A Defender's Heart

Thankfully he’d made it that far without either of her parents catching sight of him. Obviously they’d be polite, and he did have an official invitation, but he doubted they’d have left him alone with their daughter.

He wouldn’t have blamed them.

Still, she’d invited him to the party and then chosen to wear the dress that she knew turned him on more than any other she’d owned. Just thinking about the last night she’d worn it with him... They’d gone to a business dinner, and then, in a rare moment of relaxation, he’d asked her to go out to a club. To dance and have some fun, for a change from the constant pressures of work.

They’d closed the club and then, completely sober, had gone home to make love for the rest of the night. The way she’d touched him that night...and let him touch her...

Looking at her now, under the bright lights in her parents’ kitchen, he knew she was remembering, too. Her eyes had darkened, the way they got when she was aroused. He might not be an expert at determining the truthfulness of a statement as she was, probably because, at some point, he’d forgotten to respect the truth, but he could sometimes match her in the reading of body language.

Hers in particular. It had been like that from the very beginning—the physical and mental combustion that had melded them into an almost-instantaneous partnership, one he’d taken for granted. One he’d believed couldn’t be severed. He’d been confident. Cocky.

And wrong.

Why had she invited him tonight?

And worn that dress?

Heather didn’t do anything without reason.

Clearly her two closest friends had been communicating a similar message to her just before he’d come in. She’d felt compelled to assure them that she was over him.

Swelling with a bit of...he didn’t want to examine what...he momentarily liked the idea that they’d been talking about him.

At her engagement party.

Because she shouldn’t be marrying another man.

They belonged together. They always had.

He stepped closer to her, his lips a couple of inches from hers, when the swinging door from the living room pushed open and a man he vaguely recognized stood there.

In black pants, a white shirt and a black-and-white silk tie, the man put Cedar on edge. It was his confidence, his wealth—judging by the quality of his clothes and the watch he wore—and the way he held himself.

He remembered where he’d seen this man before. At one of Heather’s parents’ parties. He was the dentist who lived down the street.

So why was Heather leaving Cedar and the kiss they’d almost shared to walk over and put an arm around this man?

“Cedar, I’d like you to meet Charles,” she said.

If not for years of courtroom practice, Cedar might have let it be known that his solar plexus had just taken a massive blow.

“The dentist,” he said, reaching out a hand. “We’ve met.”

He hadn’t remembered the guy’s name. Or had any inkling that this...this dentist was the man Heather planned to marry. He was closer to her parents’ age than their own.

“At the Labor Day barbecue, year before last,” he continued, feeling ornery and not happy with himself. “Heather and I had just returned from a trip to Egypt, and her parents insisted they see for themselves that she’d made it back unharmed.”

They’d been travel-weary, wrinkled and could hardly manage to keep their hands off each other. The trip had been partially for business—he’d had to meet with a man who’d skipped the country, but had information that could exonerate a very important client of Cedar’s. He and Heather had also had a lot of time alone. He’d been able to focus on her almost exclusively for three whole days.

Charles, the fiancé, nodded, seemingly not the least bit put out by Cedar’s rudeness.

“Glad you could make it tonight,” he said instead. “I know it meant a lot to Heather to have you here.”

And the guy didn’t find that discomfiting? Or odd?

“I told Charles the same thing I told the girls,” she said, her free hand on the man’s flat stomach, just above his belt. “I’d like us to be able to be friendly if we ever run into each other, and I’m glad to see you here with none of the old feelings between us. Good or bad.”

Was that so?

What did you call the almost-kiss that would have happened if not for Charles’s suspiciously timed entrance?

Lianna had sent the older man. Cedar knew it as surely as he knew he’d be getting drunk that night when he got home.

“I wanted you to meet Charles and hoped you’d wish us well,” she continued now, sounding more like her mother than ever.

“I do wish you well,” he said, including them both in his best courtroom smile.

Heather would see through it. But then he wasn’t buying her stance, either.

Still, he’d play along.

Didn’t have much choice, really.

He needed her help, or a young woman might die at the hands of a man Cedar had put back on the streets. The man he’d manipulated Heather into helping him set free.

He hadn’t done it to serve justice, but to serve his own compulsion to win.

“Then I hope you’ll come join us for our celebratory toast. The champagne’s been poured and passed around. We were just missing my bride-to-be.”

With a bow of his head, Cedar conceded defeat. Or compliance. Or whatever the hell he was doing. Because Heather had asked him to come to her party.

He stood beside the happy couple as they were toasted again and again. He sipped champagne. And tried his damndest to be okay with the fact that the woman he loved was about to marry another man.

CHAPTER THREE (#udc7d5650-032c-5356-81ff-d9f7219f9482)

SHE’D ALMOST KISSED HIM. Or let him kiss her.

It had been a conditioned response. She knew that. But she was still disappointed in herself. If she was going to be happy, to quit worrying about making poor choices and letting herself down, to stop being paranoid about people using her and about being unable to use her skills on a personal level, she had to manage to be around Cedar and not capitulate to whatever he wanted.

To anything he wanted.

He wanted her. The knowledge was a boost to the pride he’d injured when he’d put her low on his list of priorities. But she wasn’t proud of herself for having felt a thrill of gratitude that at least she’d mattered to him for more than how she could help him reach his goals. For more than the asset she’d been to his career and his unending drive to win.

He hadn’t won her, and he wasn’t going to.

The only reason she’d agreed, before he’d left the other night, to see him again—to meet him for lunch to discuss some business matter he had—was to prove to herself, and to him, that the incident in the kitchen had been an anomaly. A natural reaction to seeing a lover again for the first time since their intensely painful split. The pain had faded, the hurt feelings and blame dissipated, leaving room for good memories to slip in. Good memories were healthy. She welcomed them.

However, she wouldn’t be swayed by them. Because she knew that memories were all they were. A few good times in between all the bad. They weren’t significant, didn’t represent a way of life. Or possibilities. They were merely the bag that lined the trash can.