Redemption's Kiss. Ann Christopher
she was in high school. Come to think of it, she missed Ramona, too, the chatty Siamese she’d named after her favorite Beverly Cleary character. That silly cat. When Ramona wasn’t ignoring her and John or terrorizing Ishmael, which was most of the time, she was underfoot, meowing about the general unfairness of life and demanding to have her chin scratched.
Wow. She hadn’t thought about Ramona in ages. The ache of nostalgia grew. Allegra occasionally made noises about wanting a pet; maybe it was time to think about getting one.
In the meantime, this dog needed to get home before he ran out into the street, and there was no time like the present to meet the new neighbor. Those rolls could wait another minute or two.
Oh, but wait. New neighbors had to be greeted with food. It was a rule.
“Come on,” she told the dog.
He followed her inside the kitchen, where she quickly washed her hands, lined a basket with a large cloth napkin and filled it with leftover pumpkin muffins from breakfast.
“Now we’re ready.”
The dog agreed with another bark.
What a sweetie. Scratching his head again, she led the way.
They walked up the lane to his owner’s driveway, where serious progress was now being made. Someone had lowered the ramp on the moving van, and there were various blankets and dollies lying around, but no signs of human life. A discreet glance inside the van as she passed revealed several nice pieces, including a black leather sofa and an enormous entertainment center. A man’s furniture. Definitely a man’s.
They climbed the shallow steps and crossed the huge veranda, which crunched beneath Jillian’s feet. Hopefully, the new guy had a rake and a broom because there were dead leaves everywhere. This baby needed a lot of cleanup. It was a beautiful house, though, with clean lines, exquisite woodwork and beveled glass framing the open front door.
She knocked and waited.
No answer.
She tried again, this time using the heavy brass knocker.
Still nothing.
The dog looked up at her, and she could swear he raised his furry eyebrows in a What now? gesture.
Well, the door was open.
Stepping inside, she gasped at what had been a remarkable house and, with a little love, would be again. Several rooms spun off the foyer, the centerpiece of which was a wide staircase with a carved handrail, and every room that she could see was bathed in light from full-length windows. Ornate woodwork framed every doorway, and there was an enormous marble fireplace in what was unmistakably the living room.
No signs of life, though, and—
Oh, wait. Were those voices upstairs?
Turning back in the direction of the staircase—maybe she’d wandered a little farther inside than she should have—she opened her mouth to call out a hello, but a movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her.
A man’s hand on the brass handle of a cane came into view, followed by one long khaki-trousered leg and a foot encased in an expensive loafer.
“Hello,” Jillian called. “Your dog wandered down the street to say hi and I was just bringing—”
The rest of the man came into view and Jillian’s words stopped dead.
Oh, God. No. God, no.
Above the khaki pants was a lean, broad-shouldered torso in a white dress shirt. Above that was the face of the man who had destroyed her marriage, her heart and her happiness—the man she hadn’t spoken to directly for three years and who made regular appearances in her dreams to this day.
She staggered back a step, putting a hand on the wall for support.
Beau. It couldn’t be.
But no other man in the world had those amazing hazel eyes. No other man in the world had that beautiful honey-brown skin, those slashing cheekbones or that lush mouth. No other man in the world had those silky-sexy waves of soft sable hair or that potent brand of masculinity that reduced her to a vibrating mass of overheated flesh every damn time, aeons since she’d first laid eyes on him at the orientation at Columbia Law.
“Is it you?”
Stupid question, yeah, but she had to ask, just to be sure; her untrustworthy eyes needed confirmation that it really was him. That despite all the time and distance, both physical and emotional, that she’d put between them, this man was back in her life and would be living down the street.
After an endless wait, one corner of his mouth curled.
His face. Oh, God, his beautiful, ruined face.
He had a jagged, puckered scar that cut across his cheek, went past the edge of his mouth and ended at his chin. Yet he was still breathtaking, damn him, and that was unquestionably still Beau’s wry smile. Worse, those were Beau’s piercing eyes staring at her with such unwavering focus, and Beau’s delicious scent of fresh cotton and sporty deodorant she smelled.
“Yes,” he said, and the world spun out from under her.
Chapter 3
Apparently she looked as shell-shocked as she felt. Leaning on his cane and favoring his left leg, Beau took a halting step forward and put his hand on her arm, his eyes wide with concern.
“Are you okay?”
No. “Yes.”
Pull it together, Jill. You can do this.
She stepped out of his reach and away from the wall with only her pride to keep her going. This man would not get to her; she could stand on her own two feet.
He dropped his hand and stared at her until her burning face made her wish that she were in the molten crater of a volcano or the heart of hell itself—anywhere but here, with him.
Bitter tears of humiliation burned her eyes, but she blinked them back, ruthless in her determination never to shed another tear over this man. She ran through her lifetime allotment of tears for him years ago.
“It’s good to see you,” he told her in that deep, black-magic voice.
“I can’t say the same.”
A faint smile flickered across his face. “I know you can’t.”
She was lying, though. She had to lie. Because even now, even after all the things he’d done to her and all the ways he’d damaged her, there was a tiny corner in the dark recesses of her soul that was glad to see him.
How sick did that make her? Pretty damn sick.
Even scarred and limping, he stole her breath. Always had, always would. Even a near-fatal car accident couldn’t reduce this man’s effect on her and she hated him for it.
She hated herself even more.
“Is that something in the basket for me? I didn’t eat breakfast.”
What? Basket?
He pointed and she belatedly remembered the muffins. Now that her bewilderment was turning into anger, she tightened her grip on the handle and jerked the basket to one side, well out of his reach.
“They were for my new neighbor.”
“That would be me.”
“Not on your life.”
“Ah.” He let his head hang with exaggerated disappointment.
“What’re you doing here, Beau?”
“I’m moving into my new house.”
Having already seen the van outside, this was not breaking news. The confirmation was still a serious jolt, though, along the lines of an anvil dropped on her head.
“Did