I start to speak, though I’m not at all sure what I’m going to say. Then he leans toward me and places his palm on my leg, so that the heel of his hand rests on the thin material of my dress, but the tips of his fingers graze my bare skin. Every nerve ending in my body seems clustered in that one area, sparkling and sizzling.
I’m desperately, painfully aware of the contact, and I have to fight the urge to draw in a breath, to stiffen as my pulse pounds and a wild heat bursts through me. I don’t want to react to him; I don’t want to give anything away. And I damn sure can’t let go of the tight grip I have on control.
But he is leaning closer, the pressure increasing upon my thigh as his lips come within a whisper of my ear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
I consider playing it coy, but there is no profit in that. Not to mention the fact that I’m not at all sure I could pull it off. Not now, when he’s touching me. When he’s thrown me so off kilter. “I need to talk to you,” I say simply.
“Do you?” he asks, his voice as smooth and tempting as chocolate. “I’m fairly certain you don’t have an appointment.”
His finger moves slowly on my skin, back and forth, the motion so idle that he might be unaware of it. Except I know that’s bullshit. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Do I need an appointment to chat at a party?”
“Is that what we’re doing?” he asks as his finger strokes and teases. “Chatting?”
I feel my chest tighten and a thin panic rise. “Please, Jackson.”
“Please what?”
“Outside.” I hope that he cannot hear the way my voice shakes. “Can we just go talk for a minute in the lobby?”
I try to rise, but he holds me down with a gentle but firm pressure on my leg. In the process, he manages to slide my hem up, revealing just a sliver more of bare skin. It is enough, however, to make me feel even more exposed. Even more vulnerable.
To make me remember the way his hands felt when he was touching me without anger or pretense.
I swallow as a wave of longing and regret breaks over me. “Jackson—”
“You’re so determined to talk, then talk here.” His voice hasn’t lost the velvet, but there is steel under it now.
“We’ll bother everyone around us,” I whisper, determined to regain my equilibrium.
His brows rise, and I see amusement dance at the corner of his mouth. “Will we?” His hand eases higher, pushing my skirt up with the motion. “I didn’t think our … conversation … would be quite that loud.”
“Stop.” I close my hand hard over his, preventing him from gaining even another millimeter.
“Why?”
“Because I said so, dammit.”
“I meant, why do you need to talk to me,” he clarifies. “But the same applies.” He eases his hand higher, pushing my skirt up inch by excruciating inch. “Tell me why you say I should stop. Because you don’t want me to touch you? Because you don’t want me to slide my hand just a little bit higher? Because you don’t want my fingertips to stroke your panties and find you wet and hot?”
My mouth is dry, my body burning. And—damn me all to hell—he is right. I am desperately wet, my thighs hot and my sex throbbing.
“Or maybe it’s because you do want me to keep going? Because you can imagine—can remember—the way my finger feels inside you, teasing you, stroking your clit. Are you wet now, princess?” he asks, his voice as gentle as the finger that still skims along my thigh. “Are you hot and needy and silently begging me to touch you, to slide my finger over your slick, wet heat? Is that what you want? Come on, sweetheart, you can tell me. Don’t you want me to take you there? To take you higher and higher until you tremble in my hand as the orgasm rocks you? Because I think you do. I think you want it so bad you can taste it.”
I close my eyes, determined not to let him see the truth of his words on my face. “Stop it,” I repeat. “You can’t—”
“The hell I can’t.” The soft sensuality in his tone has vanished, replaced by harsh accusation. “Do you think I haven’t watched you tonight? Do you think I didn’t see the way you’ve looked at me? We both know you still want me, and we both know that pisses you off. So tell me, Sylvia. I want to hear it. I want you to say it out loud.”
But there is no way in hell that I am conceding. Because while it may be true—God help me, I do want him, and that does piss me off—I don’t want what comes after. The panic and wariness. The tightness and fear. That horrible sense that everything around me is spinning out of control, and that no matter how hard I try to hold it together, I’ll inevitably get ripped apart.
“Tell me,” he repeats, his words heavy with five years’ worth of hurt and anger. “And then I’ll listen to what you have to say.”
I wince as something like guilt crashes over me. But I push it aside even as I shove his hand away and bolt up out of the chair. “Fuck you,” I snap, ignoring the low-pitched “sssshhhh” from down the row.
I stumble up the aisle, then practically slam myself against the door, not even taking a breath until I am safely in the lobby.
I lean against the wall and tell myself to get my shit together. I haven’t quite managed that task when the door opens and Jackson strides out and heads straight toward me. I think I must flinch, because I see his jaw tighten, and he comes no closer.
“Not exactly the sweet words I was looking for,” he says wryly. “But good enough.”
“Just leave me the hell alone,” I say.
“I can do that.” His tone is now all business. “Or you can tell me why you want to talk to me.”
I blink, a little whiplashed by his sudden change in tone. “A job,” I manage to say, even as my shoulders sag with both relief and, though I hate to admit it, a touch of disappointment. I push the latter firmly away—there is no room for anything but business between Jackson and me, and even imagining there might be more is a recipe for heartache.
His eyes stay fixed on mine, then he nods briskly. “All right. I’m listening.”
I stand straighter, sliding into business-mode and relishing the sense of being back in control. “It’s for Stark International,” I say. “And before you tell me that you already turned down the Bahamas resort, I’d like you to hear me out.”
I take his silence as acquiescence and continue, giving him the full rundown of the project from inception to the horrific news that Glau has not only melted down, but pulled out.
“Miss America got slammed on Facebook, and now the runner-up has the crown?”
“No,” I say firmly. “This isn’t about bringing in the runner-up. It’s about making this resort the best that it can be.”
“Really?” His gaze skims over me, as sensual as a slow caress. “I don’t recall being approached when the project was initiated.”
“You were tied up with the job in Dubai.”
“Was I?” he says, as if that commission was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. “So this has nothing to do with the fact that your precious resort is in more trouble than you’ve let on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”