His usual type, if the media could be believed. "Is someone in the car? Everyone is welcome." Even a size-zero supermodel with photo-worthy hair and fourteen thousand dollars' worth of dental work. "Sure." He shot a glance toward the long, sleek car idling at the curb. You didn't mention on the phone if you'd be staying long. "Yes." She was a psychologist and thus well equipped to handle this unexpected visit, if the bongo drum in her chest would lay off. After all this time, both her brain and her body still reacted to him without her permission. A broken leg did take less than eight years to heal.Ī familiar, cloud-parting smile broke open across his stubbly jaw, its effect a forceful punch to a feminine place long forgotten. She'd practiced a highly appropriate "hello" and a lovely "nice to see you," both suitable greetings for an ex-boyfriend who calls with no warning.īut obviously his brief and to-the-point "I need to talk to you" had knocked her upside down, and she hadn't reoriented yet because all she managed was "You're not on crutches." Juliana Cane hadn't spoken to Michael Shaylen in eight years, not since the day she'd realized that if she was going to lose him, she'd rather do it on her terms.Īnd today, when she opened her front door to the man who'd once taken her to heights never experienced before or since, her brain deserted her.
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