Page 16 of Bedding his Innocent Mistress

“Oh!” As if belatedly realising she was standing in the middle of the door frame, she moved backwards, waving a hand vaguely towards her desk. “Please. Have a seat.”

His eyes were mocking as they slid past her, taking in the details of her office. The fiddle-leaf fig she had in one corner, the mess of papers that ran across most surfaces, and the photograph of Steve and her that she still had propped beside her computer.

She swallowed, a guilty flush crossing her cheeks at the moment of recognition.

“So,” he turned around, his hands on his hips, drawing her attention to his neatly muscled waist, to the strength of his physique. As if she needed any further reminders.

“So,” she repeated, a frown pulling at her lips.

“What happened?”

Her frown deepened. “When?”

“You were gone when I woke up. Why?”

“Oh.” She pushed her door shut, leaning against it for a moment, hoping to receive some strength from its solid structure. “I left.”

If possible, the glint of mockery in his face grew. “Yes. I just said that. Why?”

She shook her head, and stood up, taking a step into her office. “Isn’t that how those things work?”

“What things?”

She blushed. “One-night stands.” Her eyes dropped to the floor, unable to hold his gaze.

“I don’t generally have one-night stands, Ivy. I wouldn’t know.”

“You don’t?” An absurd burst of hope shot through her, like fireworks and magic.

“No.” He drawled the word slowly. Electricity seemed to arc between them. “I have lovers. And they do not sneak out on me in the middle of the night.”

Her stomach churned. “I didn’t sneak out,” she demurred. “I left. And it was early in the morning.”

“You wish to discuss semantics?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Because it doesn’t matter. It was just one night. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“And that’s what you wanted,” he prompted darkly, propping his hip on the edge of her desk and crossing his arms over his chest. A chest that was broad and strong, that was warm and roughened by a line of dark hair that spiked all the way down to his pants. Oh, she couldn’t see that now, but in her mind’s eye, it was all too easy to picture him as he’d been that night. Crap.

She swallowed; it did nothing to dislodge the visual.

“Ivy?” She jerked her head up, meeting his eyes. The way he’d said her name had been tortured. Frustrated. Annoyed.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t lie to you, Rafe. About what I wanted or what that night was. And you didn’t lie to me either. You told me you live in Spain. That you don’t like London. We both knew what we were doing – it was just one night.”

His scowl was like a thundercloud above them. “I don’t recall us delineating that boundary.”

Ivy’s breath was locked inside of her. She was finding it hard to concentrate. “I don’t understand.”

“Apparently not.” He straightened, and she waited, her lungs burning with the deprivation of air. Her body prepared for him, knowing he was going to reach for her, to touch her. But he didn’t. He spun around and lifted the picture frame from her desk, studying it as though he had every right. “This is him?”

She nodded, but he wasn’t looking at her, so she said, thickly, “Yes. Steve.”

“The man who left you?”

“Yes.” She swept her eyes shut, the pain still a pointy, sharp blade inside of her.

“You’re still in love with him.”

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