Swept Away by the Tycoon. Barbara Wallace
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already told you, I wanted to apologize for being a jerk. I had no business biting your head off.”
“Why did you?”
The only sound was that of water being wrung from the towel. “Long story.”
And guessing from the sour way he spoke, not a very pleasant one. “Want to share?”
“Ever wish you could turn back time?”
Having expected him to say no, his question caught her off guard. “Beyond tonight?”
“Yeah,” he replied, tossing the cloth into the bowl. Water splashed over the sides, leaving a puddle on the table. “Beyond tonight. Muggings don’t count.”
Then what did? Relationships? Bad decisions? “All the time,” she answered. More than he could possibly know. She gave a soft laugh, trying to inject a little humor into what was otherwise a pathetic situation. “You met Aiden.”
“True enough. What on earth did you see in him, anyway?”
“A really sexy Irish accent. What can I say?” she added, when Ian arched a brow. “I’m shallow.”
“Aren’t we all?” he replied with a smile.
Right now, the shallow part of her had noticed the shadows behind his eyes. The darkness alternately marred and enhanced their blue color, giving his gaze depth. “So why are you turning back time?” she asked him. “Don’t tell me you have relationship issues.”
“I’ve got issues up the ying yang, Curlilocks.” His hands cradled her jaw again, tilting her head backward. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
“Will I live, Doc?” She really wanted to ask what he meant, but those were the words that came out.
Ian was quiet as he studied the wound. Amazingly, his touch was even more gentle than before. Between the featherlight contact and his breath blowing warm at the base of her throat, Chloe found herself fighting not to break out in a warm shiver.
“You already have a scar,” he said after a moment.
“Took a header going in for a layup. College ball,” she added for clarification.
“A six-foot-tall woman playing basketball. There’s a stereotype.”
“Six feet and a half inch, thank you very much.” She lowered her chin, a mistake, since she found herself nose to nose with him. The shiver she’d been fighting broke free. “And playing ball helped pay for school.”
“Lucky you.”
“Suppose that’s one way of looking at things.” If you call being born with pterodactyl-length arms lucky. “I didn’t really have a choice.”
“We all have a choice,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
Busy pawing his way through the bandages, Ian didn’t answer right away. “Exactly the way it sounds. We always have a choice. We don’t always make the right ones.”
“You can say that again,” she replied. “I’ve made enough bad decisions to qualify as an expert.”
“Nonsense, you’re just a baby. Talk to me when you’ve made as many mistakes as I have.” He tore open a Band-Aid. “Then you can call yourself an expert.”
Chloe recalled her thoughts this morning, about whether Ian had battled karma. Apparently he had, although not as victoriously as she’d supposed.
“All done,” he announced, stepping back. He was referring to bandaging her cut, but intuition told her he meant the conversation, as well. The abrupt end left her as unsettled as his touch.
Made her wonder if she wasn’t dancing around a mistake herself.
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