A Valentine from Harlequin

with a bottle of wine.
    Like the wine he now held out to her.
    Her eyes narrowed. “If you came here to talk me back into our engagement, you’re wasting your time.”
    “No,” he said. “I came to say goodbye.”
    Her eyes widened and her legs felt more wobbly than when she’d trembled in the Tree position. “Goodbye?”
    “Yes. So long as Atlanta’s between us, I know there’s no hope.”
    She ushered him into the living area, motioned him to sit anywhere and flopped to the couch. Her heart ached as she took in his meaning. He wouldn’t try to get her back anymore. No more calls. No more emails. No more deliveries from the florist. She was relieved, of course.
    Instead of sitting, he moved to the cabinet where she kept wineglasses and removed two. Then he opened the drawer and took out her corkscrew, as assured as though he’d done it hundreds of times. Which, of course, he had.
    He handed her a glass and she swirled the ruby liquid absentmindedly and then sipped, fighting an urge to cry. “So, you finally admit you were unfaithful?”
    He sat next to her and his eyes resembled gray metal—cold and hard. “I was never unfaithful to you. Sonya was in my room at two in the morning, as I’ve told you, running numbers, trying to save the deal before our final presentation the next morning. You don’t believe me. Fine. I won’t marry someone who doesn’t trust me.”
    She couldn’t hold his gaze or she’d do something pathetic, such as sobbing her heart out. Instead she sipped her wine again, then slumped back against the couch cushions. “You could have told me that on the phone.”
    He was silent so long she glanced up at his face, so ruggedly handsome, his gaze fixed on hers. “I’m going away for a couple of weeks. I wanted to say goodbye properly.”
    This time she gulped her wine so fast it went down the wrong way and she coughed and spluttered as tears came into her eyes.
    He patted her back, but so softly it was more of a caress. “We had some wonderful times together. I don’t want our last memory to be that fight and you hurling the ring in my face.”
    She shook her head. No. She didn’t want that, either.
    Calmly, he reached for her glass and placed it on the glass and marble coffee table along with his. He leaned forward then and touched his palm to her cheek.
    That was all. Just his palm touching her cheek, and she felt the warmth of his flesh, the yearning in her belly. She couldn’t stop the movement. Her own hand reached up to cover his.
    His gaze still fixed on hers, he moved closer and kissed her.
    Oh, it was so sweet. So well remembered. His lips were warm, wine-flavored, and she moaned at the jolt of pleasure as their lips met. He slanted his mouth to the perfect angle, kissing her softly, then increasing the pressure, just the way she liked. Damn him. He knew her too well.
    She slipped both arms around his neck and opened her mouth to him.
    “I want to make love to you,” he whispered, pulling away from her mouth to study her face.
    She should refuse. It was a dangerous idea. A terrible idea. She started to shake her head.
    “One last time,” he said softly.
    One last time. He was right. They should make their last memory of each other a sweet one. What was the harm? He was the most wonderful lover she’d ever known, and she’d loved him. “One last time,” she agreed softly.
    He rose, hooked his arm under her knees and carried her, like a bride, to the bedroom.
    She felt suddenly nervous. Even though they’d made love countless times, it had been months and he felt almost like a stranger. With an hour’s notice she could have been ready. As it was, he’d surprised her in cotton sweats and no makeup, her hair pulled off her face in a ponytail.
    He laid her on the bed, leaned his palms on either side of her shoulders and kissed her again, taking his slow, sweet time about it.
    She pushed gently against his chest until he raised his head. He appeared wary, probably thinking she was going to change her mind. But nothing could relieve the hot ache between her thighs except his loving. She wanted him so much it hurt. “I was exercising, I’m kind of sweaty. Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

Chapter Four
    “I don’t mind at all if you take a shower,” John said.
    Charlotte kissed him lightly. “I’ll be fast.”
    “No hurry. Take your time.” He made himself comfortable on the bed and crossed his hands behind his head.
    She’d be fast, all right.