Modern Romance February Books 5-8. Jane Porter

stared critically at the two huge Warhol prints that dwarfed one wall—wasn’t it a bit corny to have all these copies of famous paintings hanging everywhere. Why not use originals by local artists?

      Glancing over to where Claiborne was still chatting, she felt her pulse skitter forward. Really, she should be over there too, networking. It didn’t have to be too obvious. All she had to do was smile as she passed by and her new boss would definitely call her over to introduce her to his companion.

      She couldn’t see the man’s face, but even at a distance his glamour and self-assurance were tangible. Silhouetted against the industrial-sized window, with sunlight fanning around him like a sunburst, he looked almost mythical. The effect was mesmerising, irresistible—and, catching sight of the furtive glances of the other guests, she realised that it wasn’t only she who thought so.

      She wondered idly if he was aware of the effect he was having or if he was worthy of all the attention. Maybe she should just go and see for herself, she thought, emboldened by her business triumph.

      And then, as she began picking up the cards that were still strewn all over the table, she noticed that Claiborne was gesturing in her direction. Automatically her lips started to curve upwards as the man standing beside him turned towards her.

      The welcoming smile froze on her face.

      She swallowed thickly. Her heart felt hard and heavy—in fact, her whole body seemed to be slowly turning to stone. Her euphoria of just moments earlier felt like a muddied memory.

      No—no way! This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be here. Not here, not now.

      But he was. Worse, having shaken hands with Claiborne, he was excusing himself and walking—no, swaggering towards her, his familiar dark gaze locked with hers. And, despite the alarm shrieking inside her head, she couldn’t drag her eyes away from his cold, staggeringly handsome face and lean, muscular body.

      For just a split second she watched him make his way across the room, and then her heart began pounding like a jackhammer and she knew that she had to move, to run, to flee. It might not be dignified, but frankly she didn’t care. Her ex-husband, Aristotle Leonidas, was the last person on earth she wanted to see, much less talk to. There was too much history between them—not just a failed marriage, but a three-year-old son he knew nothing about.

      Snatching at the rest of the cards, she tried to force them into the box. Only, panic made her clumsier than usual and they slipped out of her hands, spilling onto the floor in every direction.

      ‘Allow me.’

      If it had been a shock seeing him across the room, seeing him up close was like being struck by lightning. It would have been easier if he’d developed a paunch, but he hadn’t changed at all. If anything, he was more devastating than ever, and it was clear that he had risen to such a point of power and wealth that he was immune to such earthly concerns as appearances.

      But, to Teddie, his beauty was still hypnotic—the knife-sharp bone structure and obsidian-dark eyes still too perfect to be human.

      Feeling her pulse accelerate, Teddie steeled herself to meet his gaze.

      It had been four years since he’d broken her heart and turned his back on the gift of her love, but she had never forgotten him nor forgiven him for deleting her—and by default George—from his life like some unsolicited junk email. But evidently she had underestimated the impact of his husky, seductive voice—or why else was her pulse shying sideways like a startled pony?

      It was just shock, she reassured herself. After four years she was obviously not expecting to see him.

      Pushing aside the memory of that moment when he’d dismissed her like some underperforming junior member of his staff, she frowned. ‘I’m fine. Just leave it.’

      He ignored her, crouching down and calmly and methodically picking up each and every card.

      ‘Here.’ Standing up, he held out the pack, but she stared at him tensely, reluctant to risk even the slightest physical contact between them.

      Her body’s irrational response to hearing him speak again had made her realise that despite everything he’d done—and not done—there was still a connection between them, a memory of what had once been, how good it had been—

      Ignoring both that unsettling thought, and the tug of his gaze, she sat down. She wanted to leave, but she would have to push past him to do so, and sitting seemed like the lesser of two evils. He watched her for a moment, as though gauging the likelihood of her trying to escape, and then she felt her pulse jolt forward as he settled into the chair recently vacated by Claiborne.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ she said stiffly.

      After they’d split up he’d moved to London—or that was what Elliot had been told when he’d gone to collect her things. The apartment hadn’t been part of the divorce settlement, and she’d always assumed he’d sold it. But then, he had no need of money, and it probably had no bad memories for him as he’d hardly ever been there.

      His level gaze swept over her face. ‘In New York?’ He shrugged. ‘I’m living here. Again,’ he added softly.

      She swallowed, stung at the thought of him returning to their home and simply picking up where he’d left off. She wished she could think of something devastating to say back to him. But to do so would only suggest that she cared—which she obviously didn’t.

      She watched warily as he slid the pack across the table towards her.

      Catching sight of her expression, he tutted under his breath, his dark brown eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that,’ he said coolly. ‘It’s me who should be worried. Or at least checking my wrist.’

      His gaze hovered on her face and she blinked. She’d thought her body’s unintended and unwelcome response to his was a by-product of shock, but now, beneath the politeness, further down than the hostility, she could feel it still—a thread of heat that was undiminished by time or reason. It made no sense—she doubted that he’d given her as much as a passing thought in the last four years—but that didn’t seem to stop her skin from tingling beneath his gaze.

      Watching the fury flare in her fabulous green eyes, Aristo gritted his teeth. She was still as stubborn as ever, but he was grateful she hadn’t taken the cards from him. If both his hands had been free he might have been tempted to strangle her.

      He hadn’t spotted Teddie when he’d first walked into the lounge, partly because her dark brown hair was not falling loosely to her shoulders, as it had done when he’d last seen her, but was folded neatly at the back of her head.

      In the main, though, he hadn’t spotted her because, frankly, he hadn’t ever expected to see his ex-wife again. He felt a tiny stab of pain in his heart like a splinter of ice.

      But then, why would he?

      Four years ago Theodora Taylor had ensnared him with her green eyes, her long legs and her diffident manner. She had breezed into his life like the Sirocco, interrupting his calm and ordered ascent into the financial stratosphere, and then just as quickly she had gone, an emptied bank account and his lacerated heart the only reminders of their six-month marriage.

      He gave her a long, implacable stare. Teddie had taken more than his money. She had stolen the beat from his heart and taken what little trust he’d had for women and trampled it into the ground. It had been the first time he’d let down his guard, even going so far as to honour her with his name, but she had only married him in the hope that his money and connections would act as a stepping stone to a better life.

      Of course he hadn’t realised the truth until he’d returned from a business trip to find her gone. Hurt and humiliated, he had thrown himself into his job and put the whole disastrous episode behind him.

      Until he’d bumped into Edward Claiborne a moment ago. He knew Edward socially, and liked him for his quiet self-assurance and old-school courtesy.

      Walking