At eighteen, he’d still had a boyish lankiness to his frame. That was gone. His shoulders had broadened, though his hips were still lean and his legs beneath the charcoal-gray pants were long. His black hair was cut short, and while she watched, he ran a hand through it. He’d always done that when he was thinking, and it would leave him all sexily tousled. Now, it was too short to tousle.
Even from behind, he seemed controlled, contained, all that energy she had loved so much leashed in tight.
Maybe she’d had a lucky escape.
Declan’s path in life had been decided early on. His family had always expected him to take the business and make it respectable; that’s what he’d been groomed for and he’d gone along with the plan without a hitch. Except for her. And that had been a minor mistake, easily remedied.
After what seemed like an age, he turned around. His hands shoved into his pockets, he scrutinized her from head to toe. A tremor ran through her, but she stiffened her spine and returned the favor. And her breath caught again. It wasn’t fair; he was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
“You came back,” Declan murmured.
“Your father offered me a lot of money.”
He raised a brow. “You spoke to him?”
“Well, he would hardly be able to offer me money if I hadn’t.”
His lips twitched. “I’d forgotten that sarcastic mouth of yours.”
“Not the only thing you’ve forgotten, I’m guessing.”
His gaze drifted down over her body, sending shivers across her skin. “You’d be surprised.”
What the hell did that mean? “Actually, I turned him down.”
“You did? And yet here you are.”
Time to get nice. She took a deep breath, curved her lips into a smile. “I like to think we were friends once.” Until you dumped me. “You’re in danger and I want to help. Why not reconsider? Take the bodyguards—they’ll be discreet. They won’t cramp your style.”
“And would you be one of those bodyguards?”
Not a chance in hell. “If you want me to be.”
His eyes narrowed, and he studied her face for a long minute. “Are you trying to be nice?”
She gritted her teeth. “Yes.”
He let out a short laugh. “I’d forgotten your habit of absolute honesty. But you suck at the nice thing.”
“No, I don’t.” She shrugged. “I’m just a little out of practice.”
He took a step closer, his gaze still wandering over her.
“You’re staring,” she said. And she wished he would stop. She was used to being stared at, and she’d learned to ignore it. But somehow she couldn’t ignore Declan’s cool scrutiny.
He took another step closer, so close she could breathe in his scent—warm man, and some expensive cologne, sharp and citrusy. She stared straight ahead, but that meant she was gazing at his chest and she could see the dark shadow of his nipples beneath the thin silk. Her mouth went dry, and she forced her eyes upward just as he reached out and ran a finger down the scar on her face. A shiver rippled through her at his light touch, settling low down in her belly.
“Did you get this in the army?” he asked.
She frowned, too shocked by the effect of his touch to make sense of the words at first. He must be quite aware of where she’d got the scar. He’d visited her in the hospital after the crash. That was when he’d told her they were finished. “I got it in the accident before you left.”
His hand dropped to his side, and he took a step back, his gaze fixed on her cheek, so for the first time in years she had the urge to raise her hand and cover the scar. Instead, she clenched her fists at her side.
“They told me you weren’t seriously hurt,” he muttered.
“I wasn’t. This is nothing.”
He shook his head. “I remember now. You had a bandage on your face, but they told me you were okay. They said just cuts and bruises. You should have told me.”
“It is just a cut—from the broken windshield.” Why was he making such a big deal about it?
“You didn’t have it taken care of?”
“You mean plastic surgery?” When he nodded, she continued, “Didn’t seem worth it. At first…” Shit, what was she supposed to say—that she’d been too broken inside to worry about what the outside looked like? Then later, once she was in the army, she just hadn’t thought about it. Now, she actually liked the scar. Kim had told her it gave her character. Without it, she’d just be one more beautiful woman, and what was the point in that?
But from the shock on Declan’s face, maybe that was all she had been to him. She gave a mirthless smile. “Your father told me all I’d had going was my looks and I’d fucked that up.”
“He did. When?”
Maybe his father hadn’t told him about their last meeting; maybe he hadn’t thought it important enough to mention.
“I went to see you after I got out of hospital. Of course you had already fled the country.” She gave what she hoped was a dismissive shrug.
“He didn’t tell me.”
She’d always suspected as much. “What would have been the point? You’d made your feelings—or lack of them—perfectly clear.”
He turned away and strolled across the room. “You want a drink? I need a drink.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Not often you get shot one day and faced with a specter from the past the next.”
“A specter?”
He stopped in front of a cabinet, opened it, and examined the contents. After pulling out two shot glasses, he poured a measure of scotch into both, then headed to the sofa, placing the glasses down on the coffee table. He picked up one and tossed the amber liquid down in one go. He strode back and picked up the bottle, brought it with him this time and topped off his glass. “Well?”
“Should you be drinking and taking medication? Not very sensible.”
He studied her, head cocked to one side. “Since when did you get sensible?”
“When I joined the army. It was a painful process.”
“I’ll bet.” Something flickered in his silver eyes. “I’m still trying to come to terms with the idea of you in uniform. I’m not sure whether it terrifies me or turns me on. Actually, I take that back…”
“It terrifies you?”
“You wish.” He waved a hand at the sofa. “Sit down, and you can try and persuade me into those bodyguards while you have your drink.”