Jax’s gut twisted at the images of a sexy Vanessa being fawned over by every man within a square mile. His brain told him it was none of his damn business how she spent her vacation, and logically speaking, he knew it was right. Unfortunately, he’d always been a man who followed his gut.
Her Blue Hawaiian arrived, and she didn’t waste any time sampling it. Lifting the large bowled glass, she sipped the electric blue liquid, made a sound of approval that tightened his groin, then licked the sugar on her lips she’d lifted from the rim.
Clearing his throat to disguise a groan, he ordered a second Heineken and then killed his first. By now, the idea of her spending time with random locals was on its way to giving him an ulcer. His other half—the side he fully acknowledged was more caveman than gentleman—was trying to claw his way free.
Tamping down his irrational shit, he thanked the bartender for the new beer and kept things light. “You know, as your personal host, I feel I’d be shirking my responsibilities if I allowed a bunch of jerks to circle you like sharks around chum.”
“I’m sorry,” she said with a look of disbelief, “did you just refer to me as fish guts?”
“You are a lawyer.” Wink. Drink.
She laughed in the same way his buddy Corey did when they got into a good-natured pissing match about who was the better fighter. “Okay, Maris, I’m giving you fair warning.” She gestured back and forth between them. “When this is over with, I have every intention of finding some hot Hawaiian hunk to entertain me for a few days. And should you interfere in any way, shape, or form, I’ll be forced to hurt you.”
Chuckling, he removed his shades, set them on the bar, and leveled her with patronizing amusement. “You hurt me? That’s adorable; truly it is.” She opened her mouth to fire back, but he didn’t give her the chance. “I will say I’m glad you’ve decided to have fun with a local boy while you’re here, though.”
Her mouth closed and a small furrow creased her brow. He loved it when strategy worked.
Crossing his forearms on the bar, he slowly leaned toward her. Her exotic citrusy scent filled his lungs, the smell so intoxicating he resented the need to exhale. Trying to ignore the pang of desire, he lowered his voice and layered on the suggestive tone. “I’m local. Think I might be the man for the job?”
Staring up at him, her jaw slackened, opening her mouth a bit. Testing the waters, he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and let it drag itself free. Her eyes dropped and fixated, darkening with interest.
And Bingo was his name-o.
“I think that’s a yes, princess.” He allowed himself the satisfaction of a half smile before bringing his beer up for a victory sip.
Snapping out of her temporary trance, she let out an indignant huff. “Please. You have heat stroke if you think I’d even let you apply for the job.”
Laughing at her indignation, Jackson pried his eyes from Vanessa’s long enough to sign his tab. Points for him. It was a damn hard thing to accomplish. She was so different from the women he’d been around the last decade. Island girls typically had happy-go-lucky, easygoing, go-with-the-flow personalities. But she was full of opposites. Fire and ice. Both the calm and the storm.
And her eyes were the purest shade of green. They weren’t brownish green or hazel green. She turned her head in his direction, rewarding him with the very things that mesmerized him, even if it was in the form of a glare. He looked for the telltale, barely visible rim revealing them as counterfeits…and found none.
“You don’t wear contacts,” he stated.
A feathery eyebrow hitched up her forehead. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I am. Usually color like that only comes from cosmetic lenses. I’ve never seen authentic eyes the shade of yours before.” A small sigh accompanied a roll of said beautiful eyes. Amused at her assumption, he added, “That wasn’t a line.”
“You’ve been throwing innuendos at me since the airport, Jackson. Why wouldn’t I think that was a line?”
He dropped one arm from the counter and turned his entire body toward her. She was taller than most women—he guessed somewhere around five-nine, five-ten—but at six-four he still had a huge advantage. Especially since she was sitting and he wasn’t.
Letting his gaze slowly trail over every exposed inch, he made her wait, not saying a word until he’d thoroughly soaked up every detail. Alabaster skin and smooth curves on a willowy frame. Breasts that filled out her bikini top to perfection with tight nipples pushing against…and this train of thought was nothing but a hard-on wreck waiting to happen. His cargo shorts were in serious danger of taking on a new shape.
Dragging his eyes back up, he met the emerald pools and told her the God’s honest truth. “I don’t use lines. I use compliments. And telling a woman something she already knows isn’t a compliment. You have to tell her true things she doesn’t know.”