Ellen James - A Kiss Too Late

Dear Reader,

What happens when “I do” turns into “I don’t”? I’ve always been fascinated by the romance and drama of marriage–all those adventurous ups and down between husband and wife. After eighteen years of marriage, I know a little about the adventure from firsthand experience! But not too long ago, the storyteller in me started to ask some intriguing questions: What happens when a husband and wife simply can’t live together any longer? Can they divorce, yet fall in love with each other all over again? Can they solve the problems that pulled them apart in the first place–or will they keep repeating the same mistakes over and over, no matter how much they do love each other?

A Kiss Too Late is my answer to those questions. Telling the story of Jen and Adam has been a special experience for me. It’s the first time I’ve written about two people who share a history. I found out just how much the past can intrude on the present, causing all sorts of trouble for my characters–and all sorts of fun for me. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing is. I’m delighted that I have the chance to share it with you.

Sincerely,

Ellen James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

J EN AWOKE to the smell of warm flesh and stale wine. As she opened her eyes, she tried to convince herself she was dreaming. It had to be a dream–the rumpled clothes strewn across the floor, the large hand draped over the curve of her hips, the singular gust of snoring next to her. Surely only one person in the world snored in that restless manner: Jen’s ex-husband, Adam Prescott. That had to be it–she was having yet another dream about her ex-husband.

Jen closed her eyes and stretched. But when she opened them again, the hand remained firmly placed on her bare skin. And the snoring continued. With a sense of foreboding, Jen turned her head inch by inch on the pillow. A moment later she was gazing, appalled, into the sleeping face of her ex, stubborn features, luxuriant mustache and all. This was no dream! Adam Prescott was truly sprawled here in the flesh, his powerful, solid body tangled in her sheets. Oh, Lord. What had she done? What madness had she allowed?

Jen couldn’t help a gasp escaping her lips. It didn’t wake Adam, but his hand slipped lower, settling possessively on an intimate part of her thigh. Jen froze. Now the events of last evening came tumbling back into her mind in humiliating clarity. Adam’s visit to New York–the first time she’d seen him since their divorce a year ago. His invitation to dinner at that posh restaurant, where they’d both had too much wine to drink. Far too much wine, for Jen had started to look at Adam through a hazy, romantic glow. And then the taxi ride back to her apartment, and the moment when Adam had taken her into his arms…

She stifled another gasp. How could she have been so stupid? She’d done the one thing she’d sworn she would never do–let Adam Prescott back into her bed!

She slipped away from him, leaving his warmth for the chill, early-morning air. Shivering, she glanced around. Her bedroom looked like a crime scene: discarded clothes, shoes tossed aside with abandon, even a dead-still body. Her dismay increasing by the second, Jen gazed once more at her ex-husband’s face. Even in his sleep he seemed to be frowning a little. Then, without waking, he turned on the creaking mattress until his back was toward her. How wretchedly appropriate–Adam Prescott making love to her and then turning his back.

Jen scooped up what clothes she could find on the floor and made a beeline for the living room. Today she was actually grateful for her haphazard housekeeping skills. Her unfolded laundry was piled on the coffee table, and she rummaged through it. She found fresh underwear and a pair of jeans–but no shirts. Cursing herself, she shrugged into the blouse she’d worn last night. The silken material still seemed to harbor the expensive scent of Adam’s cologne….

Jen rooted under the sofa, found a pair of sneakers and jammed them on her feet. She grabbed her purse, ran a comb through her hair with a shaky hand, and then tiptoed past the bedroom. One glance told her that Adam still slept.

Cursing herself some more, Jen let herself out of her apartment and fled the scene. Hadn’t she learned anything during her year in New York?

* * *

WHEN ADAM PRESCOTT AWOKE, his head felt like it was stuffed with wads of cotton. He sat up slowly, grumbling to himself. What the hell had he done? What mess had he gotten himself into? Unfortunately it took him only a moment to remember where he was–the hovel that his ex-wife called home these days. He glanced around, noting the racked bureau, the threadbare carpet, the wallpaper grimy with age. Jen had left their spacious brownstone in Boston and their summer house in Newport for this seedy apartment in New York City. Was she crazy?

Admittedly last night Adam himself hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. He’d been too busy holding Jen in his arms, relearning the curves of her body, the sexy tangle of her dark hair, the smoky depths of her eyes….

It had been damn good between them. That was the thing–sex had always been damn good between them. He’d missed it with Jen. He couldn’t pretend otherwise.

Adam swung his feet down, waiting for the pounding in his skull to subside. He swore fluently. Maybe last evening he’d been a little drunk, but this morning he was stone-cold sober. And he knew it had been a mistake. No matter how good it had felt to hold Jenny, it had damn well been a mistake. Why hadn’t he left well enough alone? He harbored no illusions: there’d be trouble because of the night he’d just spent with his ex-wife. Big trouble. Knowing Jen, he could count on it.

He made a circuit of her small apartment and found that she’d left. He wasn’t surprised. She’d run away from him a year ago, and she still seemed to be running.

No longer able to ignore the sour taste in his mouth, Adam went into Jen’s cramped bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Only one toothbrush poked out of a mug on the shelf. Adam smiled faintly. It was obvious that Jen didn’t make a habit of sleep-over guests.

He closed the cabinet door, rinsed out his mouth with a glob of toothpaste and then went to get dressed–not an easy proposition, considering that his attire seemed to be strewn willy-nilly across the room. They had both been impatient last night–very impatient.

After what felt like a scavenger hunt, Adam finally managed to find all his clothes–suit jacket tossed over a chair back, pants strewn on the floor, shirt crumpled at the end of the bed. At last, fully dressed, he glanced around again. He still couldn’t get over the sorry state of this place. The bedroom window was barred like a jail cell. Water stains pocked the low ceiling, and pipes rattled in the flimsy walls, as someone in the apartment next door used the plumbing. This place was a genuine dive. What did Jen think she was doing here? What was she trying to prove?

Okay, so she’d been making some cockeyed bid for independence ever since their divorce. She wouldn’t accept any money from him. He’d had his lawyer contact her a dozen times, but to no avail. Yet Jen obviously couldn’t even afford a decent place to live. Was this her idea of happiness and self-fulfillment? He just didn’t get it.