He gave her a lazy smile. “You’ve been thinking of me, have you?”
“I do. Often.” Her smile was tinged with so much sadness it socked him right in the conscience.
He stood and left the shower stall, sealing the door after him. He reached for his jeans. “And where do you think of me? Somewhere like in bed? Or in the shower? Because I thought of you often in the shower and now...”
She rolled her eyes. “Where doesn’t matter.”
“It’s been a long three years without you. I’m making up for lost time here.” He tried to lighten the mood again, to bring them back around to level ground. “That’s a lot of fantasies to work through.”
“If only we could just have sex for the rest of our lives. That would probably cure your insomnia.” She gave her jeans an extra tug up her damp legs, her breasts moving enticingly under the T-shirt.
She’d been his wife for seven years and still his mouth watered when he looked at her. Her blond hair was slicked back wet, her face free of makeup, and she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“The last thing I think about when I’m with you is sleep.” What a hell of a time to remember how their marriage had cured his insomnia in the beginning.
“Eventually we would wear out.” She sauntered up to him and buttoned his jeans with slow deliberation, her knuckles grazing his stomach.
“Is that a challenge?” His abs contracted in response to the simple brush of her fingers against him.
And he could see she knew that.
She patted his chest before stepping back. “You enjoy a challenge. Admit it.”
He grabbed her hips, hauled her against him and took her mouth. He would eat supper off her naked body tonight, he vowed to himself. He would win her over and bring her into his life again, come hell or high water. The past three years without her had been hell. The thought of even three days away from her was more than he could wrap his brain around.
The possibility that he might not be able to persuade her started a ringing in his ears that damn near deafened him. A ringing that persisted until he realized...
Jayne pulled back, her mouth kissed plump and damp. “That’s my cell phone. I should at least check who it is.”
Disappointment bit him in his conscience as well as his overrevved libido. “Of course you should.”
She snatched her purse from the ground and fished out her cell phone. She checked the screen and frowned before pushing the button. “Yes, Anthony? What can I do for you?”
Anthony Collins? Conrad froze halfway down to pick up his polo shirt off the ground. What the hell was the man doing still calling Jayne? She said she’d ended any possible thoughts of romance between the two of them.
The way her eyes shifted away, looking anywhere but at Conrad wasn’t reassuring, either. He didn’t want to be a jealous bastard. He’d always considered himself more logical than that. But the thought of Jayne with some other guy was chewing him up inside.
She turned her back and walked away, her voice only a soft mumble.
Crap. He snatched his shirt off the ground and shook out the sand. He stood alone, barefoot, in the dirt and thought of all the times he’d isolated Jayne, cut her off from his world without a word of reassurance. He was a bastard. Plain and simple. She’d deserved better from him then and now.
Jayne turned around, and he willed back questions he’d given up the right to ask. He braced himself for whatever she had to say.
“Conrad.” Her voice trembled. “Anthony said he’s been getting calls from strangers claiming to be conducting a background check on me for a job I applied for. It could be nothing, but he said something about the questions set off alarms. He wondered if it might be someone trying to steal my identity. But you and I know, it could be so much worse than that....”
Her voice trailed off. She didn’t need to state the obvious. His mind was already shutting down emotion and revving into high gear, churning through options for their next move.
And most of all how to make sure Jayne’s safety hadn’t been compromised.
Up to now his gut had told him Zhutov didn’t have a thing on him. He didn’t make mistakes on the job. But he couldn’t ignore the possibility of Zhutov’s reach when it came to Jayne so he’d been aggressively cautious.
Had he been cautious enough? Or had something slipped through the cracks while he was lusting after his wife? He shut down his emotions and started toward the house.
“We need to get inside now. I have to call Colonel Salvatore.”
* * *
Jayne hated feeling useless, but what could she do? She wasn’t some secret agent. Hell, she didn’t even have her car or access to anything. She felt like she’d been turned into an ornamental houseplant—again.
Conrad had locked the house down tight before going to the panic room to talk to Salvatore and access his computers. She padded around the kitchen putting together something for supper while listening to one side of the phone conversation, which told her absolutely nothing.
Only a couple of hours ago, he’d shown her the clinic and it was clear he’d been trying to reach out to her by sharing that side of his life. Although the spontaneous soccer game had touched her just as much.
She tugged open the refrigerator and pulled out a container of Waldorf salad to go with the flaky croissants on the counter. And she vowed, if she found one more of her favorite anything already waiting here for her she would scream.
How could the man have ignored her for three years and still remember every detail about her food preferences? For three long years her heart had broken over him. She would have given anything for a phone call, an email, or God, a surprise appearance on her doorstep. Did he really think they could just pick up where they left off now?
She spooned the salad onto plates, her hands shaking and the chicken plopping on the china with more than a little extra force. Would he have continued this standoff indefinitely if she hadn’t come to him? She couldn’t deny she loved him and wanted to be with him, but she didn’t know if she could live the rest of her life being shut out this way.
Slumping back against the counter, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to breathe evenly. She thought about that teenage Conrad whose trust had been so horribly abused by his father. Conrad, who’d grown into a man who built a health clinic and devoted his life to a job he could never claim recognition for doing.
Boothe was right. Conrad was a good man.
She just needed to be patient. And instead of peppering him with questions nonstop, she could start offering him parts of her past, things that were important but that she’d been hesitant to dredge up. But, good God, if she couldn’t tell her husband, who could she talk to?
Yes, she still loved Conrad, but she wasn’t the same woman she’d been three years ago. She was self-reliant with a clear vision for her future and a sense of her own self-worth.
She also knew that her husband needed her, whether he realized it or not. Pushing her own fears aside, she opened a bakery box full of cookies.
* * *
No matter how hard he worked to shut down emotions, still he couldn’t ignore the weight of Jayne’s eyes on him, counting on him. At least they had one less thing to worry about.
He leaned against the kitchen doorway. “Salvatore’s looking into the calls, but so far he said everything looks on the up-and-up. He’s confident it was just a hiring company for a hospital running a background check.”
“Thank God. What a relief.” Her eyes closed for an instant, before she scooped up two plates off the counter. “I made us something to eat. We missed lunch. Could you pour us something to drink?”
She walked past him, both plates of food in her hands. He opened a bottle of springwater, poured it into two glasses with ice then followed her into the dining room. Already, she sat at her place, fidgeting with her napkin.
No wonder she was on edge. All the pleasure of their day out, even making love in the shower, had been wrecked with a cold splash of reality. He sat across from her and shoveled in the food more out of habit than any appetite.
Jayne jabbed at the bits of apple in her salad. “Did I ever tell you why I’m such an opera buff?”
He glanced up from his food, wondering where in the world that question had come from. But then he had given up trying to understand this woman. “I don’t believe you did.”
“I always knew my parents didn’t have a great marriage. That doesn’t excuse what my father did to us—or to the family he kept on the side. But my parents’ divorce wasn’t a huge surprise. They argued. A lot.”
He set his fork aside, his full attention on her. “That had to have been tough for you to hear.”
“It was. So I started turning on the radio to drown them out.” She shrugged, pulling her hair back in her fist. “Opera worked the best. By the time they officially split, I knew all the lyrics to everything from Madame Butterfly to Carmen.”