The S Before Ex Read online

  Good. She’d sure as hell gotten past his. First, filing divorce papers without so much as a single word of warning. Nothing like getting served in your office lobby while juggling a laptop, twenty ounces of scalding-hot coffee, three newspapers, smart phone, two messenger bags jammed with files, and holding a blueberry bagel in your teeth. Yeah, thanks for that, Claire.

  And then, with that outrageous settlement proposal. And in typical Claire fashion, flatly refusing the smallest concession. Leaving that imbecilic lawyer of hers to stonewall him, even after he’d rather magnanimously offered to meet and discuss the situation in person. Going so far as to pole-vault across the Atlantic to dodge talking to him.

  But as if all that weren’t enough, that first glimpse of her from across the square sure had been. She’d been sitting there in that legs-crossed, half-turned pose of feminine recline that extended all the right lines of a woman’s body—hands moving animatedly with her chatter, smiling beneath the warm sun. Smiling. Bursting with life. So different from the fragile thing she’d been the last time he’d laid eyes on her. He’d never expected it. Hadn’t been prepared for the sight of a woman he’d thought lost along with his marriage in a Boston emergency room almost nine years before. But there she was, radiant. Smiling while some lothario gave her his best go.

  She’d tossed her hair over her shoulder in a simple, breezy gesture. One he’d always appreciated. The long strands came together like a fall of black silk streaming down her back, contrasting with the light complexion of her skin. Creamy pale but with a healthy blush of pink—and she’d laughed. She’d laughed and he’d felt it like the blistering relief of coming up for that first breath of air after a free dive.

  And for a moment he was the guy he’d been when they met. Heart slamming in his chest as he ran off the track to chase down the girl whose lush lips had curled into that damn near criminal smile when he’d passed the stands. She’d knocked the wind from him more effectively than the six miles he’d just pushed through. And she’d kept him running, kept him chasing, until it was either have her or die trying.

  Sweet, soft, sexy Claire.

  Everything he’d wanted—and for a while she’d been his. He’d never burned so hot for a woman. Not before. Not since. But it hadn’t lasted. Things had broken between them that couldn’t be fixed. Claire had broken. They’d gone their separate ways and his priorities had changed. Eventually he’d gotten used to them being apart rather than together.

  He’d gone on with his life. Done a bang-up job of it. But, seeing her again…she was too beautiful, and that smile—all he could do was stare.

  And then that punk had gone and blown it. Pushing too hard and turning a smile Ryan hadn’t even dared to dream of seeing again into the cold untouchable twist of lips that wasn’t even in the same universe as what it replaced.

  It made him angry. At the guy, at Claire. At himself for even noticing, let alone caring about it. She’d definitely gotten past his guard, but it wouldn’t happen more than once.

  Claire blinked again and with the lift of those thick black lashes all signs of vulnerability were gone, leaving a challenging confidence shining in their stead. “Take me home?”

  He opened his mouth to clarify, but let it slip into a grin when she went on without bothering to wait for his response.

  “Are you insane? On some medication? I’m not going to the corner with you.”

  “Keep your panties on, Claire. I’m talking about sitting down to work out a settlement. An acceptable settlement. Because there’s not a chance in hell I’ll let you get away with this.”

  He’d had enough of Claire’s unwillingness to consider any perspective beyond her own. She’d wasted enough time already. Their lawyers’. His. And he was through sitting idle while she cut him off and closed him out. He wanted the settlement wrapped up. Packaged in a way where he’d be able to go on with a clear conscience. And since Claire clearly wasn’t broken anymore, he was taking off the kid gloves to do it.

  Arms folding across her chest in a slow, steady show of determination, she glared up at him. “Let me?”

  Okay, that may have been a poor word choice, but when it came right down to it… He firmed up his own stance, letting his expression fall into its natural state of no-nonsense command. “Yeah, let you.”

  Claire stood staring up at him, her eyes widening with dawning recognition that he wasn’t interested in game play. Or maybe not, because then those wide eyes began to narrow in what appeared to be shrewd assessment. As if she was…sizing him up?

  Taking a deliberate step into his space, she glared at him. “I don’t need you to let me do anything, Ryan. I haven’t for years. In case you missed the news flash, I’m an independent professional who’s built a successful career out of knowing my own mind. I know what I want. I know what I need. Just like I know what I don’t.”

  She let the implication hang, the jab finding its mark without the benefit of voice.

  “Yeah, kudos on the independent thinking, Claire, you’ve done a bang-up job with the gallery in New York. But I don’t care what you think you want or don’t want—”

  “What part of I don’t want anything, could you possibly find so offensive?”

  Man, and now she was in his face and it was torqueing him off as much as that asinine settlement proposal.

  “The part where half of what we have is yours! And you’re going to take it.” Jerking a hand through his hair, he punched out a heated breath. How the hell had she pushed him to lose it within less than five minutes of interaction? Screw it. He’d already chewed through enough time hopping continents because of her shortsightedness. He didn’t have any more time to waste. “Look, I know you haven’t dipped into that joint account since you finished school, and everything you’ve accomplished with the gallery was of your own doing. It took a lot of brains and a lot of savvy to do what you’ve done. But you’re not using those brains about this.”

  The sharp edge of hostility in Claire’s eyes shifted to an intense focus. He had her attention. “You’re operating in the black right now. Earning impressive profits, but think about the swings in the economy. Think about your own life if you want a reminder of how fast some unforeseen event can change…everything. You’ve experienced it firsthand, Claire.”

  “I’d recover. Or start again. I did it once. And even if I couldn’t, it’s not your problem.”

  That’s where she was wrong. He may not have known how to be the husband Claire needed, but he sure as hell knew about responsibility and obligation. Which was why he wouldn’t let this go. “What if it’s not the business? What if you remarry, have children? A dog? What if someone you loved needed more than your independence could provide? This isn’t about you and me. It’s about being practical. Doing the smart thing.”

  She’d winced at his mention of their past together. But hadn’t even blinked when he’d referred to some threat to a future family. As if the point hadn’t even registered. Damn, if he could read her.

  “Fine, what if you don’t remarry and something happens to you? Do you want to be calling me from some hospital bed asking for help?” He knew the answer was no. Just as Claire knew that no matter the number of years that passed, if she ever needed anything, all she would have to do was ask and he’d be there. The only problem was, Claire would never ask. So he needed her to take the money now.

  Turning her back to him, she reached for her bag, pulling one strap over her shoulder as she efficiently dug out a few euros and then left them tucked under the small white espresso cup. What, did she plan on walking away without a word? To hell with that.

  “The money is yours too, Claire, and you’re going to take it. Because if you don’t, you can forget about any plans you have of moving on without me. My lawyer’s going to keep this tied up in court forever.” Damn it, he was going to burn for this one. But, in for a penny, in for a pound. He’d failed her once, but he wouldn’t fail her with this. No matter how belligerent she wanted to be, she was taking
that money. “And he’ll drag your gallery in there too.”

  Her body went rigid and then slowly she turned to face him. “You’re a bastard.”

  “Yeah, I am,” he agreed with weary resignation. “But I’m a bastard with your best interests at heart. Come on, Claire, don’t fight me on this.”

  She blew out a long breath and smoothed the lines of her dress. “It’s not like I have much choice, do I.”

  “No.” But then neither did he. Not after all he’d done. But deep down, he knew, no matter how vast the fortune, it still wouldn’t be enough to make it up to her. Nothing would be.

  A couple at the far side of the café stood from their table, their conversation an animated, joyful exchange conducted in lively Italian that continued as they strolled off hand in hand across the square. They were married. He’d noted the rings—a habit he couldn’t quite break—and the ease of their company. And he’d tasted that lingering bitterness that occasionally still took him by surprise.

  Following their retreat, he let out a heavy breath. “I don’t want to fight with you, Claire. That’s not how it was with us. Not even at the end.”

  When Claire didn’t reply, he turned back to find her watching him, her expression thoughtful. How long had it been since she’d actually looked at him? Even before she’d left, she’d stopped seeing him, her eyes so often drifting to some spot behind him or to the floor. Having her focus now…it was unnerving.

  And ultimately unimportant to the task at hand.

  Rolling a shoulder bunched with rapidly accumulating tension, he cocked his jaw to the side. He wanted this done. And done fast. He wasn’t about to waste the ground gained by the gallery bluff. “The timing really couldn’t be better. You’ve got a week free that happens to coincide with a lag in my schedule. We can have a settlement knocked out before next Friday. Who knows, if we really knuckle down maybe you’ll have enough time to get back here for a day couple days before you go back to the office.”

  “This is my first vacation in three and a half years. I’m here with Sally. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

  “You’re the one who filed. I know you want this behind us. To move on. The timing will never be convenient. It’ll never be fun. But right now, it’s workable. So what do you say?”

  He reached for her arm, but she skirted his touch. Busying herself with her bag again, though it was clear there wasn’t anything she needed. When she looked up, it was with businesslike reserve in the cool pools of her eyes. “I’d like to keep the divorce as quiet as the marriage has been.”

  “Of course.” He’d worked hard to keep her out of the news. It had been dumb luck their relationship escaped notice at the beginning, but as the years went on he’d gone out of his way to protect her privacy. He wouldn’t jeopardize it now.

  “Which generally means openly referring to me as your wife is a no-no.”

  Right, that. He scanned the piazza in the direction Paulo-Pietro had strolled off in. “I didn’t like that guy.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched, threatening what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “No, really?”

  Really. He hadn’t liked him—intensely and immediately—and even Ryan didn’t want to examine too closely exactly why. He’d had enough surprises in the last day—no need to go searching for more. “You brushed the guy off and he ignored it.”

  “I could have taken care of it, though.” There was no accusation in her words. Merely assurance. “I was about to. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Is that what he’d been doing? Before he’d arrived, the answer would have been yes. Definitely. Only, at first glance, it became clear Claire wasn’t a woman who couldn’t stand up for herself.

  So if his actions weren’t protective, that left possessive.

  And that was just nuts.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he nodded toward the street where his car waited. “Let’s get this over with.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  CLAIRE pulled her key from the lock and swung open the door to her room. Upon arrival the night before, she’d thought it quaint. A cozy retreat after a long day exploring the streets of Rome. But with Ryan’s arm braced against the frame above her head, his big body only inches away, ready to follow her into the space…she saw it for what it was. Cramped. A claustrophobic shoe box jammed with a double bed, small dresser, nightstand and single chair in the corner.

  “You don’t have to wait for me to pack,” she said with a cautious glance over her shoulder.

  Ryan nodded into the room, hanging back until she’d cleared the far side of the bed before walking to the window. “I don’t mind. I’ll carry your bags down.”

  Wonderful. “Suit yourself.”

  Her cheeks flushed at her snarky tone, but the truth was, she resented the hell out of Ryan’s railroading tactics—even if he did have her best interests at heart. They were the reason she hadn’t wanted to get within shouting distance of him. Hadn’t wanted to give him the opportunity to employ that subtle brand of strong-armed coercion that made him the wild success he was.

  She hadn’t wanted to be talked into a decision that wasn’t her own, but in less than ten minutes he’d done it. And typical of his unique ability, he’d left her wondering how she hadn’t seen his perspective from the start. It was infuriating.

  When she’d begun pursuing the divorce, her goal was simply to sever ties. They’d both established lives of their own and, from her stance, there was no sense in demanding some portion of the assets she hadn’t needed prior to the divorce after it. Then Ryan came back, batting aside her proposal with words like unacceptable, misguided, and ridiculous, and her response to that had been…emotional. She wouldn’t discuss the possibility of an alternate settlement because she had a point to make.

  She didn’t need him. Didn’t need anything from him. No more sacrifices, obligations or debts to be paid. Ryan had paid enough already. Too much.

  But when he’d brought up the practicalities of the situation, she recognized her shortsightedness for what it was. And she’d been about to own up to it too before the jerk had gone and made that final threat about the gallery and keeping her in court for the rest of her natural-born life.

  Her breath blew out in a huff and she threw open the closet door. Blouses, skirts, pants and dresses hung on the short rod, neatly organized by outfit and occasion. So much for that. Gathering everything into a single armload, she turned and dumped the lot onto the bed, returning to the closet for the luggage she’d stored at the bottom. She’d planned to stay a week, and now here she was packing up after less than a full day.

  Irritating, but in the greater scheme of things, it wasn’t anything she wouldn’t recover from. And if it meant being able to finally close the book on that life they’d shared, then cutting her vacation short was a sacrifice she’d gladly make.

  Efficiently slipping the hanger free of a washed silk crepe de chine top, she shot a glance at Ryan as he rubbed a hand over his opposite shoulder. The fabric of his tailored shirt pulled taut across the broad expanse of his back, revealing the flex and pull of muscles she used to massage at the end of a long day. He’d been in his prime then, but now, somehow he seemed broader. More powerfully built than he’d been at twenty-two.

  A sharp pain bit into her hand, snapping her attention to the hanger jabbing into her palm and the blouse inadvertently mangled within her grasp.

  She didn’t like being this close to Ryan. She hadn’t wanted to meet with him at all. Hadn’t wanted to know what changes so many years had wrought in the man she’d once loved beyond measure. She’d seen the headlines. Heard the rumors. Hated the idea that he could be so different. And yet, here and now, a part of her was hoping everything she’d read was true. That the man he’d been was gone and all that remained was a body vaguely reminiscent of the one she’d known. It would be so much easier to defend this heart she’d painstakingly pieced back together against a body alone.

  The pity of it was, she w
ouldn’t even have to try.

  Twenty minutes later, Ryan stood at the window looking out over downtown Rome, his back to the chaos erupting behind him.

  “No, you heard me right,” Claire grumbled into the phone wedged between her shoulder and ear. “He says two hours. Sally, I’m sorry to do this to you.”

  Yes, he got the point. He was the villain, inconveniencing everyone with his outrageous demands. Whatever. He was done with the placating and appeasement. Claire might not like that he’d cut into her vacation, but ultimately, she’d started the ball rolling with that fast pitch of papers. He’d just caught her off guard by being ready with a mitt and then calling her out.

  By his count, they were even.

  “Wait, when did the email come in…? They have instructions already on the East Wing exhibit. Drew has the insurance information too…”

  The corner of Ryan’s mouth kicked up. This was the fifth segue the conversation had taken back to gallery business in so many minutes. That after three calls on the taxi ride back from the piazza alone. Claire was as tied to her work as he was, and by all accounts loving every minute of it. She was good. Efficient. And decisive with a professional polish and an authoritative edge that hadn’t been part of her makeup when they’d been together.

  Gone was that pretty princess who was just a little bit spoiled but so very sweet he’d been rubbing his hands together at the prospect of taking care of her.

  And gone too was the broken shell of a girl reality had all but shattered.

  She was so different.

  In some ways. In others…well, even his reactions were the same.

  With her attention split between Sally and packing, he allowed his gaze to meander slowly down the length of her—from where the silky fall of her dark hair spilled over the too-thin, fuzzy white of her clingy sweater. The trim tuck of her waist and the filmy skirt that covered hips and legs he’d once known every curve and cut of, but now could only imagine, based on the hints revealed beneath the flow of fabric. And then there they were. Slim ankles, supported by the damnedest contraptions he’d ever laid eyes on.