debated the wisdom of showing up at Clementine’s. He’d always been more of an adventurer than a deep thinker, preferring instead to move on with the business of living. There were easier avenues he could’ve taken, and he almost wished he’d given his half-witted plan to catch Mikki off guard more thought. Unfortunately the pressure from the senior partners to tie up a financially hazardous loose end quickly before finalizing the partnership agreement hadn’t left him much time to carefully consider his options. And he did have a responsibility to the firm he couldn’t ignore.

Initially he hadn’t paid much attention to the buzz around the office about the key party until he’d happened to overhear a trio of paralegals mention that Maureen Baxter was the driving force behind the fund-raiser. He’d been fairly certain Mikki would somehow be involved in the cause, so he’d placed a call to Maureen. Not only had she confirmed his suspicions, but he’d impulsively purchased two key-holder tickets along with the promise of a very sizable donation if Maureen guaranteed him the key to Mikki’s locket.

At first Maureen had staunchly refused—and he did appreciate her alliance to Mikki—but when he’d upped the ante, her ethics had taken a back seat to the money he’d promised to add to the coffer. To insure she wouldn’t suffer second thoughts, he’d doubled his original offer and had his assistant show up at Maureen’s office with a check in exchange for the key he wanted. In return, he’d received a pair of keys, one clearly marked for his use; the other he’d planned to give to Tucker.

Fingering the trinket in his palm, he didn’t harbor an ounce of guilt for buying Maureen’s cooperation. He did, however, carry more than a doubt or two about why he’d gone to such extreme. Granted, the news he had to deliver would best be served in person, but it sure didn’t necessitate a donation large enough to cover a respectable percentage of the funds needed for the building of Baxter House. Mikki would be livid when she found out what he’d done and, worse, why he’d done it.

Convincing Tucker to come with him hadn’t been an easy feat, but when Tuck’s sisters and sisters-in-law had ganged up on him, his long-time friend hadn’t stood a chance. The irony of the situation hadn’t been lost on him. As Tuck had gleefully pointed out, the first time Nolan had ever used the money and influence he’d run from most of life, it was to guarantee him a night with a woman who’d rather eat ground glass than be with him.

The bartender finally showed up with the tequila and beer, and Nolan immediately threw back the Cuervo, followed by a hefty swallow of the ice-cold Dos Equis that failed to alleviate the burning in his gut. Whether the booze or his unexpected physical reaction to Mikki was the cause, he couldn’t be sure. Quite frankly, he doubted it made a difference. In the end, he’d probably never understand the emotional hold she had on him.

He polished off his beer and debated ordering another. Five years ago when he’d left the Bay area, he hadn’t expected to ever return, at least not for good. After making a name for himself in Los Angeles, he’d been offered the position of managing partner at Turner, Crawford and Lowe with the caveat that he head up the family law division in the firm’s San Francisco offices. As much as it grated his nerves, he understood he’d initially been hired by the prestigious firm because of the Baylor name, but he’d earned the partnership by working his ass off and consistently racking up more billable hours than any other associate in the firm.

Once the buy-in was complete, he’d be one of three managing partners running the Bay area office of the Southern California-based firm. He already held the responsibility of monitoring the caseload of close to two dozen associates, a quad of law clerks anxiously awaiting bar exam results and twice as many paralegals plus numerous support personnel. In addition, he still managed his own caseload, which ran the gamut from more high-profile divorce actions to adoptions, all the way down to custody matters, as well as support and visitation modifications. He loved it all, too, which was a helluva difference from the live-hard-play-harder-but-leave-a-good-looking-corpse philosophy he’d cultivated most of his life.

He left the bar and made his way to the deck in search of Mikki. He supposed in part he had her to thank for his success. When they’d separated, he’d honored the Baylor family tradition by turning into a classic workaholic. He’d buried himself in his work, using the law as a means of survival because it’d been preferable to facing the truth—that by walking away from his marriage, he really was no better than the bastard of a father he despised.

Another of his less than sterling moments.

The truth was even tougher to face: that he hadn’t had the balls to tell Mikki he’d never wanted the divorce in the first place. As much as he tried to convince himself he’d been young and filled with an overdose of foolish pride, a semblance of wisdom did blossom with age. If faced with the same set of circumstances, he liked to believe this time around he wouldn’t hesitate to make the right choice, rather than behave like a selfish prick all because she’d filleted his ego by adamantly refusing to have a baby.

Based on her reaction tonight, convincing Mikki he’d changed wouldn’t be easy. Not that it mattered what she thought of him. They were finished a long time ago. Or were they?

He paused near the open, glass double doors. Did it make a difference what she thought of him? Had he merely acted in his usual impulsive manner or was there another motive he hadn’t been aware existed for ensuring Mikki would be his date for whatever prize her locket held?

The answer had him taking in a deep, unsteady breath. He couldn’t possibly be thinking in terms of second chances.

Could he?

He hadn’t wanted the divorce, even if he had run at the first sign of trouble in their marriage. He blamed immaturity and pride. She no doubt blamed him—period.

Still, he thought with a twitch of his lips, in their time apart he had learned to appreciate the value of patience and determination. An asset he figured he’d be calling on in abundance tonight, because once he informed her their divorce had all the validity of a fake ID, she’d no doubt push him to the limit.

Provided she didn’t shoot him on the spot.

WHAT THE HELL was Nolan doing here?

Mikki rested her arms on the smooth redwood railing and clutched her glass of cola firmly in her hand. The need to indulge in something stronger hadn’t waned so much as a fraction.

Just one drink, she thought. One. That’s all she needed.

Except she knew better. One was never enough. That first bitter taste of bourbon hitting her tongue would only be the beginning. The soothing warmth sliding down her throat was as much of an addiction as was the welcoming buzz of alcohol hitting her bloodstream. She’d have another, and another, until she’d numbed herself into a drunken stupor.

She leaned forward and lifted her face to gaze at the stars blanketing the darkened sky over the Pacific, then took in a long, unsteady breath. Partially hidden behind the cover of a bushy potted juniper, she tried ignored the few couples braving the damp night air to cuddle together away from the crush of the crowd inside Clementine’s. A piercing stab of envy reduced her diligence to not think about how alone she felt in comparison to mere wishful thinking.

A tremor passed over her skin, but she didn’t hold the cold Pacific breeze culpable, or her own foolishness in venturing outdoors without the benefit of a sweater to ward off the brisk chill of the May evening. Oh, no. Nolan held that honor. His unexpected presence was responsible for the shock waves of too many emotions to articulate rolling through her.

If she wasn’t careful, she’d roll right up to the bar and order a shot of bourbon to add to her cola.

What possible motive could he have for being in San Francisco?

She struggled to keep her teeth from chattering as she moved deeper into the shadows. His return could have something to do with the probate of his father’s estate, except Nolan had never made any secret of the fact that he rejected everything his rich, influential father represented. When she’d gone to pay her final respects to her former father-in-law, whom she’d only met on two occasions, it hadn’t exactly escaped her notice that the powerful state legislator’s son had been notably absent.

And to think Nolan had once possessed the gall to call her coldhearted because she didn’t want children. The man could write a bestseller on cool detachment. She’d even gone to her own father’s funeral—and she’d hated everything about the man who’d molested his own daughter.

Out of habit, she immediately shoved that unpleasant thought back into the closet where it belonged. Opening the clasp on her evening bag, she searched for the pack of emergency cigarettes she always carried with her. She and Nolan hadn’t always been at each other’s throats or circled like wary hounds afraid to say the wrong thing. There’d been a time when they hadn’t been able to get enough of each other. She missed those lazy Sunday mornings they’d spent in bed, making love most of the day and only surfacing long enough to regain their strength. She missed how they used to debate case law or talk about the future—before he’d ruin it by bringing up the subject of family. At first she’d change the subject or remain noncommittal, but after a while he’d to become more insistent until she’d finally told him the truth—she wouldn’t ever have a child with him. She hadn’t offered an explanation beyond she wasn’t the mothering type.

She hadn’t always felt that way about children, and whether or not her fears were unreasonable, in her opinion, she had no business having babies when she was having trouble controlling her addiction to alcohol. Besides, she already had two strikes against her: an abusive father and a mother who’d abandoned her. Everyone knew three strikes and you were out.

Suddenly she felt much older than her thirty-two years. She slipped a long slim from the pack, then dug out the disposable lighter and lit up. She inhaled deeply, taking the smoke into her lungs, waiting for the familiar calm to wash over her to curb the need for a drink. But the substitute failed to provide on all counts. No vice in existence was capable of calming her rattled composure tonight.

Studying the reflection of the twinkling lights on the surface of the water below, she smoked her cigarette and listened to the sound of the rising tide. Not even the gentle lap of water against the thick pylons could sooth her.

When she thought of everything she’d thrown away to protect her secrets…the lies she’d told to the one person she should’ve trusted the most…

She let out a regret-filled sigh. She’d been twenty-three and at the start of her second year as law student at Berkeley when she’d met Nolan. With no interest in another messy romantic entanglement after her last disastrous relationship, she’d initially tried to ignore him. Except her dismissal had made him even more relentless. Only a woman without a pulse could’ve held out when he poured on the charm, and she’d caved. Within six months she’d fallen helplessly in love with him, with his tenderness, his gentleness and the way he’d made her feel safe and cherished. The fact that he’d enough sexual energy to power up the lights at Candlestick Park hadn’t hurt, either, she thought with a wry grin.

They’d moved in together within a year and midway through their final year of law school, they’d eloped. After graduation, they’d both worked as law clerks while awaiting bar results. Nolan had clerked for an appellate court judge and she’d been essentially downgraded from paralegal to law clerk at the legal aid office where she’d worked her last two semesters. Even after they’d both passed the bar exam, they’d been broke much of the time, but it hadn’t made a difference because they’d been happy. Or so she’d believed, until her past had reared up and bitten her so hard she’d panicked.

Regardless of how much they had loved each other, in the end she’d known it would never be enough. Rather than face her fears, she’d pushed him away with the determination of a defensive lineman out to sack the quarterback. She couldn’t blame Nolan, only herself, and she’d used the excuse of his accepting the job offer from Turner, Crawford and Lowe—one the state’s largest law firms—without consulting her as the perfect excuse to pick a fight. Rather than trust him with the truth about her past and admit she’d been lying to him all along about who and what she was, she’d told him to get out and to never come back.

Her life had spiraled out of control shortly thereafter. To numb herself from the pain of losing Nolan, she’d open a bottle of bourbon and start drinking until she literally could feel no pain. But the hurt had kept coming back and so she’d kept drinking until, almost a year later, she didn’t know how to stop.

One night after leaving a downtown bar at closing time, she’d made a serious mistake and climbed behind the wheel of her car. Luckily a cop had pulled her over before she’d driven more than a block from the parking lot and she thanked God she hadn’t hurt anyone but herself. She’d jeopardized not only her life and the lives of anyone unfortunate enough to be on the road that night, but she’d risked her career and shattered any remaining hope she’d secretly harbored of a reconciliation with Nolan because she’d never wanted him to have to live with the shame of having an alcoholic for a wife.

Mortified by what she’d become, she’d driven the final stake through the heart of her marriage when she’d called Nolan to insist he fly down to Mexico for a quickie divorce. They’d argued fiercely several times, until she’d finally lied and said she didn’t love him, that she didn’t know if she ever really had, blaming him because she’d been too young when they’d married. She would’ve gone to Mexico herself, but she’d been unable to leave the state since the judge had ordered her into rehab and placed her on probation for two years.

Two days before she’d entered rehab, Nolan had finally agreed to the divorce. The next day she’d hired the first attorney from the border town of Mexicali willing to make an appearance on her behalf on such short notice. Nolan, luckily, never found out that his wife had become an alcoholic. Twenty-eight days later she’d returned to her apartment and a notarized copy of their dissolution had been waiting for her amid a stack of bills, junk mail and periodicals.

Mikki flicked a length of ash and blinked back the sudden moisture blurring her vision. Who would’ve thought after all this time tough-as-nails Mikki Correlli could still tear up at the thought of a failed marriage? Sure as hell not her. She no longer allowed her emotions to control her actions.

She hadn’t always been so resilient. The truth was, if it hadn’t been for her family, she honestly didn’t know if she would’ve survived the aftermath of Nolan once she’d sobered up. When the strength she’d always prided herself on had come close to deserting her again, her sisters and mother were there for her, offering their support without judgment, even if they hadn’t agreed with the choices she’d made.

The urge to go home suddenly hit her hard. Not to her cozy apartment in the Marina District, but to the comfort of her mom’s place on Garrison Street near Haight and Ashbury.

Suddenly she craved the gentle scents of cinnamon candles and strawberry incense, the strains of the Grateful Dead, Joan Baez or the Doors lingering in the background. The solidity of the spindle-back oak chairs at the ancient oak table in the spacious kitchen decorated with chickens and roosters, where she could sit and sip one of her mom’s specialty herb tea blends and regain a proper perspective of her own role in the universe.

Tonight she wanted to listen to Emma reminisce about Haight-Ashbury, the Summer of Love, how she had traveled across the country in a VW bus to Woodstock and about the Oregon commune she’d lived in and where Rory had been born. Maybe Mikki would get lucky and recapture her own sense of calm. Although, she thought with a teary smile, she did often wonder if Emma’s always sage advice wasn’t peppered by the occasional acid flashback. Emma had experienced a few wilder moments in her free-love, mind-expanding days.

Her smile faded the instant she sensed Nolan’s presence behind her. Once again she wondered at his reason for returning to the city. The last she’d heard he’d been busy setting legal precedent in several landmark cases. Some rulings she had silently applauded, others she’d vehemently cursed when reading about them in the quarterly supplements to the California Reporter. Because she read the periodicals faithfully to familiarize herself with new decisions in regard to matters related to her area of expertise, it was difficult not to notice the Baylor name when it appeared with such regularity.

When he joined her, she quietly asked, “Why are you here, Nolan?”

Facing her, he rested his hand on the railing. He wore one of those rascal grins she’d always adored. “To unlock a few possibilities.”

She didn’t appreciate his humor. “I’m serious.” Thank goodness the odds of that happening were one in at least two hundred and fifty. More, possibly, judging by the size of the crowd that had turned out to support Baxter House.

His grin deepened, as if he knew something she didn’t. “So am I,” he arrogantly countered.

Not comfortable with all that cocky self-assurance aimed at her, Mikki’s defensiveness became more pronounced. “You never did know how to be serious.”

The smile faded and he let out a rough sigh. He pushed off the railing. “Can we sheathe the claws for a while?” He moved closer, eliminating the distance between them. “I came to talk to you, not fight.”

Unless she was prepared to climb over the thick round base of the planter to escape him, which she wasn’t—yet, he’d managed to effectively corner her. “So, now you’ve seen me,” she said with a careless shrug she had no hope of believing was real. “Curiosity satisfied?”

He swept the length of her with his gaze, his eyes lingering a moment too long on her breasts. The way he was blatantly staring at her with such unmistakable desire caused her nipples to bead and tighten.

Some things never changed.

“God, you look so good.” He took the remains of the cigarette from her fingers and tossed it into the Pacific before gently dragging the back of his hand down her cheek.

The lump in her throat tripled in size.

“But,” he added, his voice dropping to a low, husky timbre, “you always did.”

Awareness stirred within her. She stared at his mouth. “So do you.” The admission slipped out before she could stop herself. An overwhelming urge to kiss him gripped her—hard. She trembled.

He continued to hold her gaze as he tipped her face upward with the pad of his thumb. Anticipation sizzled between them. Just as it always had, she thought.

Slowly he lowered his head.

“Nolan.” Her soft whisper sounded remarkably reminiscent of an invitation rather than a protest. And honest, she decided. Regardless of how insane and stupid it was, she wanted him to kiss her.

The first feathery brush of his lips against hers instantly ignited her senses, taking her by total surprise. She hadn’t known what to expect, but she sure as hell hadn’t counted on her heart pounding or her insides turning to mush from an overload of sexual excitement.

She really did know better. With Nolan, indifference ceased to exist. He’d always made her feel too much. Too much love. Too much anger. Too much passion. Too much pain.

Damn you.

When he settled his mouth more firmly over hers and deepened the kiss, she tried to tell herself the only reason she responded, the only viable excuse for slipping her arms around his neck, stemmed from the shock of seeing him again. Clearly she wasn’t capable of thinking straight. Under normal circumstances, she never would’ve dreamed of plastering herself against him.

But she did and he tugged her even closer. He pulled her into a tailspin of sensation no woman who prided herself on calling the shots would ever dare welcome—or tolerate.

God help her, it wasn’t nearly enough.

In one step he had her up against the rough stucco wall, surrounding her with the heat of his body. Flaming, steamy memories flashed through her mind. His hands, his lips, the thick, hard length of him pulsing in her hands, in her mouth, thrusting relentlessly into her until the control she never could maintain with him shattered and she flew apart.

The insistent ache of desire dampened her. She wanted to recreate those memories with a desperation so fierce it left her as breathless as his hot, wet kiss.

No. She would not, could not, go there again. Ever. He was her drug of choice, her fix. She’d plummeted to rock bottom once and had barely survived the experience. There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d risk that kind of pain again, not when she couldn’t be certain she possessed enough strength to crawl back the next time.

With every last shred of willpower she could summon, she planted her palms firmly on his chest and shoved him away. “No.” The command sounded as ragged as her breathing—and about as convincing. “This is not going to happen.”

Not again. Not ever again.

He took a reluctant step back, jammed his fingers through his hair and stared at her. She found no comfort from the fact he appeared as shaken as her by the heat that had flared up so quickly between them.

She prayed for numbness. Her body continued to hum defiantly with desire.

Just one more in a long line of unanswered prayers, she thought cynically. As if she should be surprised.

“What do you want, Nolan?” she asked him again. Her terse question fell short of rudeness due to the distinct tremor lacing her voice. Her trembling hands didn’t help much, either. “And I want an answer this time.”

He scrubbed his hand down his face. The wariness in his expression immediately filled her with dread.

“Nolan?” Her apprehension climbed with each passing silent second. “What? What is it?”

“When was the last time you were in Mexico?”

She frowned. Carefully she reached for the half empty glass of soda she’d left on the ledge of the redwood railing. She’d rather have a cigarette. Better yet, a drink.

“I’ve never been there.” He, on the other hand, had spent the requisite twenty-four hours south of the border, she thought, feeling the bite of old hostility and resentment for what she’d insisted on in the first place.

She shook her head. Holding him responsible when she’d been the one to demand the fastest method possible to put an end to their marriage was hardly fair or reasonable. “Why?” she asked cautiously.

“You never filed for a legal name change, either, did you?”

Icy cold fingers of panic slid around her throat and squeezed, threatening her air supply. “No,” she managed to say in a choked whisper. “There wasn’t any need to. You know that.”

She’d refused to take his name once they’d married, which had infuriated him. But she’d refused to budge on the issue, so he’d eventually conceded defeat, albeit with massive reluctance. Although he’d never brought the subject up again, he’d made no secret of the fact that he wasn’t happy with her decision to keep her own name. She hadn’t needed some antiquated tradition of assuming her husband’s name to know she was married, but in reality, as long as she kept her own name, she knew she’d never forget who or what she was—a Correlli. Not that she really held an ounce of admiration for her lineage, but she couldn’t allow herself the false sense of security of the Baylor name.

He didn’t say anything, just kept looking at her expectantly…waiting for her to put the pieces together. His eyes held everything she didn’t want to know.

“Oh, God. We’re not still…”

No, no, no. Not possible. Life could not be that cruel, could it?

“Married?” he finished for her.

She nodded because she didn’t believe herself capable of more than insane babbling.

A wry grin tipped his mouth. “Next time you hire a lawyer, Mikki, a word of advice—” he bent forward until they were practically nose to nose “—make sure he hasn’t been disbarred first.”