damn. Now, for these few quiet, precious moments, he could hold her in his arms. Could inhale the subtle orange blossom scent of her hair, and delight again at the feel of her soft silky hair brushing his chin.
Had she believed him when heâd told her about his real past? Was that dirt-poor screwup someone she could love? And more important, if she could, would she choose to stay? It was a risk heâd been loathe to take the first time around. But this was his last chance to catch the gold ring.
In a few minutes heâd check the all important disk, and then he and Mia would straighten themselves up and go downstairs. Theyâd have a pleasant dinner, a little dancing, and then heâd take her home. Home to his place. His stomach clenched at the thought of convincing Mia that he truly had been that foster kid before becoming the Jack Ryan she thought she knew. Heâd given her a little of the information on the phone when he was pretending to be Davis Sloanâand sheâd changed the subject. Jack was temptedâNo. He wouldnât lie to her. Not this time.
Heâd filled his bedroom with dozens and dozens of the pale yellow roses Mia loved, and had placed groupings of slender white candles around the room. A bottle of her favorite French chardonnay was chilling on ice, and heâd stocked up on chocolate-covered strawberries, hideously expensive and out of season, but one of Miaâs favorites. Sheâd bitch about the expense, but sheâd be happy, too.
Jack appreciated the finer things in life. Contrary to his bio, nothing had been handed to him on a plate. Heâd had to work hard for what he had. Had to struggle to maintain the lifestyle while he clawed his way to the top of the financial heap. Money was to be spent, and he did. He wasnât going to apologize for enjoying the finer things in life. And he didnât have to divulge his real background if he didnât need to. That part of his life had been buried. Obliterated. Thanks to Uncle Sam. And penny-pinching Mia, who had often gotten on his case at the way heâd spent his money, wouldâve felt a whole lot different if heâd ever admitted that heâd been even poor as a kid. But he hadnât wanted her pity.
Thereâd never been any reason for him to dig up the corpse of who heâd once been.
Until now.
He glanced at his watch. Barely nine. Theyâd be home, hopefully in bed, by eleven.
The small closet was warm, redolent with their lovemaking. Heâd never forget this moment. They were on the cusp of something big. Something wonderful.
It was almost a shock to hear someone speaking not three feet from where he and Mia stood.
âCanât we hang around longer?â Don Juan asked in a sulky voice as he came out of the other closet pulling on one of his hostâs shirts.
â No. Hurry up, for heavenâs sake! My husband thinks I went out for a smoke!â
âWe sure were smokinâ, werenât we, baby?â He slung a cocky arm around the womanâs shoulders.
Before he could dive in for another kiss, she shoved him away. âYou forget yourself.â She finished buttoning her dress and turned to fix her hair in the mirror over the dressing table. âGo down and warm up the car,â she told him without turning around. âIâm ready to leave now.â
âWill I see you later?â
âYes. Youâll be driving me and my husband home. Other than that, Iâll let you know when itâs convenient.â She walked over to the window and pulled aside the heavy velvet drape. âDamn. Itâs started to snow. Go down now. Iâll follow in a few minutes.â
Jack tracked the guy across the room, watched him unlock the door, then open and close it. One down, one to go.
âLunkhead,â the woman said in a fond voice as she straightened the bedspread, then fluffed the pillows. With one last tweak to the dust-skirt,
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