Did she ever think of him?

And how the h.e.l.l was she doing, after everything that had happened to her?

But he couldn't go there. Not yet. He couldn't handle that kind of conversation. It would remind him too much of why he had loved her like crazy. Because he had talked to her about all those sorts of things once. Real things. Life, and death, and love, and hope, and dreams.

If they dared tread on that territory, he'd be lost.

Instead there were Post-It notes.

"Do you have them all over your home?" she asked, teasing him as the band began to set up on the low stage. "Little reminders of what to do? Put socks on before shoes? Insert key in lock before opening door?"

"Don't forget things like where my office is located. Or what floor I live on, too. That's another one."

Yeah, this was so much easier, and as she laughed, he started to relax, and give in to this...date.

She leaned against the bar, and he stood facing her. The club hummed, even on a Sunday night, and the press of bodies warmed the air. Annalise's green eyes seemed to know him intimately still; her voice was the sound he'd longed to hear those nights when he needed it most; and her lips were the ones he'd craved all the days they were apart. Now she was so close he could grab the hem of her shirt, tug her to him, and kiss her. He could run his hands along her arms, thread his fingers into her hair. He wondered if his thoughts were written in the air, or his wishes in his eyes.

He had to clench his fists to remember Mindy's advice.

Don't ask her if she ever thinks about you.

"Which floor do you live on?" she asked, and he startled, her words knocking him back to the present.

"Hmm?"

"Floor? Which floor?" Her lips curved up, soft and naughty.

"Why do you ask? Are you planning to surprise me later?"

"Perhaps, I will."

Flirting.

f.u.c.king flirting.

Just like they'd done in high school. When he was a teenager, he'd had a reputation as a complete flirt, and the girls had loved it. He'd always had an ease with the opposite s.e.x, with talking to women, laughing with them, saying something laden with innuendo. Then, the beautiful, willowy redhead from Paris had arrived at his dad's best friend's home to stay with them for the year. His first thought had been that he had to see more of her.

"Want me to show you around town?" he'd asked her the day they'd met in Becky's kitchen.

"I would love that."

"Is there anything you want to see in Las Vegas?"

"Surprise me," she'd said, with a curve of her lips, the hint of a smile.

"I will," he'd said, and that had been the beginning of the love affair of his f.u.c.king life.

He blinked back to the present as she leaned in closer to him at the bar. "Would you like that?"

He knit his brows together, trying to stay rooted to the present instead of tripping back and forth between then and now like a time traveler caught in a slip. "Would I like what?"

"For me to surprise you?"

G.o.d, yes. So much. Surprise me. Come over. Knock on my door, dim the light, and kiss me like it's the thing you've been dreaming about all day.

Before he could answer, the bartender returned with their champagne. He thanked him then raised his gla.s.s, clinking it with hers. "To..." he began, but he didn't finish.

A flicker of sadness pa.s.sed through his blue eyes as she lifted the gla.s.s. In that bare second, everything that had unfurled between eighteen years ago and today jabbed at her, like sharp little needles p.r.i.c.kling her skin. Her fingers itched to run through his hair, to offer a rea.s.suring touch, something that showed she understood what was unsaid. She resisted the impulse, not knowing how it would be taken, and afraid, too, of how it would feel. Good or bad.

" la presente," she said in her native language, then quickly translated, "To the present."

"To the present," he repeated.

As he took a long swallow of his drink, she studied him. By nature she was an observer, and she catalogued the details-his lips on the gla.s.s, full, curved, and kissable; his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he drank; his strong, st.u.r.dy fingers on the stemware. Then, the bend of his wrist, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up twice, revealing his forearms.

Muscular and corded.

Hot as f.u.c.k.

G.o.d, why were forearms so delicious? But she knew the answer. They spelled strength and power, and the ability for a man to anchor himself over a woman as he took her.

She slid her eyes away from him, trying to chase off her own dirty thoughts.

He set down his gla.s.s on the counter. "You said work brought you to town, that you're shooting the catalogue all over the city. Are you enjoying it?"

"Immensely," she said with a nod. "The models are beautiful, the locations are playful, and the lingerie is, as you say, to die for."

His eyes flashed with mischief as he made a noise of approval. "Big fan of lingerie myself."

"That so? Something you want to tell me?" she said, coyness coloring her tone as they bantered, so much that it filled her with an effervescence that rivaled the champagne's effect.

"Very funny." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I meant...on women."

That buzzing intensified. This was chemistry. This was the electricity in the air before a storm. She was wrong about him being a safe choice for her first time out in years.

Now that she was centimeters rather than an ocean away, she was intensely aware of how not-safe he was.

She threw caution to the wind. "Anything in particular when it comes to lingerie? Baby-dolls? Corsets? Garters? Hip-huggers? Bikinis? Cheektinis? Stockings? Bikini briefs? Boy-cut shorts? Thongs?" she said with the speed of a freight train, rattling off anything and everything silky that hugged a woman's bare flesh.

His lips quirked up as he took a drink. "That one," he said dryly, tapping the air with his index finger.

"Which one, Michael?"

He made a rolling gesture with his hand. "All of them. Every. Single. One." Then he scratched his chin. "Question, though. What on earth is a cheektini?"

Annalise lowered her arm to her hip, shifted her pose, and drew a line mid-cheek across the denim of her jeans. "They go right here."

Heat flashed in his gaze as he stared at her a.s.s. "Right there, you say?"

"Yes." She traced the line once more across her rear. "The panties cut across, so your cheeks..." She paused, searching for the right words in English. "They hang out?"

He nodded his understanding, his eyes on her the whole time, darkening. She hadn't expected the intensity of his stare. Nor had she expected the rush it sent through her. It had been so long since she'd felt like this. "Yes. And the one I'm wearing right now is red with lace trim."

She shocked herself when she said that. She hadn't expected to be so bold. But it felt easy, and right, and so d.a.m.n good.

Perhaps she'd surprised him, too, because he licked his lips, then groaned softly as he uttered, "Red."

Like it had six syllables. Like it was the s.e.xiest word in the world.

Before the conversation could turn naughtier, the music shifted, and the lead singer tapped the microphone, said h.e.l.lo, and launched into the first song.

"More champagne and then we go stage-dive?"

"Absolutely. Let's start a mosh pit."

They did neither, but a few minutes later, they were watching the band, listening to the music, and drinking another round. Someone b.u.mped into Annalise, and she moved closer to Michael. Before she knew it, they were shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, swaying to the music.

By the time the band finished, they'd polished off another gla.s.s or two. The buzz was headier, and so was the intoxication from the music, the low lights, the energy, and this whole night that felt like a coc.o.o.n of possibility.

She wiped a hand over her brow. The club was hot.

"Let's step outside," he said. "Where it's cooler."

She nodded, and once again, his hand was on her back. He guided her to the tall gla.s.s doors that spilled onto a terrace attached to the club. As he opened the door, he reached for her hand, holding it as they walked to a bench and sat down. Groups of club-goers were scattered at nearby tables.

He traced her palm lightly with the pad of his thumb, and her heart sped up. That barest touch was bursting with heat. Electricity flared between them. They could power the lights at this club, the billboards down the street. She barely understood how it was possible to be like this with someone she hadn't seen since that unexpected and heartbreaking day when they were both twenty-four. She'd been going one way in life; he'd been heading in another. Seeing him then had been as close as she'd ever come to the fire of temptation. She hadn't given in.

Now, they were both thirty-four, and her heart stuttered just from being near him. This torch might have flickered to a soft, ashen glow in years past, but it could be turned fiery and bright in an instant. "I'm glad you were free tonight," she said. "I'm glad you asked me to the show. I've had an amazing time. Most of all, I'm glad you said yes. I've been thinking of you."

"You have?" His voice sounded stretched full of hope, like he was holding all the world in that two-word question.

Like her answer to it had more power than she would have ever suspected.

CHAPTER FIVE.

This was what he'd wanted, but knowing she'd been thinking of him barely scratched the surface of his curiosity. His throat was parched, and he was so d.a.m.n thirsty for more.

His voice was low, rough. "What do you think about?"

"How you are," she said, her gaze locked on his. "What you're doing. What your life is like now."

He licked his lips. "And that's why you wanted to see me?"

"Yes."

His skin was hot. His bones vibrated. Want sounded d.a.m.n good to him. After feeling like she'd slipped through his fingers in Ma.r.s.eilles-his head had understood, but his heart had f.u.c.king rebelled when she'd walked away from him-he liked being wanted by her.

"So, were you wondering if I'd gone gray? Or bald, maybe?" he teased, running his hand through his thick hair. Now that she'd revealed a modic.u.m of truth about tonight, he could return to this zone, where the terrain wasn't rocky and fraught with so many jagged ridges.

She laughed with her mouth wide open, her white teeth straight and gleaming. How he'd adored that smile of hers, the way she quirked up the corner of her lips when something was particularly funny. "I see you've held onto it all," she said.

"And you're redder." He gestured to her long, lush locks. Then he figured, f.u.c.k it. She'd said the words he most wanted to hear-she was thinking of him. He touched the end of a wave of hair-it had been auburn before. Now it was almost a dark cherry red, and so soft.

He let go.

"So is that what you wanted? To check out my hair color? Maybe to see if I grew a paunch?" he said, patting his flat stomach.

"Seems you've maintained your boyish figure," she said.

He was worn thin with wanting something, anything from her, and he wasn't even sure why. This was only one night, only drinks. He was the one who was investing this moment with too much importance. Hunting for a deep, meaningful reason-one like Michael, I had to tell you I never stopped loving you.

He scoffed. She wasn't here to say that, even if she had been thinking of him. Thinking was nothing. She was here for the cla.s.s reunion effect. To say h.e.l.lo, to check him out, and to breeze back out of town when she was done shooting skinny models in skimpy clothes. He needed to get the f.u.c.k over her. More importantly, he needed to get out of his own head, and stop thinking that a letter that smelled like rain meant Annalise Delacroix wanted to curl up on his lap and tell him she hadn't forgotten him, either.

They'd been torn apart by time and distance, not by hurt, or anger, or falling out of love. No one had cheated. No one had said unforgivable words. No invectives were lobbed, and no terrible secret had come between them. Their biggest foe when they were younger was miles. Thousands and thousands of uncrossable miles. They'd tried to fight it with letters, a seemingly endless stream of them. But after a few years of letters and phone calls, they were in college and too far away from each other. It wasn't going to happen. It wasn't meant to be. He didn't have enough money to fly to see her, nor did she have the funds or her family's permission to return to see her beau. The flames turned to blue flickers, then to low embers in the ash.

But the fire burned again tonight.

He couldn't resist. "And you look as beautiful as I remember."

Music from inside the club seeped out to the terrace. She lowered her forehead and whispered thanks at the same time a lock of hair slid over her eyes. His opportunity. He slipped his index finger under those strands and brushed them off her forehead.

She raised her lashes and looked up at him. "So..."

He ran his finger along the side of her temple. His pulse thundered in his throat. "Ask me what else I haven't forgotten."

Her green eyes shone with a hint of something, a flash of desire. She tilted her head curiously, taking the bait. "What else haven't you forgotten?"

The music seemed to emanate from another dimension. The waitress walking past them to a nearby table operated in a parallel universe. All the world around him slowed and stilled to this moment. He threaded his fingers into her soft hair, letting it fall like silk over his skin.

One more taste and he could stop longing for her. Stop lingering. He could finally put to rest the arguments his ex-girlfriends had waged over the years, insisting he was stuck on someone else. Michael Sloan was going to take the one thing that had strung him up over the years and get it out of his system. One kiss and he could say good-bye to his first love.

"How you like to be kissed," he said, his fingers curling around her head. She gasped quietly, arching her back, her gorgeous b.r.e.a.s.t.s pushing closer. His bones thrummed with l.u.s.t for her.

"You do?" Her voice was soft as the question ghosted across her lips. It was chased by a small smile, and that felt like an invitation.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

She swallowed, the next word so low it was merely an imprint on the air. "How?"