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Getting Even
Avril Tremayne


Want. Need. Lust.Just one more night!For book editor Veronica Johnson it's sheer hell seeing her ex Rafael Velez again. He's the man she thought she’d be with for a lifetime, and here he is at her best friend’s wedding! How she hates him still! But he has an outrageous proposition: just one more night together! It’s madness—but achingly tempting. Especially if she walks away without a backward glance, just as he did to her…







Want. Need. Lust.

Just one more night!

For book editor Veronica Johnson, it’s sheer hell seeing her ex Rafael Velez again. He’s the man she thought she’d be with for a lifetime, and here he is at her best friend’s wedding! How she hates him still! But he has an outrageous proposition: just one more night together! It’s foolish—but achingly tempting. Especially if she walks away without a backward glance, just as he did to her...

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author


AVRIL TREMAYNE is an award-winning author of sexy, modern, urban romances, featuring heroes strong enough to make any woman swoon and stronger heroines who nevertheless refuse to do so. She took a circuitous route to becoming a writer, via careers in nursing, teaching, public relations and corporate affairs—most recently in global aviation, which gave her a voracious appetite for travel. She currently lives in Sydney, Australia, but is feverishly plotting to move her family to Italy for half of every year. When she’s not reading or writing Avril can be found dining to excess, drinking lots of wine and obsessing over shoes. Find her at avriltremayne.com (http://www.avriltremayne.com/), on Facebook at avril.tremayne (https://www.facebook.com/avril.tremayne/), on Twitter, @AvrilTremayne (https://twitter.com/avriltremayne?lang=en), or on Instagram, @avril_tremayne (https://www.instagram.com/avril_tremayne/).


If you liked Getting Even why not try

Worth the Risk by Zara Cox

Legal Desire by Lisa Childs

Wild Child by Christy McKellen

Also by Avril Tremayne Reunions

Getting Lucky

Getting Even

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Getting Even

Avril Tremayne






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07147-5

GETTING EVEN

© 2018 Belinda De Rome

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my mother-in-law, Paula.

And with a million thanks to Kali and Mayte,

for sorting out my gorgeous Rafael’s Spanish,

and to Sarah White for Scarlett-the-wonder-therapist’s wisdom!


Contents

Cover (#ua16dd413-e0fe-56e9-81d6-bc535a41c33a)

Back Cover Text (#u1c0bb586-b235-55f5-88a2-2ee1d0c3c19f)

About the Author (#u83055e2e-9fc1-5f09-a60c-4bd5e8169c8c)

Booklist (#uc818af71-ac82-5635-8f44-d67067655d32)

Title Page (#u34abf99c-2cc5-5612-a03f-98c74aea57e9)

Copyright (#u83de6cd7-a436-5466-b2fd-ee5ba2aade0f)

Dedication (#u9ccb6830-cb56-5517-bf8a-07279d747d5d)

CHAPTER ONE (#uce01b339-1a31-53be-9378-90ae7b806591)

CHAPTER TWO (#uc13db7a9-fba5-5a6b-bf59-f3023c565bba)

CHAPTER THREE (#ua6881234-c7dd-5836-b7e3-3778d1d15886)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u54dc6aa7-8831-5c06-8205-25d745a61db1)

CHAPTER FIVE (#uece09ac2-d72a-57af-9d46-cef2de03f343)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ud4cf92d5-f66d-5682-8d96-80b2d2ca9591)

VERONICA WAS STARTING to think rereading Wuthering Heights before this trip to Yorkshire hadn’t been such a good idea. She was finding it impossible not to compare Rafael Velez, sitting six pews in front of her, to Heathcliff—who was, of course, a prime asshole, albeit a magnetic one.

And once she’d started down that path, it was inevitable that she’d wonder if that made her some version of Cathy—who, sure, was intriguing, but had been stupid enough to leave the action halfway through the novel by dropping dead of a Heathcliff-inflicted broken heart. And Veronica wasn’t having any of that drop-dead-of-a-broken-heart crap!

In fact, she considered herself to be walking, talking proof that a woman did not drop dead of a broken heart. She hadn’t dropped dead seven years, two months, three weeks and five days ago when Rafael had decided the most appropriate graduation gift he could offer after living with her for three and a half fucking years was to run out on her. And she wasn’t going to drop dead today, despite the bloodlust flushing through every cell in her body just because she could see the back of his damn head!

Nope. No dropping dead allowed.

At least not by her.

If he wanted to drop dead, he was welcome to do so. Not that she’d give him the satisfaction of telling him to drop dead. She might want to pulverize the bastard, but she was a Johnson, and it came naturally to Johnsons to give zero fucks in public.

Well, it came naturally to most Johnsons—others had to work at it.

All right. Okay. Fine. She was the only Johnson who had to work at it.

But she did work at it, and she’d worked at it every day since graduation when that asshole Velez had pulled the rug out from under her.

She’d worked at it even harder from the moment Romy had called to warn her that Rafael would not only be at the wedding but that he’d be bringing the gorgeous, scarlet-haired, only-one-name-required TV soap star Felicity as his plus-one.

Her zero-fuck-giving goal today was to go up to him and Felicity during the wedding reception—not too soon, not too late—and be utterly charming, perfectly sweet, and completely not brokenhearted.

She would just be someone Rafael used to date at college.

A double-divorcée with nothingto prove, she didn’t need to bring a date to wave like a freaking banner of achievement under the nose of anyone who cared enough to look.

Wearing a hot-pink Dior dress, skyscraper Christian Louboutin heels and a coiffure secured with enough pins to set off every metal detector in the Leeds Bradford Airport, she had no intention of cowering in the background like some desperate and dateless loser.

Armed with pre-prepared lines she’d rehearsed a few thousand times to ensure their delivery carried just the right tone of dispassionate indifference to indicate she no longer gave a rat’s ass about him. Hello, Rafael. Long time no see. Congratulations on your two bestsellers—they’re in my TBR pile.

And the pièce de résistance? “The look.” Straight out of her mother’s playbook. Veronica had practiced it in the mirror—the eyebrows of destruction, the arched smile.

“The look” would let him know she had no intention of reading his tedious novels, no matter what words to the contrary were issuing from her mouth.

Her mother had given Rafael “the look” the first time she’d met him. Veronica had warned him to expect it, had assured him all boyfriends—hers and her sister Scarlett’s—copped it to test their mettle, so not to take it personally. But Rafael had been only nineteen and laboring under a misapprehension that her family was an all-powerful branch of some de facto American aristocracy, and he’d shivered as though an Arctic wind had blown right through him.

Well, she looked forward to seeing how he handled “the look” now that he was twenty-nine and a ragingly successful author. If she could wring a shiver from him today, she’d be downright thankful he hadn’t proposed to her all those years ago. It would mean he hadn’t deserved her. It would, in short, deliver the coup de grâce to her quest for vengeance—a quest that had seen her block his every attempt to contact her after he’d left her and marry not one but two men who were everything he despised.

Just one unworthy shiver, that’s all she asked. There’d be no need, then, to tear off his head and kick it across the Yorkshire moors—the image of doing which had been giving her an unhealthy degree of satisfaction despite it very obviously signaling she gave way too many fucks. Somany fucks. A billion, trillion, gazillion fucking fucks.

And breeeaaaaathe, before she succumbed to that thing Scarlett-the-wonder-therapist had warned her about—vasovagal syncope. Fancy term for fainting!

Oh shit! Was that what was happening to her? Because that blood-pumping organ in her chest she’d assumed had lapsed into a lifelong coma was palpitating itself back to painful consciousness, her palms were sweating, her skin was prickling and the breath she’d taken in didn’t seem to want to come back out. What had Scarlett said to do? Sit so she wouldn’t fall down? Shut up so she didn’t babble something stupid? Check and check—no better place to be than in a hushed chapel. Oh, and she was supposed to avoid triggers! Which meant she had to stop looking at the back of Rafael’s damn head.

But she couldn’t stop looking.

Could. Not.

Only one thing to do: get out.

She darted a look to the right, where she’d already located the closest exit, which she knew led to some famous mausoleum. Surely if a girl was going to pass out, doing it among the dead—who told no tales and certainly weren’t giving any fucks—was the way to go. She could lie on a crypt, faint, recover and be back in time for you-may-kiss-the-bride.

Deal!

She leaned close to the elderly lady sitting primly beside her in navy blue Yves Saint Laurent and whispered, “Excuse me, I need to make a phone call. May I squeeze past you?”

“Of course,” came the polite reply.

She stood, waiting for room to be made for her to pass, only to watch in horror as Ms. YSL’s navy blue purse, which was large enough to house a medium-size dog, slid off her lap and landed on the floor with a heavy thud.

Maybe that wouldn’t have been such a disaster if not for the tube of mints that escaped its navy leather bondage and rolled out of reach, which occasioned a clearly enunciated little-old-lady “Oh fuck” that made Veronica burst out laughing. Seriously? How could she not laugh when an audible Oh fuck exploded in the anticipatory air of a chapel in an accent so posh it would do the Queen of England proud? Problem was, it was the laugh, the one that came with the distinctive taken-by-surprise-no-time-to-stop-it snort, a laugh Rafael would instantly connect with her because it had always made him laugh. Laugh...and kiss her.

The dominos started falling fast, heads turning row by row toward the commotion.

Any second now Rafael would turn, too, and see her standing like a hot-pink lighthouse complete with silver-domed roof. Vasovagal syncope would overtake her and she’d collapse in a heap, with her legs akimbo and her underwear showing, not at all like a zero-fuck-giving Johnson, and she’d end up in the mausoleum all right—as a corpse, having died of mortification!

It happened quickly—a matter of seconds only—and yet it felt like a slow-motion dream. The sights, sounds, scents of the chapel fading out of her consciousness... Rafael looking over his shoulder...seeing her...putting his hand on Felicity’s shoulder...Felicity turning, staring, intent and curious, obviously knowing exactly who she was.

Bad. Bad, bad, bad.

And then, before Veronica’s heart could take one more staccato rush of beats, Felicity and Rafael looked at each other, something unspoken passed between them, and as one they faced forward again, heads together.

God. God, God, God.

Veronica could hear the whoosh of her pulse in her ears, her breaths huffing in and out, smell her own vanilla scent mingling with the incense in the chapel as heat suffused her.

There was a rustle beside her; she turned mechanically toward it.

“I’m sorry about that,” Ms. Navy Blue said—choosing now to whisper! Her purse was retrieved, her legs slanting to the side. “Is that enough room for you?”

And Veronica’s head cleared. She was in a Yorkshire chapel at the wedding of two of her college besties and she was notgoing to faint. She was not. Johnsons did not faint in public.

“No, I’m sorry,” Veronica said, resuming her seat and pasting on a nice big smile. “I think I’ve left it too late to make my phone call—the bride’s about to arrive.”

A sound at the main entrance confirmed that this was not, in fact, a lie. Veronica swiveled gratefully toward that sound, and the sight of Romy, incandescently happy on her father’s arm, drove all other thoughts out of her head for a blessed moment.

A pause—then music—and Romy commenced her walk up the aisle, ivory satin swishing around her ankles. The gown was simple, as chic and modern as Romy herself, hugging her generous curves and showing off her most prized possession—her baby bump. Romy had rejected the idea of wearing a veil on the basis it would obscure her view of Matt, and as Romy’s unwavering gaze fixed on the man she’d loved for so long and never thought she’d have, that decision made perfect sense.

Veronica turned to see Matt’s reaction. Love. Joy. And something she hadn’t quite expected: rampant desire. As though he might break free of the whole wedding palaver, stride down the aisle and devour Romy in one hungry bite. Poor Teague—Veronica’s third college bestie, the harassed-looking best man—appeared to be waging a fierce battle to keep Matt in place via a grip on Matt’s coat sleeve, but he gave up when Romy reached Matt’s side. It was obvious nothing was going to stop Matt from hauling Romy into his arms.

As Matt kissed the bride way too early and way, way too passionately, the chapel erupted in laughter and sighs.

Veronica tried to imagine either of her husbands kissing the bride out of sequence and came up blank. Her first husband, Piers, had still been in love with his ex-girlfriend—he hadn’t kept that a secret and he hadn’t cared that Veronica was still in love with Rafael. And marrying Simeon had been about his loneliness and her despair, not love. It was hardly surprising those unions—comfort unions, she called them—weren’t exactly torrid, although both men had given the relationships their best shot, and so had she.

She looked again at Rafael, wondering if the reason she never felt anything warmer than tepid anymore was that she’d expended all the passion she had to give on him in those heated three and a half years of living together. It had been a Molotov cocktail of a relationship. Ardent. Intensely physical. Tempestuous. From the moment their eyes had locked in her freshman year at Capitol U they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other.

It was disturbingly easy to imagine Rafael doing to her what Matt was doing to Romy. Easy to imagine her going one better than Romy and wrapping her legs around Rafael’s waist. That would have given Ms. Yves Saint Laurent a real “Oh fuck” moment. It would have shocked Rafael, too, because as passionate as he was in the bedroom, he had a core of decorum she lacked. The kiss—yes. The legs—Veronica, no! Think of your parents!

Well, it was a pointless rumination since Rafael hadn’t proposed the way everyone had expected him to. It would be more relevant to contemplate his wedding to Felicity. A can’t-wait kiss between those two intensely beautiful people would have the whole population of America swooning as they read all about it in the tabloids. Given Felicity’s acting career and Rafael’s extraordinary critical and commercial literary success—the hot new author with a film adaptation already in the works—it would get a great spread in US Weekly even if the nuptials took place in Colombia instead of LA for the sake of Rafael’s beloved grandparents, which he’d always hinted would happen.

Veronica’s own weddings had not been in the tabloids. They’d been lavish New York society affairs, but very private—which was the Johnson way. Planned to the last sprig of baby’s breath by her mother, who’d stepped into the breach because Veronica hadn’t cared enough to plan them for herself. Veronica had just wanted them done, done, over and done...

“Today is a celebration,” the minister said, the formal words reverberating in the chapel. “A celebration of love, of commitment, of friendship, of family, and of two people who are making a choice to be together forever.”

Together forever.

Forever.

Te amaré por siempre, Verónica.

Those were the last words Rafael had said to her.

I will love you forever.

Liar.

Fucking, fucking liar.

She was here on her own—and that changed everything.

Rafael wanted to tear his hands through his hair to relieve some of the pressure on his skull, but he couldn’t because she’d see, and she’d guess.

Fuck.

Matt should have told him she’d be on her own. Okay. Unfair. It was his own damn fault Matt hadn’t told him. He’d been so focused on pretending Veronica’s presence—or absence—was immaterial to him that when Matt had cautiously volunteered that she’d sent in her RSVP, he’d laughed it off with a flippant “Too much water under that bridge.”

Matt had instantly dropped the subject. Leaving Rafael to kick himself for not giving a more open-ended response that might have gotten Matt to slip up on the radio silence for once and reveal if she was dating anyone now that her second divorce had gone through.

The only way to find shit like that out about a Johnson was for someone in the know to straight-out tell you. Johnsons didn’t have social media accounts, they didn’t give interviews—at least not the personal kind—and when they were photographed at society events they were polished and PR’d to the hilt, not a hair or a word out of place. End result? Only the easy stuff was out there in cyberspace. Which is how he knew she was working as an acquisitions editor in the Johnson/Charles Book Group (Daddy’s publishing company—no surprise there), which authors she’d signed, and the charities she supported with her ambassadorial presence as well as her dollars. He’d seen photos of her with her husbands at society parties, but no accompanying gossip.

The only romantic gossip he’d ever read about a Johnson involved Veronica’s younger sister, Scarlett—and he’d only discovered that because the guy had been from some backwater town where he’d made the local paper after a drug bust. It had pissed Rafael off because Scarlett dating some lowlife druggie, even temporarily, made a mockery of his own sacrifice in leaving Veronica. Like, what were her parents thinking to let that guy within touching distance?

Digression. The important thing was that he knew nothing about the current state of Veronica’s love life. The fact that she was here solo didn’t mean there wasn’t a boyfriend stashed somewhere, a new fiancé in the wings. It’d be just like her to have turned up alone for no other reason than to play a game with his head, as though she hadn’t tortured him enough.

Veronica: Why would I bring someone, Rafa? I can’t be bothered to make you jealous.

Him: Yeah, well, I haven’t been pining for you, either, and I don’t care that you weren’t pining for me. God damn you to hell, Veronica!

He looked down at his hand, fisted on his thigh. It was vibrating with an unholy mix of impotent lust and outright rage.

Felicity put her hand over that fist. “Stop, Rafa!”

He hissed in a breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? I’m supposed to be in love with you, aren’t I? And anyway, it’s what your mom calls you.”

“You’re not my mother.”

“I’m not her, you mean.”

He laid a deceptively gentle hush finger over her lips for the benefit of any spectators. “Get your hand off me and shut up.”

Felicity, the brat, sucked the tip of his finger into her mouth.

“Stop it,” he said under his breath.

“How about I kiss you on the mouth?” she whispered back. “See what she thinks of that?”

He didn’t answer. He was too irritated at himself for dragging Felicity over from Los Angeles for a performance now rendered unnecessary.

Felicity craned up to get her mouth close to his unaccommodating ear. To the uninitiated, it probably looked like she was cooing love words but what she actually said was, “How much is Matt worth, anyway? That engagement ring on Romy’s finger’s a whopper—I can see the sparkle from here.”

Rafael’s hand went instantly, instinctively, to the breast pocket of his jacket—where the ring he’d bought Veronica once upon a time, which he always carried with him, was. Nothing like Romy’s ring. Or either of Veronica’s. Thank God he’d spared himself theindignity of producing it all those years ago.

It was exactly the memory he needed to bring him back to the moment. “More than you and I put together times a hundred,” he said.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re going after her, aren’t you?” she said.

He breathed in. Out. “Yep.”

“Am I going to be able to stop you?”

“Nope.”


CHAPTER TWO (#ud4cf92d5-f66d-5682-8d96-80b2d2ca9591)

THE WEDDING WAS over and she hadn’t fainted. Yippee.

Now for the tricky part. Getting out of the chapel ahead of Rafael, fighting her way to the front of the throng of well-wishers swamping the bride and groom, and pretending she wasn’t interested in Rafael’s exact whereabouts while doing the kiss-and-hug routine with the wedding party.

But all it took was Romy’s sympathetic voice in her ear, asking, “You okay?” to make her want to scream from nerves.

“Hello!” she said, exasperated. “I told you I’d be on my best behavior. What did you think I was going to do?”

Matt dragged her away from Romy, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. “Hire a hit man, of course,” he said.

Veronica kissed him on the cheek. “Now there’s an idea!” she said as he released her. “I must call Scarlett and get the name of hers. Although I think she calls him an enforcer, not a hit man.”

“What the fuck? Go, Scarlett!”

“She’s not dating him, Matthew. She knows him in a strictly client-privilege way.”

Matt swung around to beckon to Teague, who was multitasking with a piece of paper in one hand and his cell phone at his ear. “Keep an eye on Table Two tonight, will you? Do your best to stop the bloodbath V’s planning.”

Veronica gave a thump to one of Matt’s massive shoulders. “I’ll hire the enforcer to take you out if you’re not caref—” Breaking off as the implication hit. “Hang on. What do you mean Table Two?”

“He’s on Table Two,” Teague chipped in, disconnecting his call and leaning in to kiss Veronica on the forehead. “And he’s about a hundred feet away, waylaid by at least seven, eight...no, ten autograph hunters, who are besieging Felicity, because Romy’s friends clearly have no pride. So if you want to get away, now’s the moment.”

Veronica turned, saw Felicity chatting animatedly and signing what Veronica assumed were Orders of Service from the wedding. Rafael was beside her, smiling benignly but looking preoccupied.

For a moment she couldn’t breathe and was grateful when Teague moved her a little to the side to make room for other guests to talk to Romy and Matt.

“You look like you’re going to pass out,” Teague said.

She shook her head then nodded. “I need to duck back into the chapel and out the side exit. There’s a mausoleum.”

“Er...”

“Yeah, a mausoleum! Go figure! Tremenhill Estate really is a one-site-fits-all proposition, isn’t it? Births, deaths, marriages. The chapel, the reception hall, the manor house, the cottages, the mausoleum, where I really need to be. I’m staying here, you know—or maybe you don’t know. In a cottage, not a crypt. And I’m giving zero fucks, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, I can’t say I’ve noticed zero fucks so far. You’re babbling, just FYI.”

“That’s vasovagal syncope. I think it means I’m going to faint. So I’d better stop talking and go sit down.”

“Fuck.” He brought her close, his arm under hers. “How far away is your cottage?”

“Walking distance. Why?”

“Because I’ll take you there.”

She pulled away from him. “No! No, no, no. I’m just going to walk calmly away, call my sister and let her talk me out of murdering that bastard, while you—” giving him a little push in the direction of Romy and Matt “—do your duty, smile in the wedding photos and impress everyone with your sunshine-and-light act.”

“Okay, but—”

“Teague! If I was going to faint, it would have happened mid-babble. Please let me at least pretend to be giving zero fucks.”

He gave her a searching look and then sighed. “Fine,” he said. “But you come and get me if you need me.”

She waited until he was back with Matt and Romy, then gave him a quick thumbs-up of reassurance before straightening her spine and walking-not-running toward the chapel. She allowed herself a look over her shoulder as she reached the doorway to find the autographing session was finished. Felicity was now tucked under Rafael’s arm as the two of them made their leisurely way over to the bride and groom. A chill of foreboding raced down her spine as Rafael’s eyes landed on her and she froze like a deer in the headlights, every cell in her body quivering.

He tilted his head as though challenging her—to what, she had no idea—and she unfroze. “Oh no,” she said through gritted teeth. “Zero fucks.” She turned her back on him to enter the chapel, where she wasted no time making her way straight back out again through the infamous side exit she’d eschewed earlier.

She hadn’t known what to expect of the mausoleum, but it was magnificent. A circular stone structure set atop a platform on a grassy hill, surrounded by a veranda whose roof was supported by a series of columns all the way round. A stone path bisecting a pristine lawn connected it to the chapel but also seemed to isolate it, which seemed kind of surreal and yet completely perfect.

As Veronica slowly made her way along the path, she had the fanciful notion that the mausoleum wasn’t only a guardian of souls but a sentinel, keeping vigil over the brooding, untamed moors beyond the estate’s civilized perfection. Bleak, wild and lonely on one side, manicured perfection on the other—like the two halves of her.

She laughed as she ascended the steps, imagining what Scarlett would say if she started describing herself in such terms. Something like Stop hugging trees and get your head out of your ass! most likely.

That was Scarlett—always talking sense. And, by God, Veronica was ready to hear it!

She took her cell phone out of her purse, brought up her sister’s number and stabbed at the call button.

Scarlett answered on the second ring as though she’d been expecting the call. “So you’ve seen him,” she said without preamble.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I’m scared when I talk to him I’m going to lose it. Or maybe faint. Which would be worse?”

“Maaaybe try to avoid either.”

“If you’re saying I shouldn’t talk to him, why did you let me come in the first place?”

“I didn’t ‘let’ you. Nobody ‘lets’ you do anything. You just do it! As I recall it, I had the temerity to remind you that you still go stratospherically apeshit when someone says his name and you were the one who insisted you were ready for this.”

“I may have been...premature in my assessment.”

“So what are you going to do? Hide in the restroom all night?”

“No.”

“Where are you now?”

“Outside a mausoleum.”

“Hang on! The wedding’s in a cemetery? Never would have picked Romy as a Goth!”

“Romy as a Go—? No! It’s not a cemetery, just a kind of...of burial place, near the chapel.”

“Ooooh, I see dead people!”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Veronica said. “I do see dead people. At least, I want to see dead people. Correction, I want to see dead person. Just the one.” Pausing, she thought about Felicity beneath Rafael’s protective arm back at the chapel. “Okay, maybe two.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to kill him! Obviously.”

“Okaaay, take a breath.”

“I’ve taken so many breaths I’ve used up half the oxygen in Yorkshire!”

“Well, take another and try to remember what I said about using a catastrophe scale to keep things in perspective.”

“Oh, on the catastrophe scale this is a ten!”

“No, Veronica, it’s not a ten. There are worse things than seeing your ex at a wedding, so take a moment now to think about them.”

“Um, like...say...a typhoon ripping through the estate and killing all the guests?”

“Yeees. Although somewhat unlikely, if that makes you feel better, relatively speaking, then—”

“All the corpses in this mausoleum rising up as zombies and swarming out to kill all the guests.”

“That’s a little macabre but—”

“A sudden blizzard—”

“In July?”

“—snap-freezing the moors and killing all the guests.”

“I’m sensing a theme here, Veronica.”

“Sharknado. Herd of trampling bison. An invasion of serial killers. Everyone dead.”

“Don’t you think killing all the guests is a little extreme when you only really want to kill one?”

“Yes!” Veronica agreed. “And all I need to do is go back to my cottage and get a knife from the kitchen. It’s close enough that I could be back in under five minutes. He’d probably still be kissing Romy and hugging Matt and shaking Teague’s hand and holding on to Felicity and do not—do not!—tell me ever again how good she is in This Time Forever—and it would all be over with one downward slice.”

“Okay, enough, Veronica! Nobody has to die!”

“Castration, then. I’ll find a rusty knife.”

“Can’t you just castrate the voodoo doll?” Scarlett said, and started laughing. “I can’t believe I’m telling you to castrate a voodoo doll like it’s an actual solution!”

“Don’t joke about my doll!” Veronica said. “Sticking pins in him has helped me a lot.”

“Okay, I surrender! Kill Rafael! Go ahead! Do it! Just don’t leave any DNA ’cuz Mom will freak out if you get caught. And if we’re talking catastrophe scale... Well, let’s just say I’d back her over the typhoon. The sharks, as well. Definitely the bison wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Zombies?”

“Pfft. Child’s play. And she’d out-frost the July snap-freeze. I’m pretty sure she’d even give the serial killers a run for their money.” Pause. “You know, you really could just give up on achieving closure—or at least postpone it—and keep your distance.”

“Downside?”

“Being bitter and twisted forever.”

“You’re not being very helpful.”

“Okay then, how’s this? Don’t stab Rafael or castrate him, unless you want to be either in jail or in therapy for a thousand years! Maybe try going up to the guy exactly as you’d planned and talking about his books and being civilized and burying the hatchet somewhere other than in his skull and moving the fuck on.”

“We were never civilized before, what made me think I could be now?”

“That was then, this is now. College kids—mature adults. Get it?”

“Okay, but I haven’t read the books. His books. You know why.”

“So read his damn books! Who knows, you might learn something that will help you consign him to the past—or the devil—whichever. Now hang up before I need therapy!”

“Not. Helpful.”

“I’m hanging up, Veronica,” Scarlett said, singsong style—and the line went dead.

“Read his damn books,” Veronica muttered as she all but threw her phone into her purse. “As if!” She’d read the damn blurbs—they were enough to tell her she shouldn’t read his damn books. Rich girl/poor boy. Bitch girl/proud boy. Romeo/Juliet. Unhappily-ever-after. She was a book editor—she knew how to read between the lines of a blurb. She knew he was writing about her, even if nobody else did.

Well, she guessed that counted as a forever—immortalized in literature. Just not the Till death do us part kind of forever she’d envisaged when he’d said Te amaré por siempre, Verónica that day in the garage of their DC town house.

“Till death do us part,” she said softly, thinking of the souls inside the mausoleum who were traveling into eternity together. She’d heard there was a married couple laid to rest in there who’d been together sixty years and died a day apart. That was what forever was.

She’d felt envious hearing Romy and Matt repeating the “till death do us part” vow in the chapel today. She’d hadn’t made that vow at either of her weddings—appropriately, as it turned out, since one marriage had lasted a mere twelve months and the other only twenty months. The idea of being interred with either Piers or Simeon for eternity in a place like this would never have entered her head. That kind of commitment belonged to a different kind of love. A consuming love. A Wuthering Heights kind of love. The kind that made Heathcliff bribe the sexton to remove the side of Cathy’s coffin so that when he was buried beside her, in a coffin identically opened, their remains would mingle in death.

“‘I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free...’” she murmured, and the wistfulness of that quote from Wuthering Heights had her eyes rolling. “Get out of my head, Cathy,” she called out to the moors, “and take Heathcliff with you!”

She listened for an echo but instead she heard a gravelly voice with the barest hint of an accent say behind her, “Rereading Wuthering Heights, Veronica? Again?”

She turned...and there he was.


CHAPTER THREE (#ud4cf92d5-f66d-5682-8d96-80b2d2ca9591)

RAFAEL NOTED THE way her eyes went wide, the way her nostrils flared, the uptick in her breathing, the tension that ran through her, the flare of rage.

And then she drew herself in, tipped up her chin, arched her eyebrows and controlled the flame. She was like ice water drip-dripping onto hot coals—a hiss, a sizzle, no more. “You know what a sucker I am for a doomed love story,” she drawled.

“I’m sorry Piers and Simeon didn’t live up to your expectations,” he said, out-drawling her, “but ‘doomed’ seems a little harsh.”

Drip, drip of ice—but the steam was rising from those coals and it was only a matter of time before the ice melted. “Hmm, yes, I suppose it is a little harsh,” she agreed. “At least they had the courage to try, right?”

“Try...but fail.”

“I don’t think you’re the man to talk to me about marriage failures when you’ve never actually made it to the altar.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“It could be...the day hell freezes over.”

“Maybe that’s just as well, given the three and a half years you had with me lasted longer than both your marriages combined. Marriage obviously doesn’t agree with you. I wonder why...?”

She laughed—a long, fake peal of it. “How about you explore my marriages in your next book?”

He smiled, left it hanging there for a heartbeat and then said, “What do you mean my next book?”

He saw her chest rise with the breath she slowly drew in, then fall as she let it out. Oh, she’d definitely learned some methods to maintain her self-control over the years. A pity.

“So you’ve skewered them already, have you?” she said, and he might have believed she was bored if not for the scalding heat in her eyes.

“You tell me.”

Another of those peals of fake laughter. “I don’t see how I can since I haven’t read your books.”

Okay, that threw him. Enough that he had to actively work to keep his face impassive. His books had both been number one New York Times bestsellers, and she was an editor at Johnson/Charles—one of the most prestigious midsize publishers in America. Those two facts should have guaranteed a read for both books, even without their personal history. “Can I assume that means you’re still blocking me? After all these years? A more egotistical man might think you weren’t over him.”

The flare of anger, the tamping down, the slow breath. “Tell you what—” pulling her cell phone out of her purse “—how about I download them now? Old times’ sake and all that. You were always so particular about how I spent my money, but I assume you have no objection to me slinging you a few bucks this way.”

“By all means sling away, since it’s money I’ve earned,” he said smoothly, admiring her nerve while simultaneously wanting to shake it out of her. “Maybe we can get together sometime and you can tell me what you think.”

“Sure,” she said—but her eyes told him he could drop dead. “Can you give me the titles?”

He bit back a laugh at the sheer arrogance of her. “The first one is called Catch, Tag, Release.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, tapping away at her phone. “As in hooking some poor fish, whacking an invasive tag through its fin, then throwing it back in the sea.”

“My second book—Liar, Liar if you’re really clicking—looks at what that fish does when it gets its new lease on life.”

“How uplifting that sounds—Liar, Liar.”

“I’m sure you’ll find both books...instructive.”

“Oh joy!” she said, and rolled her eyes, which had him vowing to make her eyes roll all the way back in her head for him before the night was over. “Just what I look for in a novel—to be instructed!” She put her cell phone away. “Right. All set. Now, I’m sure you’re anxious to return to Felicity—must have been painful, unjoining yourself from her hip!”

Oh God, it was so hard not to laugh. “Jealous, Veronica?”

“Jealous? Please!” She spluttered that out. “I assure you, you have my permission to fuck whomever you want to fuck.”

He stepped in close, crowding into her space, and the vanilla scent of her flooded his senses. She dabbed that special oil everywhere, even between her legs—and the taste memory of licking it from her was so vivid, he had to swallow because his mouth had flooded with saliva. “You sure about that?”

“Most certainly.”

“Then that is very good to know.”

“If that’s all, I have husband number three waiting in the wings for me at the reception.”

He took her left hand in his, rubbed his thumb along her ring finger without taking his eyes from her face, found nothing there. Good. The photos he’d seen of her with her husbands, the massive diamond engagement rings they’d given her flashing in the camera lights, had caused him to break two expensive cell phones throwing them against the wall. Time for her to pay for what seeing those rings had done to him.

He smiled at her—made it as chillingly seductive as he could. “I know you came on your own, Veronica, and I can make a good guess as to why.”

She snatched her hand back. “Husband number three is a work in progress but it’s going to happen, I promise you that.”

“Then I look forward to being introduced to him.”

“And I look forward to meeting your conjoined twin just as soon as you’ve reattached yourself,” she said, and stalked past him.

Veronica stormed her way across the lawn, furious with herself.

So much for coming on her own—he’d seen right through her.

So much for her rehearsed lines—he’d gotten in first about the books.

So much for being charming and sweet—she’d been snide and venomous.

So much for her intimidating eyebrows—he’d looked ready to lick them back down into place.

And, oh God, her entire traitorous body was in eruption mode. She wanted to stab him and...and kiss him, damn it! Taste him once more. Touch him. Feel something.

So much for closure, then!

Third husband? Where was she going to get one of those? Out of her ass?

She’d just have to hope there was a single man at the reception she could attach herself to. A single man who wasn’t going to trip over his tongue when Veronica dragged him into Felicity’s orbit.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” she muttered as she tramped through gardens and across more lawns en route to what was known as Tremenhill Hall but was really a repurposed mansion.

Okay, time to dust off the catastrophe scale. She needed something brutally dystopian if she was to emerge from her next encounter with Rafael with any dignity. Too bad nothing sprang readily to mind.

She should have gone for the damn knife, screw the DNA evidence! Her mother could have shipped her off to a country that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States. Like...she didn’t know...did India have one? She could go and live on an ashram. Now there wasa catastrophe she could get behind! Telling her mother she was gifting her trust fund to an ashram in India.

“Yeah, no thanks,” she said, and giggled suddenly as the marquee set up for welcome drinks outside the hall came into view. Like...giggled! Well, who knew? The catastrophe scale actually worked!

She whooshed out what felt like her first normal breath of the day as she crossed yet another lawn toward what was a very bridal confection. Garlands of white blooms not only festooned the marquee’s upper edge but also anchored billowing swathes of silky white fabric around the support poles. She looked down at her hot-pink dress, feeling every bit as conspicuous as she had during that “Oh fuck” moment in the chapel. But after her dare-you encounter with Rafael at the mausoleum, she was okay with that.

Or she would be, just as soon as she made sure she wasn’t on Table Two with Rafael and Felicity, because that would be taking the whole zero fucks mantra too far. Not that she really believed Romy and Matt would put her in that awkward position, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. And if she was on Table Two? Well, the bride and groom would be the first victims of the ensuing bloodbath, that’s all. It would be her Carrie moment!

She’d been to enough gala events to predict the seating plans would be at the hall entrance, so she walked straight through the marquee—and bingo! Two gold easels were set up alongside potted plants on either side of a center set of double doors. She headed for one of the easels and scanned the list for Table Two.

Brief close of her eyes—relief!—to find Rafael and Felicity listed but not her, before locating her name on Table Seven.

The room layout pinned below the table lists showed Tables Two and Seven were on opposite sides of the dance floor, but she decided she’d feel more confident of her ability to keep it together if she went inside and got the picture in 3D.

Through the full-height Palladian windows on either side of the entrance, she could see staff tweaking table settings. She hoped they wouldn’t shoo her out when she barged in early or she might lose her shit, but figured if she walked in like she owned the place—channeling her smiling-assassin mother and crossing that with the intimidating countenance so often worn by the headmistress of the Koller Finishing School in Switzerland—nobody would dare.

“Don’t fuck with me, people,” she said under her breath, stepping up and over the stoop to swing open the heavy double doors.

Within seconds she was threading her hot-pink, unchallenged way to Table Two. She sat in the spot reserved for Rafael Velez, then in the one for Felicity, and checked their line of sight to all the other tables before making her way to Table Seven. There she found that although she wouldn’t be facing them, she’d definitely be visible to them in profile.

That was going to have to change. Depositing her purse on her seat, she walked slowly around her table, stopping at each seat for a fresh assessment.

And then she heard her name. “Veronica Johnson.”

Male. British accent.

“‘Oh fuck’ from the chapel,” he added.

“I wonder how many times people are going to mention that to me tonight,” she said...and turned...and yes! Early thirties. Handsome. Impeccably suited—withtie, unlike Rafael Velez.

“I’ll be your knight in shining armor and defend you from attack,” he said.

“Hey, I didn’t say it, all I did was laugh.”

“And how could you not?”

“Exactly!” she said, and smiled her best smile at him. “But I’m in the market for a Sir Galahad tonight, as it turns out.”

“Ah! Well, in that case, let’s put you—” picking up her place card and bringing it to where she was standing “—here—” putting it down at the seat to her left “—next to me!”

She laughed as she squinted at his place card. “Why thank you, Phillip Castle.” She nodded at the extra card jostling for space beside her own. “But what will Sally Paulson say about it?”

“Ah, well, as to that...” He plucked Sally off the table and carried it around the table to put it where Veronica used to be. “I happen to know Sally Paulson fancies Romy’s cousin, LloydAllen—your erstwhile dining companion. So we’re sorted.”

A lightning-fast look across to Table Two told her she’d now be showing Rafael her back. “Seems we are,” she said, and decided to test the water vis-à-vis his susceptibility to Felicity. “You’re not disappointed you won’t be gazing across at the famous Felicity all night?”

He looked around as though Felicity had just materialized. Bad sign. “How do you know that?”

“I had a quick look around all the tables and found her on Table Two.”

“Ah! Maybe we need to do a few more place card swaps in that case—trade Sally and Lloyd for her and Rafael Velez.”

“A fan, are you?” Veronica said, abandoning hope of using him as her Husband No. 3 masquerader.

“Of hers? No. Of his? Most definitely.”

Damn, definitely no use to me, she thought, then wondered if she’d said those words out loud because Phillip laughed. “No, I’m not gay,” he said. “I just want his next book, Stomp.”

“His next...? Ah! You’re in publishing!”

“I am! Smythe & Lowe.”

“Me, too—Johnson/Charles. That explains why Romy has us on the same table.”

He looked her up and down, plucked her card back up off the table and read the name. “You’re that Veronica Johnson?”

“If you mean Veronica Johnson, editor, then yes.”

“More than an editor with that surname.”

“The name doesn’t carry as much weight as you’d think—and definitely not since the merger.”

“Do I scent dissatisfaction? If you’re contemplating a move, we’re looking for a Publishing Director for our new romance imprint.”

“That’s two moves—presuming it’s in London?”

“You’d love London.”

“I do love London.” Veronica laughed. “So thank you—I’ll take that under advisement.”

“I mean it!”

“So do I.”

“No you don’t—you New Yorkers are bloody hard to extract—but I’m a firm believer in the old adage ‘there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip,’ so I’m not giving up.” He put her card back on the table. “So—shall we do the card swap?”

“Hmm...” she said, pretending to think about it. “It would mean crossing out and rewriting names on Romy’s seating plan or there’d be pandemonium in here. If you’re willing to do that when Romy’s had the thing done by a calligrapher in gold ink, you’re much braver than I am!”

“Gah! Okay, stand down. Romy’s such a stickler for...”

But Veronica knew all Romy’s stickler-isms and tuned out to estimate how long it had been since she’d left Rafael at the mausoleum. Surely he and Felicity had to have made it to the marquee by now.

She tuned back into Philip to catch “...and that way we can leave the seating plan as is—so what do you say, shall we risk it?”

“No, I think it’s a recipe for disaster,” she said, assuming he’d come back to the subject of place card tampering. And then she smiled sweetly at him. At least, was it sweet? Her smile? She hoped it wasn’t as Sharknado-ish as she felt. “But if you escort me to the marquee for a glass of champagne, I’ll introduce you to Rafael.”

Phillip blinked at her. “You know him?”

“I do.”

“But he’s published with—”

“I know him personally not professionally. Johnson/Charles isn’t interested in publishing him.”

Phillip was looking at her curiously now. “So you’re not interested in acquiring his next book? It’s going to go to number one on the New York Times bestseller list without even trying, you know.”

“You mean Stomp? But I thought that was already—”

“Nope. I hear his deal has just fallen through.”

“Oh. Well. I see. But still...no,” she said. When Phillip blinked at her in disbelief, she added, “We’re over-inventoried. In that...er...area.”

“In the unbelievably fantastic, must-read, going-to-make-a-fortune area?”

She had no answer to that. Her boss, Melissa Charles—nickname “the Attack Dog”—would never understand a withered romance getting in the way of business. Veronica had had to lie when Melissa had asked her if she’d known Rafael at Capitol U. Melissa had been desperate to land Liar, Liar for Johnson/Charles and Veronica had known that any hint of familiarity let alone a full-blown, live-in love affair would have seen her pimped out to get it PDQ.

She hated to think what her reception would have been. She had, after all, refused to take his calls then blocked him, burned the letter he’d sent her via Matt and banned their mutual friends from telling him anything about her (and she knew he knew about that ban because she’d dispatched Teague to tell him so). So for her to come sniffing around begging for his book...?

No.

No, no, no.

She tried another smile—knew this one was definitely struggling to get anywhere near sweet. “If you’d rather I don’t introduce you, that’s fine by me. You can ask Romy to get you two together.”

“Romy knows him, too?”

“Romy, Matt, Rafael and I went to Capitol University together. We shared a house.”

“Good God! Why hasn’t she ever introduced me?”

“Maybe because he lives in LA,” she said through slightly gritted teeth. Did he want to meet Rafael or stand around talking about him? “But he’s here, and we’re here, so the offer’s...there...?”

He held out his arm. “An offer I can’t refuse.”


CHAPTER FOUR (#ud4cf92d5-f66d-5682-8d96-80b2d2ca9591)

“WELL, FUCK,” RAFAEL SAID under his breath as a triumphant-looking Veronica headed for him, accompanied by a guy who was a carbon copy of both her trust-fund-lugging husbands.

She stopped to take a glass from a passing waiter, then laughed at something Preppy Boy said as he grabbed his own glass. And in that instant Rafael may as well have been nineteen again, in that first year at college, about to go feral because some random dick of a guy had hit on her.

His hand jerked, champagne sloshing out of the glass and onto his shoe. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from cleaning that off, but the thought that Veronica would spot it, and in the process see that his shoes were handmade, stopped him. Not that he wanted to show off—she had a whole closet full of designer shoes—he just wanted to show her that he’d come a long, proud way, and the shoes were a symbol she’d understand.

Felicity gave his arm a warning squeeze. “You’re not going to strangle the poor man, are you?”

His lips twisted—half smile, half grimace. “I’m more likely to wring her neck.”

“You guys must have had fun at college if she can’t even walk beside another man without winding you up! Get it together, will you?”

And then Veronica was there, flashing a smile—what she called her finishing school smile—and he wanted to grab her by the arms and shake her and tell her not to use that smile on him. He wanted to kiss her, rip those uptight pins from her perfectly coiffed silver-blond hair and tear off her perfect dress and rattle her easy grace. He used to be able to do it. Make her as desperate and deranged as he was. Strip the cool off her just by touching her, so that she was hot and disheveled and gasping and throbbing.

And by God, he was going to do it again.

But to get her to lose her cool meant keeping his. So he quirked up an amused eyebrow, inclined his head toward the guy she thought she was waving in his face like a victory flag, and said, “Number three?”

“How’s the hip?” she quipped back, inclining her head toward Felicity.

“Unattached,” he said. “Needing a replacement. Interested?”

“Is it the balls giving you trouble?”

“It’s the socket. I need a new one, but I can use an old one in the meantime.”

At which point Felicity cleared her throat and he became conscious that he and Veronica were exuding enough heat to light a furnace.

Veronica stepped forward, that smile replastered to her face as she held out her hand to Felicity. “I’m Veronica Johnson, an old college friend of Rafael’s.”

Felicity gave her fake smile for fake smile as she took that hand, shook it. “Felicity.”

“Oh, I know who you are—my sister, Scarlett, is your biggest fan!” Veronica laughed—like sweet bells on a clear night—but it was as fake as her smile; he knew because there was no snort to it. “Not, I promise you, in a Stephen King Misery kind of way.” She pulled Preppy Boy fully into the circle. “And this is Phillip Castle.” Back to Rafael, with her eyebrows set to go-fuck-yourself. “You know how we were talking about your next book? Stamp, is it?”

“Close enough,” Rafael said as Phillip choked on his champagne.

“Well, Phillip’s with Smythe & Lowe, and he’s very interested.”

“Oh, he is, is he?”

“Yes—go figure. And since you seemed so keen to tell me about your books when we had that delightful chat earlier, I knew you’d jump at the chance to speak to someone...impartial? Meanwhile, if you can spare Felicity—” turning to Felicity “—I hope she’ll regale me with all the salacious details about what happens next with Beth and Braxton in This Time Forever so I can fill Scarlett in once I’m back home in New York.”

Felicity waved an airy hand. “Oh, Beth’s going to have a wonderfully tragic soapy end I’m afraid,” she said, and narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. “I’m leaving the show to play Julie in Catch, Tag, Release—didn’t Rafa tell you?”

Veronica’s smile slipped, which told Rafael she didn’t like what she’d just heard. The news, or the name, or both? No time to work it out, because the slip was microscopic and transient and Veronica was bouncing right back hard.

“Oh well, I’m dying to hear all about that,” she said and, before he knew it, the women were separated from the men. She’d done it, of course. A society-girl skill of hers he’d never been able to demystify. Correction—he’d never had to demystify, because she’d never used it against him before.

Well, whatever she’d done, it had worked: he was out of earshot.

Phillip—poor, clueless bastard—was paying the price for that, because valiantly though he tried to engage Rafael in conversation, Rafael simply didn’t give enough of a fuck to listen. The guy deserved better than monosyllabic nonresponses but that’s what he got. He had to know something was seriously awry by this point, but Rafael was too busy straining his ears toward Veronica to care.

Rafael finally shot Felicity a look he hoped she’d interpret correctly as Get Veronica back here now.

Felicity double-blinked at him—her way of saying she understood—and not only steered Veronica back into the circle but, like the trouper she was, engaged Phillip in a conversation about Liar, Liar.

He saw that Veronica’s champagne flute was empty and reached out to take it—just one second too late to stop a passing waiter from stopping beside her and proffering his tray. She smiled at the waiter, swapped her empty glass for a full one, then angled her body away to say something to a nearby guest.

Shit!

He kept his lips curved in a slight smile, pretending to listen to Felicity and Phillip while his nerve endings zapped, his blood simmered and his scalp twitched at the proximity of Veronica’s small, slender fingers, which used to twine tightly in his hair when she came. Unbearable to have her so close after all this time and not be able to touch her.

She timed, perfectly, the return of her attention to when there was a lull in the conversation between Felicity and Phillip, casting a sweeping glance around the marquee and saying, “Everyone’s moving in.” She made a graceful hand gesture. “See? The doors are open.” She turned to Phillip. “Shall we, Sir Galahad?”

“We shall indeed, milady,” Phillip responded promptly, and gallantly held out his arm for her to take.

She flashed her Stepford Wives smile somewhere between Rafael and Felicity. “Maybe we’ll run into each other on the dance floor later.”

And that was it. She was gone.

“Run into each other on the dance floor?” Felicity said. “That’ll be interesting!”

“Don’t worry, it won’t happen. She’s already made her point.”

“Which was?”

“That she’s over me.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Prove that she’s not.”


CHAPTER FIVE (#ud4cf92d5-f66d-5682-8d96-80b2d2ca9591)

THE FOOD WAS FABULOUS. The wine excellent. Teague’s best-man speech was a triumph of gentle wit. Romy and Matt’s jointly delivered response weaving superheroes, damsels in distress and mere-mortal babies into a love story was flat-out adorable. And Veronica prayed for the night to be over so she could go to bed with a bottle of gin.

She’d been feeling so proud of herself out in the marquee. Parading Phillip under his nose, exuding fan-girl charm all over Felicity, resisting the urge to smash a champagne flute and stab Rafael through the heart when Felicity dropped that bombshell about playing Julie—playing her—in Catch, Tag, Release and called him “Rafa” like she owned him.

She’d entered the hall and taken her seat and told herself that elusive thing called closure was almost within her grasp.

And then Rafael had strolled in, arm-in-arm with Felicity, and sent her a look of such smugness she was all the way back to fury again.

Which had obviously made her a diabolically bad companion for Phillip, who kept disappearing whenever he wasn’t required to sit at the table to eat.

Rafael couldn’t have been much of a companion for Felicity, either, because when he wasn’t sitting at his table to eat, he spent his time gloating at Veronica from various vantage points. Yes, gloating! There was no other way to describe his secretive, self-satisfied smile.

If she hadn’t been giving zero fucks, she would have been tempted to go up to him and smack it off his face. As it was, all she could do was not look at him. Which was easier said than done because it required her to keep him in her peripheral vision to make sure she didn’t do it by accident while simultaneously directing her eyes elsewhere wearing an I-am-fascinated expression. And maintaining her eyebrows in a perpetual go-fuck-yourself arch while performing those ocular gymnastics had given her a crick in her neck and a headache.

Worst of all, the joy she felt for Romy and Matt had been tainted by a bone-deep envy she hadn’t been expecting and they didn’t deserve.

It was just that she’d somehow assumed Romy and Matt would be the way they’d been in the old days—together but not especially together; tactile but more like the way you physically interacted with your best friend; joking around but inviting the rest of the gang in for a laugh. She’d been so certain their marriage would be predicated on a position of Hey, why not do it? since they were both single and were going to have the kid Romy needed anyway. That would have meant today was more college reunion than wedding, with Veronica and Rafael tag-teaming the group hugs to avoid any partisanship.

But the reality was vastly different from her expectations. The way Matt and Romy had looked at each other in the chapel was the first indication. Then Matt’s at-the-altar kiss. And the jolts had been coming thick and fast ever since, making it abundantly clear the Romy and Matt partnership was nothing like the way it used to be. Oh, there was a glimmer of their old friendship in there, but it was embedded deep in something much more visceral.

Matt looked at Romy like he was hungry for her. He touched her like he was dying for want of her. His fingers had lingered at her lips after he’d fed her the obligatory piece of wedding cake as though they had their own taste buds and she was some kind of divine nectar. Even the smallest kiss was imbued with a sense of sexual urgency that made Veronica feel like a voyeur.

And the bridal waltz they were currently performing? It was like nothing Veronica had ever seen. Certainly nothing like either of her own, which had been carefully choreographed and perfectly executed but completely devoid of the barely tethered lust that pulsed between Romy and Matt as they glided across the floor.

They finished the dance with a bedroom kiss. The way she imagined Rafael ending their bridal waltz, and the envy inside her morphed into a boa constrictor, wrapping itself around her internal organs and squeezing tighter and tighter until she thought one of them might burst through her skin in some Alien-like horror moment.

She watched as Romy’s parents joined Romy and Matt on the dance floor—Romy going into her father’s arms, Matt dancing with Romy’s mother. A few minutes later Teague—doing duty as MC as well as everything else—invited all the guests to join in. But Veronica couldn’t bear the thought of it. Even if Phillip miraculously reappeared to ask her, she’d say no. Maybe she would have roused herself for Teague, but he was standing on the other side of the dance floor looking as though the idea of dancing after that sensual display was as nauseating to him as it was to her.

Well, that was something she could do: try to cheer Teague up.

But when Veronica’s impetuous steps took her to the edge of the dance floor, she saw that Rafael had beaten her there. God! He was turning into her nemesis!

As she watched, Rafael slung a casual arm around Teague’s shoulders and said something that made Teague throw back his head and laugh. It was the first time she’d seen Teague laugh all night and her heart softened, her hostility automatically depressurizing.

But it was a bittersweet moment.

In the old days she would have thought nothing of joining Rafael and Teague. The fact that now she couldn’t brought the truth home to her: her old life was in pieces that could never be put back together.

It didn’t make any difference to tell herself it was normal for some groups to splinter and others to form, for individuals to unexpectedly pair up and couples to split up, that that was what was supposed to happen when college students moved into the big, wide world and got jobs and changed lifestyles. Because despite knowing that intellectually, in her heart it was different. In her heart, in her soul, she’d been waiting in limbo for this moment to come...and then go. The moment when she’d accept that Rafael would never again be hers. Only now it was here, it suddenly seemed wrong for the world to keep spinning as though nothing had changed.

A spinning world invalidated the baffled suffering she’d endured since Rafael had left her. It made a mockery of her attempts to protect herself by burying her memories of him, banning herself from asking questions about him, stopping herself from reading his books, from searching online for news of him.

A spinning world told her everyone had moved on except her.

Was she really supposed to accept that life would go on the way it had been going on for the past seven years, two months, three weeks and five days? Did she have to keep enduring, with this barren rage choked inside her, this desperate desire for something too nebulous to name except to say that it was more than love, what she’d once had, what she’d lost?

Yes—that had to be the answer to those questions. Yes, she had to accept, she had to endure, she had to live...because the world kept spinning even if she had stopped.

She imagined this was how it would feel to be shut in a coffin with the lid nailed down but to still be breathing. Buried alive, screaming for someone to set you free, but nobody hearing you and life outside your airless cocoon going on without you. It’s how she’d felt growing up a Johnson, like she was stifling. How she’d felt at that finishing school she’d been sent to for a year when she’d been expelled from high school during her rebellious phase. How she’d felt when college finished and Rafael had left her and she’d gone back to New York to pick up her old life because what else was she supposed to do?

Oh God, she needed to move, needed air and peace and quiet. But her feet stayed rooted to the spot, longing for something else, unable to bear that this really was that final moment and she’d never see him again.

The decision was made almost without conscious thought—that if that were true, if she really was never to see him again, she would look her fill and add the last view of him to all those memories she couldn’t bear to resurrect. It was safe to look, from here—the crowded dance floor a perfect filter. People moving together, drawing apart. Now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t. Flashpoint vignettes so brief he’d have to know she was there to catch her at it.

And so she drank in the sight of him. The black hair, the so-white smile against his gold-bronze skin, his lean elegance in that perfectly tailored suit and of course he didn’t need the constraint of a tie...

She closed her eyes, the better to file the picture away. Enough. Surely that was enough. But it wasn’t enough, so she opened her eyes to see him once more...and found him staring at her from across the dance floor.

Now you see me.

Oh God, had he known she was there all along?

The crowd on the dance floor moved.

Now you don’t.

Go! Get out! That was the voice of reason in her head screaming at her. But her feet wouldn’t obey the order. It was as though a string connected her to Rafael despite the viewing channel having closed.

Sixty seconds...dancers shifting...her pulse thundering in her ears, her breaths coming short and shallow.

Now you see me.

And Rafael was still staring at her, like he’d been x-raying through the blood, bone and sinew of the gyrating bodies on the floor to watch her.

The dancers on the floor drew close together again, the line of sight narrowed and was gone, the music changed to something slow and romantic. Couples music.

Veronica imagined Rafael going to find Felicity, leading Felicity onto the dance floor, and the spell holding her there broke so that she was moving at last, weaving between the tables...exiting the hall...through the marquee...crossing the lawn. And she didn’t care that Johnsons never ran away, she just needed to breathe.

She was glad it was still light enough for her to see even though it was past nine o’clock, but she wouldn’t have long before she was stumbling around in the dark.

If only Rafael would leave early! Take Felicity and go. But, oh God, that would mean they’d soon be in bed together. He’d kiss her the moment they were alone. Peel off her skintight teal dress. He’d whisper to her that she was beautiful. Eres hermosa. That he loved her. Te amo. That he’d love her forever. Te amaré por siempre—

No! Not that! Not that he’d love her forever! He couldn’t say that, he couldn’t. The mere thought of him saying that to another woman made Veronica want to throw up.

Oh how she wished she could time-travel back to five minutes before he’d turned around in the chapel so she could escape through that side exit, go to her cottage, pack her things, drive to the airport and board the first plane out.

Or go further back to the day the wedding invitation had arrived and decline it.

Go allthewayback to the night she’d met Rafael Velez and not fall in love at first sight.

It was the most potent of all her memories, the night they’d met, and she’d been suppressing it for so long, trying so hard to seal it off in the vault, and it wasn’t fair that it could ache in her chest now like a fresh, jagged wound.

End of first semester. Finals over. Planning one last night out with Romy before Christmas break. Deciding on Flick’s—a favorite student hangout because the drinks were cheap and nobody ever got asked for ID. Thirty seconds in, noticing a tall, hunky guy surrounded by women. Matt. But it was the lean, intense man with Matt who’d caught Veronica’s attention. Rafael.

Rafael’s dark eyes had landed on her from across the room and she’d instantly made up her mind that that was the night she’d finally go all the way. He’d leaned close to Matt, whispered something, and Matt had looked at her, his vivid green eyes undressing Veronica like a bolt of fast lightning before moving on to Romy. Matt had cocked his head to the side—presumably assessing Romy’s fuckability—given a why-not shrug, and the two of them had headed over.

Perfect, perfect night. Talking to Rafael about nothing in particular and yet everything. Matt and Romy laughing in the background. Having only one Kir Royale—her favorite cocktail—before switching to water because she wanted to remember losing her virginity. None of them wanting to call it a night at closing time. Going back to the three-bedroom town house Veronica’s father had bought to see her through university. Dumping coats and scarves, kicking off shoes.

She had a vague memory of Matt and Romy on the couch together, waging a battle over the sex life of Captain America. But the only sex life of interest to Veronica that night was her own, so she’d taken Rafael boldly by the hand and led him to her bedroom.

Almost before the door had closed, she’d been in his arms being kissed. She remembered him drawing back, asking her, “All right?” and waiting for her ardent “Yes” before removing her clothes. Kissing her mouth as each item came off. Murmuring to her in English and Spanish. Telling her how lovely she was—encantadora que eres. That he’d wanted her his whole life—yo te he querido toda mi vida. That he’d never felt so wild for anyone—nunca había sentido esto por nadie.

Then one more kiss. “Are you sure?” he’d asked and she’d taken his hands, put them on her breasts and nodded because her throat was too tight to speak.

He’d run his fingers over her skin—gently, reverently, as though he’d known it was her first time—before letting them settle between her thighs, stroking her there until she’d come. His tongue next, traversing the path his fingers had taken until he’d dropped to his knees to lick her, holding her hips steady as she trembled through the orgasm that took her over like a warm wave.

Only once the very last ripple had receded did he get to his feet. He’d stripped then—no fanfare, just getting his clothes out of her way. And then he’d taken her hands in his and put them on his lightly haired chest, mirroring the trust with which she’d placed his hands on her breasts, inviting her to touch anywhere she wanted—as much or as little, as hard or as soft, as fast or as slow. And while she did that, the pads of her fingers roaming at will, his fingers had returned to that throbbing place between her legs, slipped inside her, stretching her, preparing her.

Not until she’d sent her fingers down the narrow trail of hair below his navel and taken the hot girth of his cock in her hand did he stop her, his hand over hers. “No more until you’re ready for me to take you, mi vida,” he’d said, and she’d told him she was ready, so ready, so very ready.

He’d retrieved a condom from his discarded jeans, sheathed himself, taken her in his arms for a quivering moment before walking her backward to the bed, kissing her, kissing her, kissing her. And he’d pulled her down with him, taking her weight before rolling her beneath him, his legs going between hers, not to push hers open but to let her know, give her time, wait through it while he paused at the entrance to her body. He’d said he was sorry, so sorry, for the pain he would cause, and then he’d slowly entered her, his mouth covering hers to catch her gasp, to drink it in.

He’d thought it was a gasp of pain that had escaped her and he’d wanted to absorb that pain for her. But he’d been wrong. It was awe, wonder, reverence even—not pain. She’d felt so lucky, because she’d heard a million horror stories from other women about first sexual encounters—fumbling, impatience, discomfort, brutality, disgust—whereas Rafael had made it slow and beautiful for her. Empowering, too, so that she hadn’t been shy about telling him she wanted him again that night, and the next morning. And each time he’d given her something more than she’d known it was possible to want.

They’d spent Christmas texting and calling each other. When she’d arrived back in DC, he’d been waiting on her doorstep to tell her he loved her.

He’d moved in that night. An hour after that they’d had their first fight when he’d found out (a) her parents owned the place and (b) she wasn’t going to charge him rent.

The only way she’d been able to think of to get him to stay was to talk Romy and Matt into sharing the house, as well, so the rent could be split four ways to enable Rafael to afford what he deemed an equitable share of the market rate.

He hadn’t alluded to it again, even though she knew it burned him up that Romy had only moved in for her sake and Matt for his—which was crazy, because those two had become inseparable. (And, hello, look at them today!)

But if that crisis had been averted, the pattern of their first argument was to repeat itself over and over again. Disagreements about money and lifestyle squalling out of nowhere, passionate reconciliations, a cessation in hostilities, the war inevitably restarting. All the way through to the last night they’d spent together, the night before graduation, when they’d had a fight over nothing—a bottle of champagne and a teeny, tiny jar of caviar she’d wanted just the two of them to share before the full-on mania of graduation day when her parents and his mother would be in town.

“Why not hang a gigolo sign around my neck?” he’d demanded. “It’s what your parents think.”

The fight had spiraled, because she was tired of him misjudging her parents so willfully. She’d told him what her parents really thought was that unless he found a way to come to terms with her money, they were going to end up fighting their whole lives! In turn, he’d refused to accept her parents’ invitation for him to bring his mother to a celebratory dinner with them and Scarlett at Catch of the Day, because it was the most expensive restaurant in town. He couldn’t afford it, and he was damned if he was going to be paid for.




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