Free In Love Again by Megan Mulry Page A

Maybe you’ll want to buy it yourself when you’re done… A little piece of America to add to your vast holdings.”
    She held her arm out, perfectly steady, waiting for him to put the jacket into her hand. He would figure out a way to bait her. This silly job seemed to matter to her for some reason. Not like she needed the money; maybe she’d decided she needed a little pet project to fill her royal days. Ben gave her the jacket.
    Claire slid her right arm, then her left slowly into the sleeves. She pulled her hair out from beneath the collar, closing her eyes for a few seconds as she did it, as if her unruly blond hair was just one more annoyance. Ben wanted to pull her hair so hard and furiously. He wanted to show her…something.
    He raked his hand through his own short hair instead.
    She spoke softly. “I don’t know if I’m the right person for this job after all.”
    He stared down at her. He knew it was despicable, but he liked her down there on the porch, a few inches below him.
    “No, I disagree. I think you’re the best person for the job,” he said with narrowed eyes, sizing her up. “And it’s my job, so I get to decide.”
    She licked her upper lip with the tip of her tongue, as if she had to do something rather than utter the condescending words that probably sprang to mind. “Very well.” She started to turn toward the car, and if Ben hadn’t known the extent of her inbred arrogance, he might have even mistaken the softening of her shoulders for a sign of defeat.
    “Claire? Not even a kiss good-bye for an old friend?” He didn’t know where all of this venom was coming from, but Ben thought he must have an entire arsenal of ill-conceived, thoughtless ideas tucked away in his brain somewhere. He wanted a taste, and he knew it was wrong and laced with spite, but he wanted it. And he hadn’t wanted anything for so long, he felt almost entitled. She was made of ice. What difference did it make to her?
    She turned slowly back to face him. “You can’t be serious.”
    Ah, there she was. The haughty, confident ice princess.
    “Oh. But I am. Just a peck. I vaguely remember you used to like kissing.”
    She blushed. She probably blushed like most people raised an eyebrow. On demand , he thought cruelly.
    “And only kissing,” he added, wanting to put a stop to any pleasure she might be getting, no matter how twisted. “It didn’t mean anything to you then. Why should it mean anything now?”
    She stared at him, raw, murderous rage flashing behind those ice eyes. Then she stiffened. “Why not? Show me what you got…Ben.” She said his name with cold precision.
    Ben let his hand come away from the doorjamb, where he’d been effectively blocking her entrance to the house. He reached around to her lower back, slipping his hand between the smooth cotton of her white blouse—warm from the skin beneath—and the curled shearling of the luxurious coat lining. Claire didn’t gasp or respond, but she bent in a way that felt distantly familiar.
    She leaned into him, and in that slight give, she took everything from him. Just like she had all those years ago—pulling him out of himself, out of control—lost to her false innocence.
    He didn’t care. He planted his lips on hers and took. She made the smallest whimpering sound, which he chose to construe as reluctant pleasure, and he began to have his way with her lips. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said how she used to love kissing. They’d done it for hours. Under the plane trees outside St.-Remy. Along the canals near Dijon. They’d kissed for days. Eons. He would have kissed her forever if she’d have let him.
    Ben released her, remembering that she would never let him. Not really. She always held something in reserve.
    He stepped away abruptly to give himself the physical distance from her warm, soft body, before he fell back into that desperate minefield of adolescent thinking that had done so much damage to his heart twenty years ago.