Back In His Ex's Bed

“Anyway, Paris Cummings was impressed by your research and your steadfastness under intense pressure.”

Finn picked up his wineglass and swirled the liquid around the bowl. “I don’t regret sticking to my guns but I do regret the bad PR around that incident.”

His arrogant attitude hadn’t helped. Back then he’d been particularly impressed with himself, thinking his double degree in art and forensics, and his ability to speak a half dozen languages, made him special, and he’d liked his reputation for being something of an art genius. He most definitely hadn’t liked being questioned. Admittedly, he’d been a bit of an ass.

These days, after a failed marriage and a decade to grow the hell up, he wasn’t so quick to tell people he was better, smarter, quicker. He’d come to realize that while he was smart in certain areas—he excelled at anything book-based and was naturally sporty—he was shockingly bad with people.

Unlike his brothers, he wasn’t emotionally intelligent. Concepts were easy; people weren’t.

People, and their sticky, complicated psyches, were a complete mystery to him. He didn’t think that would change anytime soon.

Finn leaned back in his chair and glanced at his oldest brother. His brother and Sadie—the art detective he’d hired to do a deep delve into a painting that might be a lost Homer—were engaged and besotted with each other. The air crackled whenever they were in the same room and the glances they exchanged were blowtorch-hot.

Ronan, the middle Murphy brother, was also currently distracted by his, so he said, inconvenient attraction to Joa, his temporary nanny.

Finn’s brothers’ preoccupation with their women suited Finn; it took their attention off him—BASE jumping, Finn, are you mad? Shark diving without a cage? You take too many risks—and he was grateful for the reprieve. They didn’t understand his need for adrenaline, his willingness to push the envelope.

He didn’t understand why, after experiencing divorce and death, they were even flirting with love and commitment, so he considered them even.

To Finn, handing over his heart was the biggest risk of all. Allowing oneself to be vulnerable was, to him, the most dangerous thing one could do.

He’d tried love once but hadn’t allowed himself to go all the way, to risk everything, with Beah. And, not surprisingly, their marriage had crashed and burned.

Carrick pulled back the cuff to his designer jacket to check his watch. “Cummings will want to talk art with you. He’s a bit of an art history and science buff. Just go along with it. Beah and I will jump in if you start getting…impatient.”

Finn knew Carrick wanted to add irritated.

But holding an intellectual conversation with one of the world’s wealthiest collectors of art, in front of Beah—the woman who still starred in his every sexual fantasy—was going to be a challenge.

“I saw your email saying you are wanting to take some vacation time in a few weeks. Where are you going?” Carrick asked.

“Ice climbing in Colorado.”

Three, two, one…

“Is that safe?” Carrick asked, frowning.

Well, no. Because if it was safe, Finn wouldn’t be doing it. Half the fun of adventure sports was the risk. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, risk his heart, but he had no problem putting his body on the line.

Because when he stood on the knife-edge of danger, that was when he felt most alive. And, yeah, he liked the excitement of achieving something exceptional. The complete focus the sports required also switched off his washing-machine brain, and it was his way to stop thinking, analyzing, planning.

And the dopamine rush kicked ass…

“Aren’t you scared something will happen?”

Finn considered the question. Sure, it was a factor, but he didn’t let fear stop him. “You know we can’t control the future, Carrick. Bad things happen.”

Carrick didn’t reply and Finn knew he was thinking of their past, the many tragedies the Murphy siblings had been forced to handle. The world saw them as this successful, rich, we-have-the-world-at-our-feet family but people rarely remembered the hell they’d walked through, hand in hand.

But they’d stuck together and yeah, here they were. Scarred, battered, but still a unit, still stronger together than they could ever be apart.

Yet their pasts had shaped them, had molded him. All his siblings had their issues; Finn didn’t like how love made him feel vulnerable and he knew it was better, easier, less risky, to hold back than to love someone completely.

It was better, safer, to keep his distance than to love someone and lose them.

Rolling his shoulders, Finn sent Carrick a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry so much, Carrick. Nothing is certain, so we might as well live in the present and not worry about the future. Besides, I plan on being around for a long time, if only to keep annoying you and Ronan.”

“Cummings is here,” Carrick said, standing up. “Play nice.”

Finn rose to his feet and buttoned his suit jacket. He rearranged his face into what he hoped was a genial smile as he watched the tall, thin man cross the room. Catching a flash of cobalt blue behind him, Finn moved his gaze from the art collector to the bold redhead talking to the maître d’, wild curls pulled back into a ruthlessly tight chignon.

Her makeup was perfect, hiding the spray of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and her once-lush, curvy body was fifteen pounds lighter.

Finn felt his stomach twist. Beah looked older, sleek and sophisticated, every inch the successful London businesswoman. Wildly attractive but cool, remote…

He couldn’t help wondering whether anything remained of his arty, curly haired, impulsive wife.

Ex-wife.

You speak many languages, Murphy, you can remember she’s your ex-wife.

Two

Beah accepted Carrick’s brief kiss on her cheek, heard his low-pitched “good job” and smiled. Earlier Paris Cummings had verbally agreed to move his artwork through Murphy’s and she’d helped to persuade the billionaire Murphy International was the right avenue to dispose of some of his lesser artworks, including a small Lowry.

Sure, they didn’t have a written agreement, but in the art game, bigger and bolder deals were solidified on a handshake. Trust was imperative in the world they operated in.

Tomorrow she would meet with Finn and Paris at his Hyde Park house and they’d trawl through his collection, making the final decision on what he was prepared to sell, and give estimates on what returns he could expect to realize. Yes, that would mean another face-to-face with Finn, but to land a client as important as Paris Cummings, she’d meet with the devil himself.

Beah watched Carrick escort Paris out of the restaurant, intensely aware of Finn at her side, the fabric of his designer suit brushing her bare shoulder. He smelled like he always did, of sunshine and fresh air, sex and sin, and Beah felt her head swim.

Maybe she shouldn’t have had a second glass of prosecco.

Oh, who was she kidding? It wasn’t the wine making her head swim, it was the presence of her hunky husband…ex-husband.

Acting professional throughout their meal had nearly killed her. She’d done nothing more than move her food around, conscious of those incredible green eyes on her, of every movement he made. She noticed his strong hands and remembered feeling them sliding over her bare skin. She noticed the way the subdued lighting turned his blond hair to gold…his broad shoulders, the way his black shirt fell down his wide chest and over what she remembered to be a six-pack stomach.

He still made her feel squirmy and whirly, and his effect on her—the throbbing deep inside her, the heat between her legs—frustrated her. She was not the young, high-on-great-sex girl she’d been at twenty-one. She shouldn’t be feeling anything for him…

Not anymore.

Beah touched her chignon, checking that her curls were still under control. She hated her hair. When she allowed it free rein, she instantly looked ten years younger, wild and out of control. And her wild curls reminded her of Finn raking his hands through and burying his nose in her hair.

It was a memory she hated. And loved.

But these days, she always, always kept her hair pulled back. It was easier to maintain, control…

Control was important.

“You look good, Beah.”

At his unexpected compliment, Beah lifted her face and her eyes slammed into Finn’s. To the casual observer, he looked relaxed, urbane and debonair. But she knew him well enough to see the tension in his tight lips, his slightly raised shoulders. She knew Finn hated these meet-and-greet dinners and suspected the past two hours had been as difficult for him as they had been for her. But for completely different reasons.

Beah started to respond, to return his compliment, but then pulled her words. What was the point? She’d respond, he’d reply and within a minute they’d run out of conversation. Conversation had never been their strong point.

Beah lifted her fingertips to her forehead, conscious of the pounding behind her eyes. “We don’t need to exchange inanities.”

Finn’s eyes darkened with what she suspected was irritation. “It’s been a while, but you should know the one thing I don’t do is inanities.”

He made her sound churlish. “Thank you for the compliment.” She pushed the words past her teeth.

Finn gestured to the exit. “Let’s head for the bar, have a drink.”

“Why?” Beah asked, conscious of his light touch on her back. It didn’t mean anything; it was just Finn being his well-mannered self.

Except his touch made her skin sizzle, sent sparks dancing across her skin. Why was she still reacting to him like this? So much time had passed, but Finn could still rocket her from controlled to capricious in ten seconds.

Beah edged away from him, putting some space between them. Their intense chemistry was a good reminder of why they needed to keep an ocean between them, why they could never work in the same city, in the same building. On the same continent…

Finn made her feel off-kilter and off-balance and she didn’t like it, dammit. She’d worked very hard to create her calm, orderly world, but one dinner and five minutes’ conversation with Finn and she was feeling flustered.

Damn him.

On exiting the restaurant, Beah turned to Finn and shook her head. “I’m going to skip having a drink with you. I’m tired and I still have work to do tonight.”

Finn pushed his jacket back to jam his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. He tipped his head to the side. “Coward,” he quietly murmured.

Beah narrowed her eyes at him. “You think I’m scared to have a drink with you?”

How dare he imply she was a chicken? She’d divorced him, refusing to take a cent from him, moved back to her home country and worked her butt off to claw her way up the corporate ladder. She’d never asked for any favors from either her ex-husband or her ex-brothers-in-law, and few people within the organization, especially those in the UK, knew she’d once been married to one of the owners of the company.

Rising through the ranks, using her maiden name, had taken guts and hard work…how dare he imply she lacked courage?

Finn’s green eyes were locked on hers. “Let’s think about this logically, Beah.”

Implying that he was always logical and she was not… Grrrr.

“Beah, in three months we are going to be holding the spring sales and auctioning off the Mounton-Matthews collection. The PR is about to go into overdrive and you are going to have a hundred questions for me from about as many collectors regarding the various items up for sale. We both know this is the most important collection to be auctioned in a generation, maybe two. We can carry on exchanging cold, quick emails or we can get over ourselves and try to be friends, establish a working relationship that actually works. We were married a long time ago. Don’t you think it makes sense for us to try to find a new normal?”

Beah suspected he was using the collective “we” when he actually meant her. And it really irritated her that he was acting like the attraction was all one-sided, as if his eyes never went to her lips, to her breasts…pretending he had absolutely no sexual interest in her at all.

Oh, he might be a Murphy owner, might be one of her bosses, but holy crap, he needed a reality check.

She wasn’t riding this roller coaster of lust by herself, thank you very much.

Beah walked over to the bank of elevators, hit the button and waited for the doors to slide open. She could either call him on his statement or she could sit through a drink, maybe two, and make small talk. They could discuss the upcoming auction, art, their clients and what she thought they would be interested in, what the art market was doing these days.

Yeah, they could do that…she would do that. She would not let Finn Murphy suspect she still craved him, that she missed his sexy body, that she occasionally woke up at night, her body flushed, on the edge of orgasm because a naked Finn had visited her in her dreams.

She never missed her uncommunicative, emotionally distant husband, but damn, she did miss her skilled lover.

The elevator doors slid open and Beah stepped inside, conscious Finn was right behind her, his big body dwarfing her. Two couples stepped in after them and then another couple, and she found herself wedged into the corner of the elevator, Finn’s huge body shielding her from the other occupants of the tiny space. Her breasts brushed his chest and her dress flowed over his strong thighs.

Then Beah made the mistake of lifting her eyes upward, noticing the strong cords of his neck, his soft blond stubble. His sexy mouth should be registered as a weapon. Looking into those eyes, edged with long lashes and framed by strong brows, could prove addictive.

He was all man, heat and sex and desire.

Finn’s eyes darkened and his hand came to rest on her hip, his fingers pressing through her dress to burn her skin. His thumb brushed over her hip bone and his eyes darkened, took on a golden hue. He wanted her.

Beah could see it in his eyes, in the way he kept looking at her mouth… Oh, and the hard ridge in his pants was a solid clue, too.

Finn lifted his other hand to hold the side of her face and Beah held her breath as his mouth descended toward hers. She needed to know whether he still tasted the same—sex and sunshine and wind and heat—and she placed her palms on his chest, her fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket. If he didn’t make the connection, she would.

Beah closed the last inch of space between them, standing on her toes to close the gap. His mouth brushed hers and she released a tiny, just-for-him moan. She felt his smile, inhaled his scent and then his lips covered hers, his short beard tickling her lips. Beah felt his hand slide around her to her back, and he pulled her closer so her stomach pushed into his erection. Dizzy from lust and want and need, she opened her mouth and Finn’s tongue slid inside to tangle with hers, heating her from the inside out.

She was lost, in his smell, in memories, in the sheer masculinity of this man she’d never been able to forget…

From a place far away, Beah heard the doors to the elevators slide open, the chatter of guests leaving. She should pull her mouth off his, put some distance between them, but it had been so long and he felt so damn good.

Finn pulled his mouth off hers, half turned, and Beah peeked around him to see a family heading toward the elevators, determined to join them. She needed to get out of here, walk across the lobby and go home.

This was foolish, a special type of stupid.

But Beah couldn’t move, and not only because Finn’s bulk caged her in. She knew that if she gave him the slightest push, if she even hinted at feeling uncomfortable, Finn would back off; he would release her and let her be on her way.

But she didn’t want to go anywhere. Right now, being in Finn’s arms was exactly where she needed to be…

Finn used the side of his fist to hit a button and the doors to the elevator immediately responded, sliding shut on the astounded faces of the family heading their way.

Finn looked from her to the panel and back to her. “Three choices, Bee. I can open these doors again and you can step out into the lobby, or we can go to the bar and have a drink.”

Beah looked up at him, touching the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. “And choice number three?”

“My room,” Finn said, his voice raspy with need. He placed a finger into the band of the bodice of her dress and tugged. “And the instant you step through the doors to my suite, this is coming off. Everything will come off.”

She shouldn’t. This was such a bad idea, but she’d been a good girl for a long time. “You promise?” Beah asked, dropping her hand to his waist and sliding it under his jacket. She tugged his shirt from the waistband of his pants and she sighed when she finally felt hot skin covering hard muscles.

Yeah, this. Finn.

“As long as you get naked, too.”

Beah saw a flash of relief in his eyes, and Finn punched the number to his floor. And then he returned to kissing the hell out of her.

Because, yes, this was the way they communicated best. The only way they could.

Keely Matthews walked out of her bathroom and looked at the huge mass of male gorgeousness lying facedown on her California king and sighed. Dare Seymour, broad back, wide shoulders, muscular legs and an ass that was pure perfection, lay with his head in his arms, asleep.

There was nothing she wanted more than to curl up beside him, rest her head on his shoulder and drift off.

She was tired, too, pleasantly so. Two bouts of stupendous sex had her feeling loose and relaxed and a little affectionate. She didn’t mind one and two; three was unacceptable.

She was not going to allow herself to go all gooey-eyed over Lawyer Seymour. He was too masculine, too attractive, too sigh-worthy, and Keely wasn’t the type to go all mushy over men.

Especially men she didn’t think she liked.

Or men she liked too much.

Oh God.

Keely leaned her shoulder into the doorframe and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. She should never have started sleeping with Dare, but resisting him was impossible. The man had superior kissing skills. His skill at French kissing was exceeded only by his skill in the bedroom.

And because sex was a fine way to catch feelings, she often found herself slipping into affection, thinking about him when she shouldn’t, spending far too much time reliving their naked time.

She had to take a step back. Keely did not want a relationship and she most especially didn’t want a relationship with someone as hardheaded, stubborn and bossy as Dare.

There was only room in a relationship for one bossy person, and that was normally her role. Keely knew she wasn’t to everyone’s taste. Her managing ways and her bull-in-a-china-shop approach frequently didn’t win her any friends. As a teenager and young adult she’d genuinely tried to be less bossy but her good intentions always dissolved after a week, or month, or two.

She couldn’t help it if she saw issues clearly, if the solutions to problems just popped into her head. And yes, maybe she could keep her opinions to herself, but why should she watch the people she cared about suffer when she had the answers?

Keely knew she was difficult; she’d been told that many times on many occasions. And all her relationships followed a similar pattern—her lovers told her they could cope with a strong woman, that her assertiveness turned them on, and she took them at their word.

But after two months, three, they all started complaining, telling her she was too over-the-top, too managing, too much.

And they packed up their stuff and walked out of her life, leaving her not-so-tough heart shredded.

After many tears and having her heart dented and dinged, she’d learned to keep all her love affairs on the surface and bed-based; that way she couldn’t get hurt. And Dare Seymour, her lumberjack-looking lawyer, was not going to be the latest in a long line to drop-kick her heart.

Walk over to him, wake him up and kick him out. C’mon, Keely, you can’t let him sleep over…

“Let me guess—you are about to kick me out.” Dare’s words were muffled but she heard his aggravated mumble. He rolled over and pushed his way up in the bed, looking ruffled and sexy. Keely fought the urge to straddle him, to place her mouth on his and taste him again…

Dare ran his hands through his hair, his blue eyes sharp. “We’ve been sleeping together for six weeks, Keely. Surely I can sleep over without the sky falling down?”

Keely stared at her bare feet. Sure, he could, but sleepovers were for people in relationships, not for casual lovers. And she had to keep Dare very casual indeed.

Keely lifted her chin and met his eyes. “I don’t like people in my space.”

Dare linked his arms across his flat stomach and Keely was grateful the sheet covered his groin area. A bare-chested Dare was distracting enough; Dare in all his glorious nakedness would be too much to resist. “Cut the crap. You’re just scared.”

Keely forced herself to lift one, just one, arrogant eyebrow. “Nothing about you scares me, Seymour.”

Dare had the temerity to smile. “Oh, honey, everything about me scares you.”

Keely tipped her head to the side and ignored her tumbling heart. “Are you experiencing a rush of blood to your head? An aneurysm? A little brain episode? Because you’re acting weird.”

“You’re using sarcasm to avoid the subject. You’re scared of me because I’m strong enough, man enough, to cope with your sharp tongue and pushy personality.”

That’s what they all said, and she’d trusted them enough to believe her previous lovers. Then they bailed. They always bailed.

She wasn’t stupid enough to believe Dare would be the exception to the rule.

Keely placed her hands on her hips, annoyed with him and equally annoyed with herself for wanting to believe him. Keely made herself wave at the bed, dismissing their lovemaking with her hand. “It’s just sex, Dare. You’re seeing something that isn’t there.”

Dare flung back the sheet and gracefully rose to his feet, supremely confident in his nakedness. He loomed over her but Keely met his hard stare with one of her own. “You can BS yourself, Keely, but don’t try to BS me. I see your eyes when I touch you, I hear your moans, the way your voice softens when you say my name.”

“That’s what women say in the heat of the moment,” Keely protested. “Don’t take my words seriously.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Dare responded. He cupped her chin in his hands and Keely narrowed her eyes at him. “I can read you, Keely, and you’re not half as tough as you think you are. Something is bubbling between us and it’s more than sex.”

Keely’s stomach rolled over. Oh God, not again. She couldn’t do this again. “It’s only sex, Seymour. You’re getting the physical and the emotional confused.”

“The hell I am,” Dare muttered, dropping his hand. He took a step back and sent her a slow, sarcastic smile, lifting those incredible shoulders in a small shrug. “Cool. Then find someone else who can give you the same buzz.”

Horror at the suggestion must’ve jumped into her eyes because Dare’s expression turned from sarcasm to satisfaction. “Not keen on that idea, huh?”

Keely placed her hands behind her back and pulled an implacable expression onto her face. She would not let him get the better of her in this argument. He won most of the arguments they had, usually by using logic to get his point across. It was very annoying.