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as she searched, desperate to spot his floating form. She would have to hoist him from the pool and do mouth-to-mouth, get his airway cleared. She’d been certified in first aid and CPR for years, but she’d never actually had to use it. She only hoped she remembered how.

      But she would have to find him first. He was gone, as if he had vanished into thin air, or been sucked into an alternate universe.

      She hit the bottom at the ten-foot mark and flipped over, her long skirt tangling around her legs. She looked up and saw a pair of booted feet and blue jeans and the lower half of a male torso. The rest of him was out of the water.

      And he was very much alive.

      She heard a muffled noise above her and realized it was laughter. He was laughing.

      He was okay. All this time he’d been okay, and now he was laughing at her.

      She pushed off the bottom of the pool and sailed to the surface, her lungs screaming for air.

      A minute ago all she could think about was saving his sorry behind. Now she wanted to kill him.

      Dillon hoisted himself up onto the pool edge beside the ladder, wiping water from his eyes and sweeping his dripping hair back from his forehead. His wet jeans clung to him like a cloying second skin, his boots were toast and his lungs burned like the devil from holding his breath for too long. But it would be worth it. Worth the look on Ivy’s face when she re-surfaced.

      Would she never learn? No matter how dirty she played, he always sank an inch lower. He always won.

      Ivy popped up out of the water, blinking rapidly to clear her eyes. Her auburn ponytail hung lopsided and limp and one side of her tank top drooped down her arm.

      She looked like a drowned rat.

      He smiled and said, “Gottcha.”

      She didn’t yell, didn’t call him a jerk. She didn’t even look at him. She just swam to the ladder in a few long, easy strokes and grabbed the rail. For a second he thought she might try to dunk him, but she only pulled herself up from the water. Her wet skirt stuck to her legs and was considerably more transparent than it had been before.

      Was that a pink thong she was wearing?

      Her eyes were rimmed with red, her mouth pulled into a rigid line.

      “Hey.” He reached out and grabbed her arm but she jerked it away. Without a word she walked across the patio to the house, wet feet slapping, clothes dripping.

      He knew every one of Ivy’s expressions and he could swear he’d just seen her on-the-verge-of-tears face.

      Of all the reactions she could have possibly had, why would she cry? Anger he could understand. He’d expected her to be furious. But tears?

      Or May be she was crying because he hadn’t drowned.

      No. If she’d wanted him dead, she wouldn’t have jumped in to rescue him. May be she was just embarrassed that once again he had bested her. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to apologize, even though she’d started it, then May be rub it in her a face one more time for good measure.

      He jumped up and went after her, his feet squishing in his sodden boots. “Ivy, hold up.”

      But she didn’t stop moving. If anything, she walked faster. She flung open the door, but, thanks to a much longer stride, he caught her just inside the threshold.

      “Come on, Ivy, stop.” He reached for her, wrapping his hand around her wrist. Once again she jerked free and marched through the living room. She wasn’t just a little angry that he’d gotten the best of her. She was seriously peeved.

      “Come on, Ivy, it was a joke. Lighten up.”

      She stopped abruptly and swung around to face him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale, and tears hovered just inside her eyelids.

      “A joke?” she asked incredulously. Her lower lip quivered and her hands were trembling. “You call that a joke?”

      He shrugged. “I was just fooling around.”

      “Fooling around?” She took a step toward him, raising both her arms. For a second he thought she was going to deck him, or wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze. Instead she planted both hands on his chest and gave him a good, hard shove. Because he was prepared and outweighed her by almost half, he didn’t go very far.

      “Fooling around?” she repeated. Then she gave him another shove, harder this time, knocking him back a couple of inches and darn near forcing the air from his lungs. “You scared me to death, you idiot! I thought you drowned! I thought you were dead.”

      The tears flowed over and rolled down her cheeks, and whatever pride remained of his victory fizzled away. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

      An explosive combination of fear and fury burned hot and lethal in her eyes. She wound up again, but before she could shove him he grabbed her wrists. She tried to jerk away, but this time he held on.

      “Let go of me!” She twisted and yanked, struggling to break free, and he began to worry that she was so hysterical, she would hurt not only him, but herself.

      “Ivy, calm down! I didn’t mean to scare you.” He pulled her against him, managed to get his arms around her, pinning her close to his body to protect them both. She was cold, wet and trembling all over. “I’m sorry.”

      Eight

      Has your ex frustrated you to the breaking point? Physical violence, though tempting, is not the answer. Try a punching bag or a voodoo doll instead.

      —excerpt from The Modern Woman’s Guide to Divorce (And the Joy of Staying Single)

      Ivy wrestled with him another second or two, then went still in his arms.

      “I’m sorry,” he said again, since that seemed to do the trick. He pressed his cheek to the top of her soggy head.

      Her body went lax, as if she’d burned up every last bit of energy, and she all but collapsed against him. Her arms circled his waist and she clung to him, a dripping, trembling, emotional catastrophe.

      It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. The game had gotten way out of hand this time. Hadn’t they hurt each other enough?

      “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and her arms squeezed him tighter. He would say it a million times if it would take back what he’d done.

      “I th-thought you were dead,” she hiccupped, her cheek pressed against his wet shirt. His throat felt tight with emotion.

      Jesus, what was wrong with him?

      May be it was a little crazy—or a lot crazy—but he liked her this way. Soft and sweet and vulnerable. She was usually so independent, so driven, he’d rarely had the opportunity to play the role of the hero. The protector.

      He stroked her soggy, tangled hair, and for one of those brief, fleeting moments remembered all the reasons he’d fallen in love with her. And wondered why in the hell he’d let her get away.

      But it was tough to keep someone around who didn’t want to be there.

      “You’re going to wish you had drowned, because when I stop shaking, I’m going to kill you,” she warned him, but she didn’t let go. Didn’t even loosen her grip.

      Why would she get so upset if she didn’t still care about him, didn’t still love him somewhere deep down?

      And what difference would it make if she did? They’d had their go-around, and it had been a disaster. They may have loved each other, but that didn’t mean they could get along.

      That didn’t mean there hadn’t been good times, too.

      He cupped a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. She gazed up at him with watery, bloodshot eyes, mascara running down her face, and