He must have believed her because he smiled. “Here,” he said when she started gathering supplies, “let me get those.”

She handed them over, vowing to herself that she’d be friendlier to Luke.

But she wouldn’t be as naive as she’d been with Andrew. As foolish.

She wouldn’t trust Luke. Wouldn’t like him. No matter what.

* * *

C.J. STEPPED INTO the elevator of his apartment building and prayed like hell it would break up the reception.

“It’s not fair,” his mother complained, her voice loud and clear over his cell phone.

Damn reliable service.

He jabbed the button for his floor, the headache that had started when he’d answered her call ten minutes ago worsening by the second. He watched the numbers light up as the elevator rose. Three. Four. Five.

Twenty to go. Twenty floors of listening to Gwen bitch and moan.

He slumped against the wall. Hell.

“Your father,” Gwen continued, with all the venom that had poisoned her since her husband left her for another woman—close to thirty freaking years ago now, “has more money than anyone could spend in ten lifetimes, and he’s refusing to give me my fair share.”

Gwen could handle Senior cheating on her. She’d ignored it for years during their marriage, had figured they’d continue on in that vein. What she would not accept was her husband actually choosing another woman over her for the long haul.

Not that the long haul was all that long. Of Senior’s five marriages, the longest had been to Rosalyn, Oakes’s mom, at ten years. And with things between Senior and Carrie being strained since the engagement party, and getting worse, C.J. doubted the two of them would make it to their fourth anniversary.

Thinking of the engagement party only reminded C.J. of Ivy. Of her amazing face, that sinful body. Of how she moved. The sound of her voice. How she’d felt under his hands, how responsive she’d been to his touch. His kiss.

How she’d walked out on him.

“It’s impossible for me to survive on such a paltry sum,” Gwen insisted.

“Paltry?” He tapped the back of his head against the wall. Then again. And one more time for good measure. “Your monthly alimony is more than most people make in a year.”

She sniffed. “Normal people, maybe. All I’m asking is that I’m given enough to continue living in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. Really, if you think about it, the way your father is treating me is unethical.”

Unethical? His mom was using big-girl words. Never a good sign. “Is that your opinion? Or someone else’s?”

“David and I had lunch today. He thinks we have a strong case and should ask for an increase in my support.”

“Of course David thinks you have a strong case.” Gwen’s longtime attorney loved nothing more than suing people. Except maybe billing well-off divorcees. “I don’t think going after more money while Dad’s still recovering from his stroke is a good idea.”

“Is he getting worse?”

And that had sounded way too eager for C.J.’s peace of mind. His mother, a nipped, tucked, bleached-blonde vulture. “No.”

But Senior wasn’t getting better, either, even though it had been more than a year since the stroke. His father was trapped in his body with very little hope of ever being able to walk or talk or even feed himself again.

“I loved your father,” Gwen said, her voice wobbly. C.J. had no doubt that she’d worked up a tear or two, even though he wasn’t there to witness them. “I gave him the best years of my life. I supported him. I was there for him, by his side, through the tough times. I helped him build Bartasavich Industries into what it is today. I deserve to be fairly compensated.”

Best years of her life? He wasn’t touching that one, considering she’d been younger than C.J. was now when she and Senior had divorced. “The company was already well established when you and Dad got married,” he reminded her.

No, it hadn’t been as big as it would become, but it had still been a top company in the state. Now it was a top contender in the country.

“You know I’d never wish any ill will on your father,” Gwen said, her tone perfectly balanced between outrage and heartbreak. “Why, I forgave him for how horribly he treated me.”

“Yes, and I’m sure he appreciated it,” C.J. said as he left the elevator and dug his keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door and stepped inside while Gwen cranked up her crying from sniffles to out-and-out sobs.

He walked through the foyer, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood, then made his way to his bedroom. Tossed the phone on the bed, set his briefcase down and took off his jacket and tie. Undid the top buttons of his shirt while he toed off his shoes, then removed his Stetson and stabbed his fingers through his hair.

He picked up the phone. Yep. Still crying. Wrapping both hands around the device, he pretended to choke it then brought it back to his ear as she hit a particularly grating wail. He winced. Tugged at his earlobe as he picked up his briefcase and went out into the kitchen.

His steps faltered and he froze. The hair on his arms stood on end. The tips of his fingers tingled. He smelled her first, that intoxicating scent that he hadn’t been able to forget. Even as he tried to tell himself he was imagining it, he turned slowly, cautiously.

And, through the doorway to the study, saw Ivy sitting on his leather sofa. She was like a fantasy come true in a short strapless sundress the color of ripe peaches, her long tanned legs crossed, one strappy high-heeled sandal dangling from her toes. Her hair was back, a few wisps loose at her temples, silver hoops in her ears.

She’d come to him. Had sought him out.

He squashed the joy that tried to wiggle its way into his chest. Yeah, he may have thought of her once or twice or a hundred times in the past four months. May have dreamed of her. Relived their night together. May have considered making another trip to Shady Grove, to King’s Crossing, to find her. But in the end, his pride had stopped him from hunting her down like some infatuated fool.

Thank God.

“Mother,” he said into the phone, his eyes never leaving Ivy, “I have to go.”

“But, C.J.—”

He hung up and, knowing she’d call back—and lecture him on his rudeness—turned the phone off.

“How is your mama?” Ivy asked while he stood there staring at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. “Still dating the beefcake?”

C.J. walked toward her as though he was a trout she was reeling in, unable to resist her pull. He stopped in front of her, forcing her to tip her head back. “What are you doing here?”

Ivy shrugged her golden shoulders. Smiled. “I came to see you. Now, be honest. Did you miss me?”

The question hit him with equal parts fury and embarrassment because, damn it, while he hadn’t missed her—hard to miss someone he didn’t even know—he had thought of her.

And the confident gleam in her eye told him she knew it.

“Don’t tell me,” he managed to drawl in an even tone. “You’re a mild-mannered waitress by day, a cat burglar by night.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Mainly because he’d envisioned her, quite clearly and in great detail, in a snug black outfit. “Breaking and entering is a crime.”

She laughed. He couldn’t say he didn’t like the sound.

Damn her.

When she finally wound down, she leaned forward, still swinging that foot. Winked at him. “I don’t have to break in anywhere.” She slowly uncrossed her legs and stood in one smooth motion. Looked up at him from under her lashes, a trick she’d probably learned in her crib. “Let’s just say I have certain...charms...that open a lot of doors for me.”

So much for his apartment building’s advanced security system.

He should be pissed—rip-roaring, teeth-gnashing, hair-pulling pissed—not mildly irritated. Not wondering how, exactly, she’d managed to talk her way into his home. Not wanting to find out more about her.