Olivia wasn’t familiar with the stalking laws in the state of California, but as she cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the window of a ritzy beach house in La Jolla, she hoped to hell she was committing only a misdemeanor and not a felony.
At least she’d had the good sense not to break and enter when nobody answered the door after three increasingly long rings of the bell, though she’d tested the knob to see if it was locked. It was.
Deadbolted, if the lack of give was any indication.
Thank God, or she’d be booked on a B&E for sure if the cops showed up. At least she could plead temporary insanity. Window peeping wasn’t the lowest thing Olivia had done today.
Browbeating your estranged husband’s office manager to find out his current location might go against proper decorum and make you look like the worst wife ever, but at least it wasn’t against the law—not that Caroline could be bullied into giving up the information. The woman would probably endure Gitmo-style torture to protect her boss.
When she’d gone to Ash’s condo, once their condo, he was nowhere to be found. Same thing when she’d gone to his office.
“He’s not here,” Caroline stated plainly, greeting Olivia with a cool look.
The parking lot minus one black Jeep told her that. “Can you tell me where he is?”
“I can. Not sure I want to.” She was playing protector today.
“Okay,” Olivia drawled pleasantly, knowing this was a test. “Could I hire Scorpio Securities to find a missing person? Have you ping his cell phone? Organize a search party and staple up some flyers?” Holding up her left hand, she flashed her wedding ring. “He’s my lawfully wedded husband, you know.”
“Yet, you’re coming to me because you can’t find him.”
Ouch. Good point. “I told you during my last visit there was a good chance he’d take off on me. Now you know it’s true. I have a runaway groom on my hands.”
Fiddling with a thin silver letter opener, Caroline smirked. “I have never seen Ash run from anything or anyone. He doesn’t scare.”
Holy sugar, she could take down a rhino with that thing, and Olivia eyed it carefully. “Put on a horror flick and see for yourself.”
That piqued her interest. “Oh, really? Slasher or paranormal?”
“Blood doesn’t bother him.” As if that wasn’t common knowledge. “Haunted houses do.”
Caroline frowned, jumping to his defense. “Um, ghosts are terrifying.”
“So’s a wife who’s been done wrong.” Olivia was desperate enough to appeal to the woman’s baser side.
“Fine. I’ll tell you where he is.” She dropped the sharp object. “But only because Hope was singing your praises the other day, and I trust her judgment. And Ash’s.”
It stung to have a virtual stranger—a female, no less—tell you the whereabouts of your handsome and virile husband, but Olivia hid her wince behind a smile. “Great. Where?”
“You caused quite a stir with your surprise visit a few weeks ago. Had the gossip mill going strong around here. It makes sense to me now, though. The way he is.”
“How is he?” Because let’s be honest, Olivia had no freaking idea how he was. Hadn’t for the last four years. That stung, too.
Caroline turned thoughtful. “Grumpy. Bossy. Lonely. Like he’s going through the motions.”
Me, too.
“But not these last few weeks,” she added, reaching for the ink pen stashed in the bun of her sleek up-do. “No, ma’am. Lately, he’s been, hmm, what’s the word I’m looking for?” Pursing shiny red lips, she pointed the pen at Olivia. “Zippy.”
Me, too.
“The man told a knock-knock joke last week, Olivia. A knock-knock joke! And sure, the adults were all stunned silent and only my five-year-old laughed, but still. The guys all think he’s lost his mind. I think he’s finally found it.” Scribbling on a Post-it note, she leveled her with a hard look. “Do you love him?”
“Yeah, but only when I’m not hating him.”
She’d answered automatically, and once it was out, there was no taking it back. And she was more surprised by her affirmative response than Ash’s guard dog.
Caroline handed her the yellow paper noting the address to an exclusive enclave of beach houses. The coordinates for her AWOL husband. The stern warning that followed was as unexpected as Olivia’s slip of the tongue.
“If you hurt him again, I’ll hurt you in return, and I’m not kidding. I know he doesn’t need a bodyguard or a mother hen coddling him, but I’m learning a new technique on how to choke someone into submission, and I’m a quick study. Grady teaches a weekly women’s self-defense class. It’s Wednesday nights at the gym across the street, if you’re interested. Everyone’s welcome.”
“Good to know. Thanks for the address.” Tapping the information into the GPS on her phone, she stopped at the door, looking back at Ash’s henchman. “I’m glad he has someone watching out for him, Caroline. But since you brought it up, you should know. He’s the one who does the hurting.”
It was a great closing line, even if it did skirt the truth. There was plenty of guilt to go around. She’d fired her own deadly weapon, hitting her target as surely as if she’d graduated at the top of Grady’s self-defense class. Whoever the hell Grady was.
Maybe he could give her some pointers on establishing street cred inside a minimum-security women’s prison. Unless stalking with a side of burglary got you a stint in max.
“Do y’all see anything?” Macy’s whisper came through the cell phone loud and clear, and despite the plural connotation, Olivia was alone in her quest to find him, no matter what laws she broke. “Be ready to run in case somebody spots you. I don’t have bail money if you’re hauled in for criminal trespassing. I broke the bank at the beauty supply store yesterday. I found a scraper for the bottom of my feet that could debark an oak.”
“Not helpful,” Olivia replied, searching for access to the backyard. “And I haven’t seen anybody yet. Not a soul.”
It was possible Caroline set her up. Soon a nervous homeowner would pump a shotgun and release a pack of foaming Rottweilers.
“I know you sucked at the four-by-four relay in high school track, but don’t be afraid to put those gams to good use and hurdle a fence if the situation warrants. Run like the wind.”
“Unless an ax murderer or a rabid dog is chasing me, or there’s free cake two blocks down, I’m not running anywhere.” Not in her floral print pumps. Wiggling her toes, she gauged how quickly she could kick them off at the sound of a growl. “And I didn’t suck, I had cramps. Otherwise, I would’ve finished second.”
Macy snorted. “Second to last. But I’ll admit, you looked good doing it. You could really rock a ponytail and old school gym shorts.” She paused, her hamster wheel spinning. “We should start jogging. Maybe join one of those running groups you see in Balboa Park. Oh, I know! We can hire a hunky guy to train us for a marathon. Maybe he and I click, sexual chemistry-wise, but we fight our attraction to each other because, you know, the marathon has to come first. But then, one rainy day when we cross the finish line and we’re sweaty and out of breath… our eyes meet over a shared bottle of green Gatorade and we just can’t fight it any longer. We kiss passionately as hundreds of runners surround us and start a slow clap.”
It was Olivia’s turn to snort. “Sounds like the kind of bullshit you’d see in a deodorant commercial or a sappy greeting card.” She wasn’t big on romance these days. “He’ll turn out to be gay, or married, or someone who chews with his mouth open. Or, like my case, none of those things, but just a cold-hearted snake.”
Her cousin laughed, not offended by the greeting card jab. Macy was a graphic artist. Her greeting card line, Racy Macy, was written and illustrated exclusively by her, and available at gift shops in San Diego and a roadside stand in Savannah, Georgia, where their great aunt Vilma sold them along with homemade canned pickles, strawberry rhubarb jam, and unevenly crocheted socks—intentionally uneven, because as Aunt Vilma always said, “My dear old Herbert, God rest his soul, had two different sized feet. Nearly put us in the poor house on account a having to buy two pair a boots every year instead a one. Size eleven on the right, seven on the left. It’s a wonder he could walk without falling over. Knitting these here socks saved us from wasting more money. I reckon there’s other folks out there with the same affliction.”
Following a cobblestone path lined with head-high shrubbery, Olivia batted rogue palm fronds and made her way along the side of the house, spotting an iron gate leading to the back. Too high to scale no matter what her shoes, she got lucky. The levered hinge wasn’t locked.
Windows galore lined the contemporary two-story, showcasing ocean views from almost every room in the house. It also allowed her to easily see inside. It was gorgeous. Gorgeous and unoccupied. Not a single light was on as dusk neared, the only sound coming from the waves of the Pacific crashing onto shore fifty yards from the patio.
Shielding her eyes from the orange glow of a setting sun, Olivia scanned the surrounding beach, looking for six and a half feet of rugged male beauty.
Only a few people dotted the beach, which was unusually quiet for a warm May evening. A gray-haired couple walked along the water’s edge, holding hands and laughing when the waves nipped at their canvas sneakers. A lanky man wearing basketball shorts and no shirt jogged around them, his bare feet gliding over firm wet sand. A white Labrador stared out at the tide, a tennis ball in his mouth as he watched a man straddling a surfboard several yards out to sea.
A six-and-a-half-foot man.
“Found him,” Olivia said, his formidable silhouette unmistakable. “Gotta go.”
“Olivia, wait. Are you sure you really want to do this? Be sure, okay? I love you to the moon and back, but I think you’re making a mistake.”
“No, Macy, I’m not sure.” Sliding off the floral pumps, she snagged them with two fingers and trekked through deep sand, plopping down near the dog. They watched the surfer with equal interest. “I haven’t been sure about anything concerning him since that horrible day. But doing nothing isn’t working anymore.”
“It was horrible. It was godawful, Olivia. But it was also a long time ago.”
In other words, get over it. Easy to say until it happened to you.
“You don’t understand,” Olivia replied, not for the first time and not the last.
“You never even gave him a chance.”
“That’s not true. I just didn’t give him a second chance. Once was enough. Hey, do you wanna take a self-defense class with me? It’s Wednesday nights at a real deal gym downtown. The kind where people work-out, not hook up. No irrational, sweaty kiss fantasies allowed. We should check it out.”
Sighing, Macy gave up her pro-Ash argument. “If it includes kicking a creeper in the balls, I’m in. And speaking of balls, try not to break his, okay? I say this in a strictly platonic way, but that is one fine man. Break his heart if it makes you feel better, but let him slink away with his manhood intact.”
“He has no heart. And don’t worry. I have no intention of being anywhere near his balls.”
Tapping disconnect, Olivia squinted against the setting sun and watched as that man gripped the sides of a yellow surfboard and floated in open water, waiting for the surging momentum of the ocean to carry him forward. When a prime wave peaked, he paddled into it and hopped to his feet, effortlessly riding the crest. When it weakened, his big body slipped under the frothy rush of water, the board floating empty.
Just when she began to panic, fearing him dead from an undertow, he surfaced and swam back out to sea, straddling the board with ease. Minutes passed as her ivory silk skirt absorbed the damp sand and Ash caught wave after wave, some strong enough for a lengthy ride, others dissipating quickly.
Olivia didn’t get it. To her, surfing was a colossal waste of energy. To him, it was a form of meditation. Debriefing, he would say, when he’d show up with wet, salty-smelling hair after catching a red-eye into town. Only hours to spend together, he’d hit a prime surfing spot on his way home from the airport, exercising the demons from his recent mission before he changed faces, savage soldier to devoted husband in a day’s time.
The sound of clapping caught her attention and both she and the dog turned. A group of teenage girls stood on the boardwalk behind them, cheering for the man on the surfboard as he caught a massive wave. Riding the arc with a graceful finesse that belied his size, his powerful legs steered the board across rolling water, angling his body and executing several cutbacks as the wave gained momentum. She, the dog, and the teenagers stared in awe as he rode the violent force of nature all the way to the shore break, disappearing under the surface just before the shallow bottom.
The girls applauded, whistling and hooting their appreciation before continuing their walk down the beach, the unknown surfer forgotten.
The dog dropped his tennis ball and looked between her and the man, tongue hanging out in happy bliss, and Olivia realized she wore a similar expression.
“Yeah, I know.” She rolled her eyes at the strange animal. “He puts on quite a show, doesn’t he? If you think that’s impressive, you should see his moves between the sheets. Wait—that came out wrong.” Looking around the deserted beach, she muttered, “Where the hell is your owner?”
The dog whimpered, latching onto the dirty ball and looking back toward the surfer emerging from the sea like a Greek god wearing navy board shorts and nothing else.
It wasn’t fair. He could’ve gained a spare tire. Lost some hair on top and sprouted a thatch in his nose. Male pattern baldness and a stomach pooch would go a long way toward justifying her decision four years ago. But, no. He was still the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
Indecision skipped through her. Macy was right. She wasn’t sure about this at all.
Chiseled muscle and sinewy strength walked straight toward her. The epitome of cocksure, yet blind to his entertained female audience.
“Careful, darlin’. You’ve come looking for me twice in two weeks.” His charm was in full force. “I’m gonna start thinking you like me again.” Drops of water sprayed her legs as he bent over, removing the surfboard’s leash from his ankle.
“I wouldn’t use the word like.” Except where it pertained to his body.
“Love, then?” His grin was cocky. “I can live with that.”
The wet board shorts rode low, molding his lower body, the white ties crisscrossing his fly the only thing keeping his best asset decent. He ran a hand over his hair, flinging more water as he slicked it back, and she gazed openly.
Half-naked, he was still as ripped as he’d been during his prime operator days.
Ignoring his killer smile, she stood, brushing sand from her short skirt. The breeze blew the flirty hem and she struggled to keep it in place with one hand, grabbing her shoes with the other. “We need to talk, Ash.”
“So talk.” The dog circled his legs, and he reached for the tennis ball, lobbing it down the beach. Sand kicked up as the Lab scrambled to retrieve it.
“It’s not a topic suitable for public discussion.”
Scowling, he walked toward the beach house. “This better not be another fucking errand for Marshall.”
“This has nothing to do with the vineyard.” Not completely anyway.
Following him, she watched in amazement as the dog met them at the back door.
“Stay, Pete.” Ash wiped the obedient dog’s paws before sliding the glass door open. “Ali will shoot me if I let you drag sand all over the house again.”
Olivia froze inside the doorway, an open concept living room, dining room, and kitchen spread out before her.
Who the hell was Ali?
And why was Ash casually grabbing a bottle of water from a refrigerator in a house that this Ali person clearly called home? A subtle feminine scent told her a woman was running the place. It smelled like the cosmetics department at Neiman Marcus, traces of designer perfume, expensive face powder, and luxury linens hanging in the air.
“I need to wash the salt off. Then you can talk.” He took the steps two at a time and she watched, checking out his ass without shame. Still as fine as ever.
A whimper made her look down, the dog staring at her with soulful brown eyes.
“Do you know who Ali is? Because if she’s sleeping with my husband, then I’m gonna cut a bitch, Pete. I will throat punch her into next week. I’m not afraid to go to prison.”
The dog cowered and Olivia felt instant remorse. “Aww, buddy. I’m sorry.” Running a hand over his soft fur, she cuddled him, using her best baby voice. “Is Ali your mommy? I stand by my vow to teach her a painful lesson regarding married men, but I’ll find you a new mommy. I promise. And to be honest, I’m not cut out for the thug life.”
He still looked nervous, but his tail wagged when she scratched his ears. And he had no answers for her.
The sound of running water above her, the sight of his wallet, cell phone, and Jeep keys on the kitchen counter, and the empty bottles of Coors Light in the recycle bin sent a shot of sudden awareness through her.
He lived here, too. With her. A woman named Ali. And they had a dog named Pete.
That son of a bitch.
Catching her eye and triggering panic, the glint from a photograph stuck to the refrigerator had her taking slow, dreadful steps in that direction, the travertine tile smooth on her bare feet. Goose bumps bloomed on her skin despite the warm house. Olivia knew what that photograph was. Knew it before she was close enough to see it. A black and white, 3-D image of a tiny little life.
The magnet holding it in place had three words on it. Daddy loves me.
The edge of the marble island caught her as she stumbled backward, hitting it so hard she’d have bruises by morning. Her body went numb, the pumps she’d been clutching dropping to the floor. Barely able to stay on her feet and completely unable to tear her gaze away, the sonogram mocked her. The magnet galvanized her.
Outrage propelled her up the wide steps.
The large landing at the top of stairs offered four options. A set of double doors led to a pristine master bedroom, the ocean view stretching out to the horizon line. Another door opened to a guest bedroom, the view similar but the bed disheveled. A shower ran behind the partially closed door next to it. Olivia reluctantly admitted, the woman named Ali might have bad judgment, but she had good taste.
Then she saw it. The last bedroom.
Walked toward it as if led by a cruel, invisible tether.
Itemized the space in one agonizing minute.
And closed her eyes in denial.
Protecting herself from the painful sight was futile. A jagged emptiness far too familiar invaded her, poking the wounds of the past, bruising tender flesh. The sunny yellow nursery, fully-equipped and ready to go, waited to welcome home the growing baby in the sonogram. Torn by the range of emotions filling her, including a jealousy so sharp she felt it slice through her pride and pierce her delicately mended heart, she stood frozen to the spot.
“Liv.” Ash’s rough voice startled her and she whipped around.
A mortifying wetness coated her cheeks and she prayed he couldn’t see it, her anger taking over. “How could you do this? To me? To us?” Seething, her voice rose with each rapid-fire question. “After—after what you did with her?”
His head tilted in warning. “Stop.”
“How, Ash?” Gesturing wildly toward the nursery, she swiped at her eyes, desperate to hide her reaction. “How could you just start over? Like it meant nothing!”
“Olivia,” he growled, his angry gaze darting to the room behind her. Something else sparked in them, something she couldn’t identify, then it was gone. “I don’t live here.”
“I don’t wanna hear your excuses! I didn’t want them then, and I don’t want them now! I knew you would do this. I knew you would—wait, what?”
His lips thinned. “I don’t live here. I’m watching Pete while Sam and Ali spend the weekend in Palm Springs. This is my business partner’s house.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he replied pointedly, the two-word response more effective than a lengthy argument disputing her accusations.
“Well, now I feel like a fool.” Like a fool in serious denial. Like a fool who might still be in love with her husband.
And now she knew why Pete took talk of Ali’s demise so hard.
“Don’t. Don’t feel like a fool. Just don’t look. That’s what I do.”
Yeah, he was real good at it, too. Letting things slide off the surface, never penetrating. It was a skill she envied, because what you didn’t feel, and what you wouldn’t face, couldn’t hurt you.
“And just for the record,” he added, eyes narrowing, “I’ll never start over. It’s once and done for me. It didn’t mean anything; it meant everything.”
Looking away from his intense blue eyes, she realized he was naked except for a white towel wrapped around his waist. Pulled tight, he held the fabric together with one fist, the thin terrycloth outlining a substantial bulge. Firsthand knowledge made it even more tempting.
An antique crib behind her and a fertile man in front of her? She could practically feel herself start to ovulate.
“I got a call from Trey yesterday.” Nothing chased away the irrational urge to procreate faster than vineyard talk. “Seems he’s had a change of heart and wants exclusive rights to take the Coleson Creek label nationwide. He sent me a signed contract so financially favorable to my side, it made me wonder if somebody held a gun to his head while he drafted it. Do you know anything about his sudden turnaround?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shrugging mile-wide shoulders, the towel slipped down his hips, a trail of soft hair leading to the promised land. “Maybe he realized how hard you work. That you’ve earned the deal and deserve the reward.” An impish grin formed on his lips. “Maybe he’s trying to get your attention.”
Maybe he was actually Ash.
“I think I want a divorce.” Far more abrupt than she’d intended, Olivia blurted out the reason for tracking him down.
And before she analyzed her unintended use of the word think, he shut her down.
“No. Fuck, no.” And with that pigheaded response, he turned and walked into the guest bedroom, letting the towel drop.
“You can’t tell me no.” Following him, she stepped over the discarded towel.
“I just did.” Gloriously naked, he rifled through an olive-green duffel bag sitting on the end of the bed, his movements angry.
“I can have you served with papers by the end of the week.”
“You can serve me from here to eternity and it won’t matter. I’m not signing shit.”
Taking in six and a half feet of tanned skin and steely muscle, including the sizable part in the middle, Olivia was shocked her brain still worked. “We both know this is over. It’s been over for four years. You made your choice.”
“Tell me this,” he fired back, unconcerned with his nudity. “If you really believe that, why’d you wait until now?”
Only Marie knew the answer to that. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy punishing me, you mean? Holding the fucking granddaddy of all grudges. With the thoughtful guidance of Marshall, right? A shoulder to cry on in the bed down the hall.” His lips twisted. “Convenient.”
Her temper flared. “No, busy punishing myself. Blaming myself and wondering what I did wrong. What I could’ve done differently. If I’d been more attentive. Seen the warning signs.” Anger faded to resignation. “Taken better care of myself.”
“It wasn’t anything you did!” Exasperated, he shook his head. “Nothing could’ve changed it. We’ve been over this.”
“But it still happened. There’s no going back, and for four years, there’s been no going forward either. I think—” She looked toward the nursery, voicing what she feared was really behind the decision to jump start her life. “I think I want to have that. And this,” she added, lifting her arms to indicate the house. “A real marriage. A family.”
Eyes turning glacial, his icy demeanor was that of a man seasoned by war. “Do you hate me that much? Is there no more love left at all? We have a real marriage. I can give you a baby. We’ll be a family. That was our plan from the beginning.”
“Plans change.”
“Mine haven’t.”
“There’s too much baggage. Between you and me, and you and Marshall. My loyalty to the vineyard, and… and her.” She shook her head. “It’s too much to overcome.”
“Marshall has no fucking business in our marriage. You let him in. And the vineyard is your place of employment, nothing more, nothing less. Your personal life should come first. I should come first.”
Eyes widening, she scoffed at his audacity. “Like you put your personal life ahead of The Unit? Never once did you put me before them. Never once,” she hissed, stressing her point. “So don’t you preach to me.”
“Livvy, look at me.” Voice raspy, he took a step closer. “I fucked up. I know it. I’ve always known it. But I loved you. Hate me for being gone all the time. For rarely coming home. For not coming home when it mattered most.” He scrubbed a palm down his face, exhaling. “Hate me for being an insensitive asshole with screwed-up priorities. Believe me, I hate myself for those things, too. But don’t hate me because you think I didn’t love you. Or because I still love you.”
The words weren’t pretty, but she’d been waiting a long time to hear them.
And if she wasn’t standing twenty feet from the tricked-out bedroom of an unborn baby, they might’ve done the job.
“Just sign the papers when you get them so we can each move on, and I can try to build a life again. I deserve that much from you. And get this mess with Marshall figured out once and for all, too, because I’m tired of being in the middle of your real-life family feud and having my work ethic questioned by everyone once they know my last name, and can you please put on some pea-pickin’ clothes?”
The words ran together as her traitorous eyes traveled down his chest and rigid abdomen, settling on his rapidly rising erection. It was fast becoming a spectacular focal point in an already beautiful room.
“Like what you see?”
She snorted. “I’m barely controlling my orgasm.”
“Come home, Livvy. Please.”
Please. That single word weakened her resolve faster than any could.
“Why would I do that?” Playing dumb gave her time to rally some willpower.
“Because you want something from me, and I want something from you. Come back home. Live with me again. Sleep with me again. Spend the summer with me, in our bed, clothing prohibited. If you still wanna cut ties in the fall, I won’t fight you.”
Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? “You wanna have hate sex for the next three months?”
“I wanna have all kinds of sex. Every kind of sex. Repeatedly. If you wanna throw in a little hate sex, too, I’m game.”
Yep. He was suggesting exactly what she thought. “So I spend the next ninety days banging you morning, noon, and night, and then you’ll sign the divorce papers? Doesn’t that sound a little…” She waved her hands around, searching for the right word. “Whorish to you?”
His wicked grin sent a slew of butterflies through her.
“It sounds like a wet dream come true to me. Except for the divorce part, but I’m confident that’s not gonna happen.” Dragging on a pair of jeans, he left the fly undone. “And I have to work every day, but I’m willing to clear my schedule for a quickie at lunch to accommodate my wife’s needs. Morning and night are guaranteed, though.”
He was serious, and because he’d been naked during the majority of their conversation, she was seriously considering it. Turns out telling Asher Coleson to go fuck himself was impossible when he was au naturel.
Instead, she smirked and walked out of the bedroom, not bothering to answer at all.
“Maybe give Pete an extra treat tonight,” she threw over her shoulder. “In my rush to judgment, I might’ve snapped and threatened to violently kill his mommy. No big deal.”
“I knew it.” His satisfied voice trailed her down the stairs. “You still like me, Liv. Admit it and accept defeat.”
Fighting a smile, Olivia grabbed her shoes off the kitchen floor and exited the house without another word. Without giving him an answer to his outrageous proposal.
It didn’t matter. They both knew. Their connection was too visceral. Their push and pull too exhilarating.
History was about to repeat itself.