This had nothing to do with logic.
He plunged through the crowd, ignoring Colleen’s shouted question. His entire awareness had narrowed down to a single, precise focus.
Mari’s eyes widened in surprise when he strode up to the booth.
“Let’s dance, Mari.”
Chapter Two
Mari stared mutely up at Marc. The man’s full impact struck her just as powerfully as it had when he’d unexpectedly tracked her down in Chicago.
God, he’d turned into a beautiful man.
His once-light hair had darkened to a burnished gold. He wore it short now, but the conservative style couldn’t suppress the natural wave. Whiskers shadowed his jaw. He looked just as good in a suit and tie as he did in the casual white button-down shirt and jeans he wore at present, but Mari knew which outfit Marc preferred. The wildness of the Kavanaugh spirit could never be disguised by the packaging of refined clothing.
He was still as lean as he’d been at twenty-one, but he’d gained some muscle in his chest and shoulders. She dragged her eyes off the tempting sight of his strong thighs and narrow hips encased in faded, extremely well-fitting denims and met his stare.
He looked good enough to eat—and furious. His eyes glittered like blue flames in his tanned face. Just before he walked up to the booth, she’d been telling Eric she was feeling exhausted after their busy day. Yet one look at Marc, and her blood was pumping madly in her veins, washing away every hint of fatigue.
“Uh, sure,” she replied. She couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse a dance without sounding rude or highlighting the significance of the encounter. If she agreed, surely people would just assume it was a casual dance between two old sweethearts.
Neither she nor Marc spoke as he led her to the edge of the crowded dance floor. The cover band was playing an ’80s classic with a good beat. Marc put his arm around her waist, and they began to move as naturally as if their last dance had been yesterday.
Mari kept her gaze averted from his face, but she was hyperaware of every point of contact of their bodies, how well they fit one another…how perfectly they moved together.
She’d thought something similar five weeks ago when they’d finally made love.
Heat flooded her cheeks at the memory. So much emotional baggage separated them. Why was it, then, that being in his arms felt so right—so natural?
She recalled watching him dress as morning sunlight had peeked around the heavy draperies in the Palmer House hotel room. Marc needed to get back to his condo to shower and then rush to a meeting, but they’d already agreed to have lunch. And dinner.
From the bed, Mari was admiring the shape of his long legs as he stepped into his pants when he caught her staring. He paused and they shared a smile that brought to mind the night spent in each other’s arms, the nearly unbearable pleasure of touching each other, of complete communion after so long and after so much.
Marc’s cell phone rang, breaking their stare. He ignored it, but after a pause, it started ringing again.
“Maybe you should answer,” she murmured with a smile. “Sounds important.”
Gleaming with heat, his eyes remained fixed on her, while he reached for the phone.
“Hey, Mom,” he said.
It’d been like a bucket of ice water had been tossed in her face.
Everything had come back—all the anguish, all the grief, all the memories of why they’d been ripped apart so long ago.
Ryan had once told her Brigit Kavanaugh had confronted him after a day in court. “Don’t you understand that I lost my husband in that accident? I’m mourning just like you are. Why are you trying to punish me further by taking everything away from my children? Have you no pity?” Brigit had tearfully asked Ryan.
The memory of her brother’s encounter always made Mari recoil in pain. She hadn’t been around during the court proceedings, but distance hadn’t been able to diminish her knowledge of all the hurt between the Kavanaughs and the Itanis.
That’s why, after Marc had left the hotel room, she’d packed her bags and caught the first flight she could back to San Francisco. Some things just weren’t meant to be.
Even if they did feel so right.
Their thighs, hips and bellies slid together provocatively as they danced. Every once in a while, the tips of her breasts would brush his ribs. Her nipples felt achy, overly sensitive. It excited her, their furtive, subtle, rhythmic caresses. A strange brew of emotions simmered inside her—nervousness, uncertainty, longing…
Arousal.
She stared over Marc’s shoulder, not