Could this day get any worse?
Him. James Fielding…aka Mr. Wrong.
What was James doing here?
It had been three long years since she’d last seen him, when he’d abruptly entered—and then promptly exited—her life, but there was no mistaking those seduce-you, golden Adonis looks.
He was nearly a decade older than her twenty-seven, but he hardly looked it, damn him. The sandy hair was clipped shorter than she remembered, but he was just as broad, just as muscular and just as impressive at over six feet.
His expression was studied rather than the fun-loving and carefree one she’d memorized. Still, a woman never forgot her first lover—especially when he’d vanished without explanation.
Unknowingly, Pia started toward him.
She didn’t know what she would say, but her feet impelled her forward even as anger sang in her veins.
Her hands clenched at her sides.
As she approached, she noted that James was speaking with a well-known Wall Street hedge fund manager—Oliver Smithson.
“…Your Grace,” the older and graying man said.
Pia’s stride faltered. Your Grace?
Why would James be addressed as Your Grace? The reception room held its share of British aristocrats, but even marquesses were addressed as My Lord. As far as she knew, Your Grace was a form of address reserved for…dukes.
Unless Oliver Smithson was joking?
Unlikely.
The thought flashed through her mind, and then it was too late.
She was upon them, and James spotted her.
Pia noted with satisfaction the flicker of recognition in his hazel eyes.
He looked debonair in a tuxedo that showcased a fit physique. His facial features were even, though his nose wasn’t perfectly sloped, and his jaw was square and firm. Eyebrows that were just a shade darker than his hair winged over eyes that had fascinated her in their changeable hue during their one night together.
If she wasn’t so fired up, the impact of all that masculine perfection might have knocked the air from her lungs. As it was, she felt a sizzle skate along her nerve endings.
She could be excused for being a fool three years ago, she told herself. James Fielding was sex poured into civilized attire.
Though his rakish air, so undeniable when she’d first met him, had been tamed, both by his clothes and his demeanor, she sensed that it was still there. She was intimately acquainted with it.
“Ah, our lovely wedding planner,” Oliver Smithson said, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air, and then laughed heartily. “Couldn’t have predicted this turn of events, could we?”
Pia knew the comment was a reference to the drama at the church, but she couldn’t help thinking grimly that it applied just as well to the current situation. She would never have expected to run into James here.
As if following her line of thought, James raised an eyebrow.
Before either of them could say anything, however, Smithson went on, addressing her, “Have you made the acquaintance of His Grace, the Duke of Hawkshire?”
The Duke of…?
Pia’s eyes went wide, and she stared in mute fury. So he really was a duke? Was his name even James?
No, wait—she knew the answer to that question. She had, of course, reviewed the guest list for the wedding. She’d had no idea, however, that her Mr. Wrong and James Carsdale, Ninth Duke of Hawkshire, were one and the same.
She felt suddenly light-headed.
James glanced at Oliver Smithson. “Thank you for attempting to affect an introduction, but Ms. Lumley and I have met before,” he said before turning back to her. “And please address me as Hawk. Most people do these days.”
Yes, they were more acquainted than anyone could guess, Pia thought acerbically. And how dare Hawk stand there so haughty and self-possessed?
Her gaze clashed with that of the man who was an intimate stranger to her. Angling her chin up, she said, “Y-yes, I-I’ve have had the pleasure.”
Immediately, her cheeks flamed. She’d meant to make a sophisticated double entendre, but she’d undermined herself by sounding unsure and naive.
Damn her stutter for making an appearance now. It just showed how flustered she was. She’d worked a long time with a speech therapist to suppress her childhood speech impediment.
Still, Hawk’s eyes narrowed. Without a doubt, he’d understood her intended dig, and he didn’t like it. But then his expression turned intense and sensual, before changing again to a perplexing flash of tenderness.
Beneath her sleeveless brown sheath, Pia felt a frisson of awareness, her breasts and abdomen tightening. Surely she was mistaken about that fleeting look that appeared almost tender?
Was he feeling sorry for her? Was he looking down at her, the naive virgin whom he’d left after one night? The thought made her spine stiffen.
“Pia.”
As her name fell from his chiseled lips—the first time she’d heard it from him in three years—she was swamped by thoughts of a night of blistering sex between her white embroidered sheets.
Damn him. She rallied her resolve.
“What an unexpected…pleasure,” Hawk said, his lips quirking, as if he, too, knew how to play at a game of hidden meaning.
Before she could reply, a waiter stopped beside them and presented them with a platter of canapés with baba ghanoush purée.
Staring down at the appetizers, Pia’s first thought was that she and Belinda had spent an entire afternoon choosing the hors d’oeuvres for today.
Then as another thought quickly followed, she decided to go for broke.
“Thank you,” she acknowledged the waiter.
Turning back to the duke, she smiled sweetly. “It’s a pleasure to savor. Bon appétit.”
Without pausing a beat, she plastered his face with a fistful of eggplant.
Then she turned on her heel and stalked toward the hotel kitchen.
Dimly, she recorded the astonished gaze of the hedge fund manager and a few nearby guests before she slapped open the kitchen’s swinging doors. If her professional reputation hadn’t already been ruined, it was surely going down in flames now. But it was worth it.
