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  The quick, sharp pain loosed some wild thing in him he didn’t even know was buried there. His control slipped the iron grip he’d kept on it from the moment she’d let him kiss her on that balcony.

  And then his lips and tongue skimmed over her torso, her breasts, her stomach, her hips, her sex. He wanted to explore all of her, needed to find each and every change to her body that the past six years had wrought. The extra-fullness of her breasts, the new freckles on the soft insides of her elbows, the three small scars near her belly button that weren’t there the last time he’d made love to her.

  He traced his fingers over them, started to ask what had happened. But it wasn’t his business—she wasn’t his business—anymore, and he’d do well to remember that.

  Except the words escaped of their own volition. “What happened here?”

  “What? Where?” Her voice was husky, dazed with pleasure. Pleasure he had given her, he thought with grim satisfaction. Not that pansy-ass professor who couldn’t keep his hands off her at the cocktail party.

  “Here.” He ran a finger over the scars again.

  “Oh.” She sighed, her fingers sliding down his chest to toy with his nipples as she answered, “Emergency appendectomy.”

  Her answer floated past him and pleasure coursed through him as she played with him. Her fingers squeezed and stroked and pinched as she pressed hot kisses to his neck and shoulders and chest.

  “Isa.” It was a warning, more a growl than an actual word.

  She didn’t pay any attention, though. Instead, she slid slowly down the bed as her mouth worked its way over his pecs, his stomach, his abdomen. He was still above her, but that fact wasn’t hampering her at all as her mouth trailed hot kisses over the sparse trail of hair that led from his belly button.

  And then she took him in her mouth, sucking him deep even as her tongue licked hotly against the length of him. He bit off a curse, taking her ministrations for several long seconds, his arms trembling as they supported his weight above her.

  But when she pulled him deep and he felt his release gathering at the base of his spine, he pulled away with a groan.

  “What?” she asked, eyes dazed and mouth swollen as she reached for him. “I want to—”

  “I want to be inside you when I come,” he told her. He didn’t know why it mattered—pleasure was pleasure, after all—but it did. He wanted the first time he came with Isa after their long separation to be when he was inside her.

  Ignoring her moan of protest, he shifted off her for several long seconds as he retrieved his pants from the floor. He grabbed his wallet, pulled out a condom. Seconds later, he was back on the bed, his body covering hers.

  Sliding a hand between her thighs to make sure she was ready for him, he relished the wet heat that told him she was as affected by him as he was by her.

  “Marc, please,” she gasped, her hands sliding around to pull him more firmly against her.

  “I’m right here, baby.” The endearment slipped out, as did the soft kisses he pressed to her flushed cheeks.

  And then he was sliding inside her, sliding home, after far too long. Isa gasped, moaned, her body arching beneath his. Her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Her legs twining around his hips.

  God, she felt good. Warm, wet, willing. Amazing.

  He plunged into her again and again, relishing the way her body rose to meet his.

  The way she whimpered.

  The way her beautiful, dark eyes turned hazy as she got closer and closer to orgasm.

  He was close, too—so close that it was an agony not to come. But he wanted—needed—her to come first. He wanted to see her face as pleasure took her, wanted to feel her body clutching him, holding him deep inside.

  Sweat rolled down his muscles, pulled at the small of his back as he continued to build the pleasure—and the tension—between them. Isa moaned, her voice low and broken as she pleaded with him to send her over. Pleaded with him to let her come.

  And while there was nothing he wanted more than to give her release—and take his own—he also wasn’t ready to let her go. Wasn’t ready for this to end. It had been so long since he’d held Isa like this, that he wanted to make every second last forever. Who knew when—or if—they’d ever have this chance again.

  Except Isa wouldn’t let him wait. Clutching at him with her arms and legs and body, she pulled him close. Pressed hot kisses to his mouth and jaw and neck. Sucked a bruise of her own right above his collarbone.

  It was that mark, that brand, that sent him over the edge. Slipping a hand between them, he stroked her once, twice.

  That was all it took to have her crying out his name as her body clenched rhythmically around him. And then he let go, too, coming deep inside her as pleasure roared through him like a freight train. Coming until he couldn’t figure out where she left off and he began...or how he was going to live without this, without her.

  * * *

  He woke up feeling better than he had in years. Six years to be exact. His body was sated, his mind at peace. It was a strange feeling—so strange that it sent Marc hurtling from sleep into wakefulness with a speed that was practically painful.

  His eyes flew open, and as he glimpsed Isa’s bright red hair fanned out next to him on the pillow, the events of the previous night came flooding back in graphic, and arousing, detail. As his body responded to the private slide show in his head he thought about rolling over. About pulling her on top of him. About sliding into her as those gorgeous brown eyes of hers blinked open.

  He wanted that, wanted her—even after all the times he’d had her the night before—with an intensity that bordered on desperation. Which was why he did exactly the opposite.

  Rolling out of bed, he grabbed his pants and padded quietly down the hall to her kitchen, which was the last place he remembered having his shirt. Sure enough, it was crumpled on the ground, along with his shoes.

  As he pulled his clothes back on, he tried not to think about the night before. Tried not to think about how good it had felt to have Isa back in his arms.

  He’d never felt with another woman what he felt when he was with her. When they’d been together—when he’d loved and trusted her—making love to her had been an amazing high. He had lost himself in her day after day, night after night. It probably should have been scary to a guy like him—who had trouble trusting anyone—but it hadn’t been. He’d been so crazy about her that he had never imagined she might betray him.

  But she had and now they were here. The only problem was, he didn’t know where here was any more than he knew where he wanted it to be. Yes, last night the sex had been fantastic. More than fantastic, it had been hot and exciting.

  But it wasn’t the pleasure that had him awake as dawn slowly streaked its rainbow fingers across the ocean outside her window. No, it wasn’t the pleasure that was freaking him out. It was the way his body and mind felt balanced and rested and replete for the first time in a very long time.

  He didn’t like the fact that Isa was responsible for the feeling. It had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d walked into the back of her classroom and seen her teaching and already they were back in bed. Already he was thinking about taking her again. Already, he was thinking of taking her back.

  And that was where the trouble lay. Because there was no way he could do that. No way he could forget that she’d betrayed him six years ago. No way he could forget that she had chosen her father—a man who had stolen from Marc, who had destroyed years of his work, who had nearly ruined everything he’d worked for—over him.

  Because if she could do it once, in the middle of the most intense and powerful love affair he’d ever had, then she could do it again. And if that was the case, then he needed to walk away right now. Before he fell victim to all the little things he’d once loved about her.

 
Like her smile and her scent.

  Like her wicked sense of humor and her even more wicked intellect.

  Like how sleepy she was in the morning, when she wrapped herself around him and begged for kisses.

  “You’re still here.” Her voice was husky with sleep, but when he turned to face her, her eyes were wide-awake. “I thought you’d left.”

  “Not yet. But I do need to get going. I’ve got to get to the office.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “I’m aware of that. But I work on Saturdays.” He pretty much worked every day. “Especially now that I’ve taken on the class at the institute.”

  He thought about crossing to her, about dropping a kiss on her still-swollen lips. But if he was honest with himself, he was as uneasy as she obviously was. More unsure of what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it than he’d ever been in his life. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one he didn’t like at all.

  “You never used to work on Saturdays.” Her voice was even, but still it sounded like an accusation. Which, in turn, made him feel guilty, even though he had nothing to feel guilty for.

  He lashed out before he could think better of it. “Yeah, well, six years ago I thought I was safe. I thought I’d built the company up to a place where I could breathe a little, where I could take an occasional day off and trust things would be okay. If you remember correctly, that didn’t work out too well for me.” He didn’t even try to keep the temper out of his voice. How dare she accuse him of running out on her when she’d been the one to betray him? The one to disappear off the face of the earth for more than half a decade?

  She winced, but kept her gaze steady on his as she said, “How long are you going to keep throwing that in my face?”

  The small licks of anger grew into wilder flames. “I’ve mentioned it twice in the last twenty-four hours,” he told her, forcing his voice to remain steady. “And before that, I hadn’t talked to you in six damn years. So tell me, please, how is it, exactly, that I’m throwing the past in your face?”

  “I don’t know. But it feels like you are.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself in a gesture that screamed discomfort and defensiveness.

  It should have given him pause, would have given him pause if he wasn’t so uncomfortable and defensive himself. “Maybe that’s your guilty conscience talking. Maybe there’s a part of you that feels like you deserve whatever you think I’m doing to you.”

  “Maybe I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m reading the situation wrong.” She paused and took a deep breath as if she was gathering her courage.

  All of a sudden, he felt ashamed. He hadn’t come here to berate her, to make her nervous in her own home. “Say it, Isa. Whatever it is you want to say, just get it off your chest.”

  “All right.” She licked her lips in a gesture that was as familiar to him as her skin sliding against his own. “It’s just, I can’t figure out what last night was about.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” A sick feeling stirred deep inside him. He didn’t want to think too closely about his rationale for last night. At least not beyond scratching an itch that had been six long years in the making.

  “I mean, what was the point of it? Was it your way of getting revenge after all this time? Of trying to hurt me?” Despite her earlier nervousness, she said the words as if they were no big deal. As if she’d anticipated he’d do something like that all along.

  It got to him, in a huge way. Because last night had been about a lot of things—lust, confusion, jealousy, need—but he could honestly say that revenge had never entered into it. Not when he went out to speak with her on the balcony. Not when he made the decision to follow her home. And definitely not when he showed up at her door. Not once had he been thinking of revenge. Maybe he should have been, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d been thinking about her. Just her.

  The fact that she obviously hadn’t felt the same way...that she had been analyzing his motives—and him—from the moment she opened her door, wounded him. No, that wasn’t true. It didn’t hurt him. It made him feel like a fool, and that made him furious. She’d already played him once, and he’d be damned if he ever let her do that to him again. He wasn’t that stupid.

  “I wouldn’t call it revenge so much as closure,” he finally told her after several long seconds of silence. “Our relationship ended so abruptly that it always felt...unfinished. I didn’t like it.”

  “And now?” she asked, face calm and brow raised inquiringly.

  “Now? It feels done.”

  It was a lie, but she didn’t have to know that. And it wasn’t as if it would be a lie forever. This was exactly the closure he’d needed, he assured himself as he bent over and retrieved his keys from where they’d fallen on the floor. He knew she was okay, knew she hadn’t been harmed by the cruel way he’d had her removed from his apartment all those years ago. And he’d been able to touch her after all this time, to slake a thirst he hadn’t known was there until he’d seen her yesterday. That was enough. More than enough.

  Or, at least, it would be.

  His will was iron strong and he would make it the truth if it killed him. He’d spent too many years of his life thinking, worrying, caring about a woman who would never do the same for him.

  That ended here. Now. He knew Isa was safe. He’d even had one last night with her. It was more than enough. It was time for him to close this chapter of his life and move on, once and for all. And he would start by walking out Isa’s door.

  “Thanks for last night,” he told her, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he headed for the entryway. “It was fun.”

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything as he opened the door, stepped onto her porch and took her front steps two at a time. She still didn’t say anything, even as he made his way down the walkway to his car.

  He didn’t know what he wanted her to say—didn’t know what he wanted from her at all. But as the front door closed quietly behind him, he knew that silence wasn’t it. He knew he wanted more from her than that.

  But then, he always had. She’d just never been able to give it.

  * * *

  She was an idiot.

  After closing—and locking—the front door after Marc, Isa turned and marched straight back to the master bedroom. Though there was a part of her that wanted nothing more than to fling herself onto the mattress and pull the covers over her head, she knew that wasn’t going to work. Partly because her problems would still be there, waiting for her, when she finally managed to resurface. And partly because the sheets still smelled like Marc and she wasn’t masochistic enough to climb into them again. Not when she could barely breathe without memories of what had happened last night slicing through her like broken glass.

  She’d known while she was doing it that she was making a mistake. After all, Marc wasn’t one to forgive betrayal easily. And yet she’d done it anyway. She’d fallen into bed with him. Had given herself to him over and over again without worrying about consequences. Or what would happen in the morning. Or whether or not he was just using her. Instead, for a little while, she’d allowed herself to believe that miracles could happen. She’d allowed herself to believe that it could be like it was six years ago, before her father had ruined everything. Before she’d let him.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t stand the sight of the rumpled bed for one second more. She threw herself at it in a frenzy, stripping the sheets, the blankets, even the mattress pad. When she was done—when the bed was completely empty—she carried it all into her doll-sized laundry room and shoved as much as she could fit into her washing machine. It would take two loads, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was getting rid of every last reminder of Marc and the mistake she had made.

  Then, once the bed was taken care of, she started on herself. And realized erasing Marc from her body’s memory was g
oing to be a million times more difficult. After all, memories of his existence, his touch, his smell, had lived right under her skin for six long years, just waiting to spring back to life. And now that they had, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to banish them—to banish him—again.

  Stripping off her nightgown, which had somehow absorbed the scent of him despite the fact that they’d slept naked, she dropped it into the pile of bedding that was still waiting to be washed. And then she walked, naked, down the hall and into the bedroom to take a shower.

  As she waited for the water to get warm, she made the mistake of looking in the mirror. What she saw there nearly brought her to her knees.

  She looked...like she’d spent the night getting ravaged. Her hair was wild; her skin flushed a rosy pink wherever his stubble had touched her. Her mouth was swollen; her eyes dreamy and a little unfocused. And there were bruises. On her throat. On the outer side of her left breast. On her right hip. On the delicate skin of her inner thigh. They were love bites. Hickeys. Small reminders of him sucked into her skin.

  As if she needed the reminders. As if she could forget what he’d done to her—what they’d done to each other.

  But she needed to forget, she told herself fiercely. She needed to bury the memories of last night somewhere deep inside so she wouldn’t have to think about them every time she walked into her bedroom. Or every time she saw him at the institute. She’d spent six long years hearing his name—her specialty was conflict diamonds, after all, and his company was the biggest conflict-free diamond source in North America—which meant his name came up a lot in her research, her lectures, her papers.

  She’d managed to ignore it for a long time, to put distance between what had happened between them and the businessman who was making so many important and exciting decisions in the field. Now that she’d slept with him again, she would have to go back to how it had been in the old days. Ignoring every mention of him, writing her way around him, pretending he didn’t exist. Not forever, mind you, but for a little while. Just until she could get her head on straight. Just until she could breathe again without bleeding inside.