So far, he'd resisted taking any medication¸ wanting to keep his mind sharp, but now he pulled the small bottle of painkillers out of his pocket and swallowed two, washing them down with a gulp of water.
Within minutes, he felt the effect, even the burn in his upper arm fading to numbness.
But at least when he hurt he was feeling something.
He hadn't lived in London for over ten years, since the summer before he'd started Harvard. He'd thought the move back here might have eased his restlessness, but if anything it had increased.
The boredom was what had led to the shooting in the first place. He could have kept out of the whole money-laundering thing, just handed the information to the police and he wouldn't be sitting here now with a bullet hole in his arm, waiting to have a meeting with a bunch of bodyguards he didn't want or need.
He'd only agreed to this meeting because it was easier to get rid of the bodyguards than get rid of his father. No doubt he would hear from him soon enough, but he would deal with that then.
The intercom on his desk buzzed, and he pressed it.
"Your ten o'clock meeting is here," Paul, his assistant, said.
"Send them in."
He'd stayed the night in the hospital, but discharged himself first thing this morning. Now he had work to catch up on, and he meant to deal with this as quickly as possible.
Then the door opened and for a moment, his world stopped.
The strength drained from him, and the room went dim. He slumped back against his chair.
"Declan," Paul said. "Are you okay?"
He blinked, shook his head. "Of course I'm okay."
His assistant frowned, but stepped to the side. "These are the people from Knight Security. Ms. Bauer and Mr. Grantham."
He ignored the man, his gaze fixed on the woman who stood slightly to the front.
What the hell was she doing here?
Maybe he was hallucinating. His mind felt sluggish, and he wished he hadn't taken the pills. Except, he couldn't really blame the painkillers. He was in shock. She was the last person he had expected to come through that door.
Around five foot ten, she was tall for a woman, still model-slim in the black pantsuit. Beneath it, she wore a white button-down shirt and beneath that, he could make out the shape of her full breasts. He looked away quickly and up into her face.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting, a shock to match his own maybe, but her face was blank of expression. Of course, she would have known who she was coming to see. She would have prepared for this meeting. Would have had time to get the shock under control.
Either that or she'd forgotten him totally. It had been over ten years.
She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her platinum fall of hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing the perfect oval of her face, with its high cheekbones, midnight-blue eyes under arched brows, and her full mouth. God, he'd loved her mouth, the things she'd done with those lips …
And shit, he shouldn't be thinking about those lips. But it was too late; the blood had shot straight to his dick, and he shifted in his chair.
Then his eyes settled on the scar, a pale line that ran from just below her right eye over her cheek to the corner of her mouth. It pulled her upper lip slightly, giving her what looked like a permanent sneer. She hadn't even attempted to hide it with makeup. In fact, now he looked, she wasn't wearing any makeup at all. Not even lipstick on her pink, full lips. But the scar didn't detract from her looks; rather it emphasized the perfection of the rest of her.
She was gazing at him out of those blue eyes with no hint of recognition, and he gritted his teeth. What the hell right did she have to forget him? Once she'd told him she'd love him forever. Of course, that was before he'd walked out on her, but all the same …
"Declan?" It was Paul again, dragging him from his less than happy thoughts. His assistant appeared a little uncertain, probably wasn't used to his boss behaving in such a shell-shocked manner.
"I'm fine," he said. He had inherited Paul from his father, who'd taken him on as part of an old debt-the details of which Declan was sure he was better off not knowing. And it wouldn't surprise him if his assistant still reported back to his old boss. Declan hadn't cared enough to check out the man's loyalties, but he didn't want Paul reporting to his dad that he was unwell. He'd probably have to deal with a nurse as well as a bodyguard. He picked up the pill bottle from the desk and shook it. "Painkillers just kicking in," he said and Paul nodded.
Rising to his feet, Declan fastened his jacket to hide the fact that he was already hard just from looking at her. "That will be all," he said.
After his assistant had left the room, closing the door behind him, Declan gestured to the seats in front of his desk.
Her colleague came forward first, casting a sideways glance at Jess as he passed her as though she wasn't behaving quite as expected. Maybe she wasn't quite as composed as she appeared.
He studied the man briefly. He was big, but from the fluid way he moved, Declan reckoned the bulk was all muscle. He looked ex-army, his sandy hair cut military short.
"Mr. McCabe," he said, coming to a halt in front of the desk and extending his hand. Declan took it then winced as pain shot through his arm.
"Sorry," Grantham said. "I hear you took a bullet yesterday, must be painful."
"A scratch, nothing more."
The man sat and Declan turned his attention back to Jess. She still stood just inside the doorway. As she caught his glance, she shook herself and took a few steps forward. Unlike her male comrade though, she didn't hold her hand out for him to take, just sat in the seat and stared straight ahead. Her skin was pale, almost white, and a pulse beat in her throat. Definitely not as composed as she appeared, or wanted to appear.
Good.
He took his own seat, sat back, and pulled his shattered thoughts together. He'd planned to tell them they were not needed, and this changed nothing. They still weren't needed. He had no use for a bodyguard, and he certainly had no wish for Jess to jump in front of a bullet for him. Anyway, she'd probably be more likely to shoot him herself.
"I'm afraid your journey has been wasted. I won't be needing your services. I will of course pay for your time." He watched her closely as he spoke, not quite sure what response he expected or even wanted. Maybe it was better that she had forgotten him. If she had.
Of course, there was always the chance that she was just acting. Maybe she recognized him-how the fuck could she not?-but she wanted to avoid rehashing old times.
The man beside her frowned. "Has the … situation been resolved? I was under the impression we were needed until the court case."
"No, but I don't require a bodyguard," Declan said. "I'll take precautions. I can look after myself."
Jess snorted. He turned his attention to her as she raised one arched brow. "Well, you're certainly doing a good job so far. And could you not have phoned up and canceled the meeting, Mr. McCabe?" Her tone was cool, bordering on insolent. "As a professional courtesy. Or don't you think the people you employ deserve courtesy?"
"I promised my father I would see you, and I have."
For the first time, shock flashed across her features, her eyes narrowing, a frown forming between her brows. She was astonishingly beautiful, he'd forgotten just how stunning she was-well not so much forgotten as pushed the knowledge from his mind. Now his brain flooded with memories of her, dancing, her hair wild about her face, drinking shots, daring him to match her, lying beneath him, her eyes almost black with passion as she fell apart for him. Shit. He needed to stop thinking like this. He needed to get his head together.
But however much he would like to deny it, a deep, slow burn of excitement was starting low down in his belly. He wanted to push her, make her acknowledge him, but maybe not just yet. First, he needed to pull himself together. Whatever happened next, he planned to be in control of it.
"Your father arranged this?" Jess said, and he could hear the disbelief in her voice and something else.
He gave a bland smile. "He worries about me. He has my best interests at heart."
"I bet he does," she muttered, and this time her comrade did turn to look at her.
"Do we have a problem here, Jess?"
Declan shot a glance at the other man. He didn't like the familiar way he addressed Jessica. They obviously knew each other well. How well?
"Of course we don't have a problem," Jess said. Her tone should have been conciliatory instead, it was … sarcastic. "Mr. McCabe is the one with the problem," she continued. "Someone wants him dead, but I'm sure that's not a first. Probably lots of people have wanted Mr. McCabe dead. But as he said, he's a big boy, and he can look after himself. And if not, I'm sure his daddy can do it for him."
God, she was a bitch. He liked it.
Her colleague obviously gave up at that point. He relaxed back in his seat arms folded across his chest and watched them.
"Tell me, Mr. Grantham, what's your background?" Declan waved a hand toward Jess to include her in the question. How the hell had she become involved in security work? He would have thought it was the last type of career she would pursue. Really, he couldn't imagine her settling down to any job-she'd been too wild. But she must be good, otherwise why would his father have employed the company-he only employed the best. He couldn't have known Jess worked for them. No way would his father throw them together again, when he'd gone to such lengths to push them apart.