She ignored that. “Have you been drinking all night?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged his shoulders and reached for one of the bottles with alcohol still in it. “Don’t care.”

“Well, I care.”

He smiled thinly. “We both know that’s a lie, Violet.”

She bit her nails, thinking. “Aren’t we supposed to be going on to Egypt and looking for your stele so we can continue this pointless little scavenger hunt?”

“Like you just said,” he slurred. “It’s pointless.” He raised his glass to her and then chugged it.

She drummed her fingers on her arm. This wasn’t like Jonathan. Getting excited over minor discoveries? Chasing down adventures? That was Jonathan. This miserable drunk in front of her who didn’t care? That wasn’t Jonathan. If anyone could accuse Jonathan Lyons of something, it was that he cared too much and tended to get too wrapped up.

She frowned to herself. Actually, that wasn’t always true either. He’d abandoned her . . . hadn’t he? That wasn’t the action of a man who cared too much. Unless everything she’d thought had been a lie . . .

Either way, she was his partner until they were done, for better or for worse. “Jonathan, please. We need to continue this. Not because I particularly care what little scheme my father has cooked up, but because I have students to get back to, and I can’t until you release me. You’re holding me here.”

“I wish I was holding you,” he said, and there was such bleakness in his tone that it made her suck in a breath.

“Very funny, Jonathan,” she said, hating that her voice shook. “You know what I meant. You have me here until we’re finished with this, so let’s get going.”

But he didn’t move. Instead, he traced a finger around the rim of a dirty glass and then gave her a morose, red-eyed stare. “No, Violet, I don’t think I ever had you.”

“If you’re going to be like this, I’m going back up to my room,” she warned.

He shrugged, poured himself another drink in the dirty glass, and raised it in a toast. “Bottom’s up.”

Violet stormed away, angry and confused. Why was he acting like this? What she’d told him had been no surprise . . . was it? Even if she asked him, could she trust that what he told her was the truth?

All of a sudden, she didn’t know anymore.

—

That night, she called down to the front desk again. “Is he still in the bar?”

“He is,” the front desk clerk assured her. “We can’t get him to leave. The bartender keeps slipping him glasses of water so he doesn’t get alcohol poisoning, but we’re starting to get concerned.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Violet said. This had to stop. He was going to drink himself into kidney damage if he wasn’t careful. She hung up the phone and headed down to the lobby, then made a beeline for the bar. Sure enough, Jonathan was still there in his regular spot. The liquor from earlier had been replaced by all new bottles. Now, it seemed, he was drinking tequila. He was upright—barely—a shot glass in one hand. The front of his Superman shirt was stained with alcohol.

He didn’t even look up as she approached, just stared morosely at one of the bottles.

“Jonathan,” Violet said, moving to stand by his table and crossing her arms over her chest. It was her very best Angry Schoolteacher pose and never failed to make her students pay attention. “This has got to stop.” When he didn’t respond, she reached over and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Jonathan!”

Jonathan stared up at her, and his eyes were so wounded that she ached inside. “Violet.”

“You need to stop this. Seriously.”

His mouth drew slowly into a lazy smile. “Why?”

“Well, first of all, you’re starting to smell like a bar. And second of all, this isn’t healthy.”

“Does it matter?”

“Please,” she cajoled, changing her tone. Maybe if she tried a different tactic, she could get through to him. “You’re scaring me, Jonathan.”

“What’s it matter? You hate me, Violet.” The look in his eyes was stark. “You’ve made that clear.”

She felt a twinge of pity. “That doesn’t mean I want to watch you drink yourself to death. Now, please. Come up to bed.”

For a moment, his eyes lit up and he stood up from the table, his tall body weaving. “Your bed?”

“No!”

He sat back down again.

Violet gave him an exasperated look. “Really, Jonathan?”

He ignored her and began to pour another drink.

She reached over and grabbed the bottle out of his hand, and he glared at her. “You need to stop. This isn’t like you.”

Jonathan shook his head slowly, his messy hair sliding over his forehead. “How would you know, Violet? You haven’t seen me in ten years. Maybe I decided to drink after you left me.”

She carefully pried the glass out of his fingers. “You said it dulls the senses, and you don’t like yours dulled. I remember that.”

He shook his head, not looking at her. “I don’t want to remember anything right now.”

Another twinge of pity. Damn it. “Jonathan, just come on. Let’s get you back to your room and get you into your bed, all right?”

He simply put his head down on the table and morosely stared at one of the bottles.

“Do you need help, ma’am?” One of the waitstaff came over. “I can help you take him up to his room, if you like.”

“No, we’re fine,” she said with a small smile of appreciation. “Has he been like this the whole time?”

The man nodded. “When he’s not crying.”

“Crying?” Violet was horrified. She’d never seen Jonathan cry. She couldn’t even imagine it. Even when they’d fought, he’d just stared at her with those grim, smoldering eyes.

“Yeah. We figured someone died. Keeps saying he lost her.” The man shrugged. “You going to pay his bill? It’s a big one.”

Her heart twinged again. Someone had died. But Jonathan hadn’t cared about the baby . . . had he? She shook the thought off. “No, I’m going to get him out of here. He can pay his own bill. The girl at the front desk can add it to his room.” She pulled money out of her pocket and offered it to him as a tip. “Thank you for your help, though.”

The man nodded and took the twenty. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He left as she knelt down next to Jonathan’s table. She studied him for a long moment, thinking about the man’s words. Crying as if he’d lost someone. Lost her. She reached out and stroked his arm with her hand, and her voice was softer this time. “Jonathan. Come on. Let’s get you up to your room, all right?”

Jonathan turned to her, propping his head up on his arm as he gazed in her direction. “You know I loved you, Violet?” His voice was soft.

“I know. But that was a long time ago.”

He shook his head, just a little. “Never changed for me,” he said, his words slurred thickly. “Never stopped. Too late now, though.”

Keeps saying he lost her.

Now she wanted to cry. She couldn’t bury ten years of festering hatred in a night, but she could pity a man who was clearly miserable. “If you love me, won’t you come up to your room?”

“Doesn’t matter if I love you or not,” he murmured. “Lost you anyhow.”

Violet thought for a moment. “If you go up to your room and get to bed, I’ll kiss you.”

Slowly, he sat up, and she felt the urge to laugh. So she’d found the carrot that would entice the donkey, had she? “But you hate me, Violet.”

“I hate you being drunk here more. The offer stands.” She got to her feet and extended him a hand. “You go up to your room and I’ll kiss you. If you don’t, you can just stay here with your bottles.”

Jonathan got up from the table so quickly he nearly knocked it over, the glassware rattling noisily. He wove unsteadily on his feet, but his intense gaze was back on her. “Come kiss me, then.”

“Uh uh,” she told him. “Up to your room, first.” When he started to slouch again, she put an arm around his waist and got a good whiff of his breath. “Up to your room, and after you have some mouthwash, that is.”

That got a drunk chuckle from him, and he wrapped his arms around her, dragging her against his front. He inhaled deeply, burying his nose in her hair. “Forgot how good you smell.” His words were almost a moan of pure joy, and it sent a shock wave through her body.

“You’re drunk,” she reminded him with a pat on the arm. “Now, let go and we’ll get you upstairs, okay?”

He leaned on her heavily as they made their way—slowly—toward the lobby elevator. The girl at the front desk gave her a grateful look as Violet passed by, and held the elevator open for them as Violet and her handsy, drunken companion continued to grab her and exclaim how wonderful her hair smelled. Eventually, though, she got him up to his room and managed to get the keycard out of his wallet and in the door.

“Almost there,” she encouraged.

“Almost to kissing?”

She stifled a laugh at the tipsy hope in his voice. “Almost.”

They wobbled their way across his suite to his bed, and he collapsed into it, flopping onto his back with a groan. Violet pulled back just in time before he dragged her down with him, though her chin-length hair went flying. “Ooof.”

“In bed,” he said, as proud as if he’d accomplished something. He raised his arms, clearly expecting her to leap into them.

She snorted. “Fat chance.” She glanced down at his legs and then gestured at his feet. “Let’s get those shoes off of you, okay?” Violet leaned in and bent over to untie his laces. For a billionaire with tons of money, he sure did have some grubby sneakers on.

“I don’t mind when you’re angry at me, you know.”

She continued to work on a knot in the laces. “That’s a good thing, then, because I’m angry at you a lot.”

“It’s when you ignore me I can’t stand it. When you give up on me and cut me out. It’s like you’re gone again, and I hate it.”

Damn it, she needed to stop feeling sorry for the man. Pulling viciously on his shoe, she managed to tug it off and tossed it to the floor. His sock followed a moment later. “Other foot now.”

“Miss you,” he said softly.

She ignored him, prying off his other shoe, then jerked off his sock. “There we go. You should probably take off your jacket, too. And that shirt is filthy. Come on.”

He sat up slowly, and she helped him remove his clothing. When his shirt came off, he groaned and fell back on the bed, scratching his chest. “Man, that’s good.”

She gazed down at his chest in surprise. She remembered a tall, lanky Jonathan with a lean, boyish chest and nary a chest hair. He’d filled out. His arms were tanned and brawny, ripped with muscle. His pectorals were furred with a light sprinkling of dark chest hair, and there was a trail down his abdomen that just begged to be followed. Violet felt the oddest urge to run her fingers along the cords of his muscles and see if they felt as hard as they looked. Oh, Jesus. He even had a super flat abdomen and little taut ridges down at his hips. Oh, that was sexy.

God, that wasn’t fair. Ten years had passed. He should be gross and balding, not hotter than she’d ever seen him.

And he was gazing up at her with that dopey, drunken smile on his face while she was lusting over his tanned, tight abs. She saw an ugly black tattoo of skulls and money on his upper arm. “Drunken night in Rio?”