I shook my head, my errant thoughts clogging my mind when I should have been focused on finishing up what I needed to get done in order to leave before noon. Liza popped into my head again and my thoughts took a different turn. Memories of her inferno of curls spread out on the pillow of my hotel room flashed through my mind and I stood up again, cursing the way everything transpired the night before. The words the photographer uttered before he began taking pictures haunted me.
Plaything.
I had to clear up the situation. It was time to text her back. I was putting it off because I was afraid once I told her everything was sorted out, she wouldn’t speak to me ever again. Suddenly, a different idea formed and though it would be a deception, I couldn’t pass up the chance to see Liza again, even if it was only one last time. I didn’t understand my need to be around her or to see her again, especially since I knew the problems relationships caused better than anyone, but I couldn’t stop myself. She was like a drug—once I had her once, I had to chase the high I had before in order to get my fix.
Running my hands through my hair, I paced to the other side of the room as I tried to organize my thoughts about Liza. The plan I cooked up was ludicrous and unbelievable at best, but seeing Liza again was a desire I didn’t want to deprive myself of.
Another part of me, the rational part, told me to text her back, tell her it was over, let it go and find another woman to relieve my sexual tension. Something else, something I didn’t want to explore further but refused to leave my mind, told me another woman wouldn’t squelch what started between Liza and me. That was the thing that scared me the most.
Finally making a decision, I picked up my phone and fired off a text to her in response—one that would lead me down a road of no return and break every rule in my book—before I grabbed my coat and stormed from the office, angry at myself for doing just that.
My phone vibrated while I was running, but I ignored it because I didn’t want to break my stride. If he was expecting me to jump when he finally decided to text me back, he was sadly mistaken. Forty minutes had passed since my initial text and I wasn’t any closer to ending my run despite having gone almost five miles. Usually, I ran three miles and left it at that, but other days, when I was anxious or angry or otherwise unsettled, I could go as far as six. Today was one of those days and I turned on a side street, cutting through the park to head back to the apartment on a route I knew would give me my last mile.
The second notification buzzed and the urge to look at what he said vibrated through me like the phone notification did moments earlier. I ignored it though, unwilling to stop running now that I had a rhythm. I turned my music up, listening to a song I knew would help me power through and kept running. By the time I reached the apartment building, I was drenched in sweat and practically panting even though it was chilly outside. These were the runs I lived for in spite of how hard they were. Pushing myself to the point of exhaustion helped my mind to quiet and for a moment, I even forgot about the text from Jackson. But just for a moment.
“Hello again, Miss Deveroux,” the doorman said as he opened the door for me.
“Thank you, James,” I answered him as I slipped into the building and headed for the elevator.
It was days like this I was especially appreciative my best friend was wealthy and her father insisted on an apartment with a doorman and elevator. Nicolette being spoiled was a perk of our friendship and not having to walk up several flights of stairs after a six-mile run was a gift I was grateful for.
I leaned over, hands on my knees, and tried to catch my breath as I waited for the elevator and stood up as I heard the ding to indicate the doors were opening. Stepping inside, I pulled up my shirt and wiped my face, hoping the security cameras didn’t get a great view of my stomach as I did so. I still didn’t look at the text, though I was very aware of my phone strapped to my arm as if it were alive and ready to pounce. Waiting until I was back in the safety of my apartment was the best idea and I fought the urge to unstrap my phone and slip it from the running case to take a peek.
By the time the elevator reached our floor, I was breathing normally again but dripping with sweat. I stepped through the opened doors, thinking about a shower and fresh clothes. I was so engrossed in my thoughts for a moment I didn’t realize someone was standing by our apartment door until I was almost directly in front of it. I froze before stepping back. Horror at who was standing there made me clench my fists.
It was Jackson.
“Good morning, Liza,” he said, his voice too sexy and deep for this early in the morning.
My face flamed as I stood before him, dripping with sweat, errant curls plastered to my forehead. I probably smelled terrible and looked like something a cat had dragged to the doorstep. Embarrassment made me take another step back.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, my voice sounding a little too high and desperate.
I could see he was trying hard to suppress a laugh and that made the humiliation I felt in my chest morph into a rage.
“I had to talk to you in person about the photos. If you looked at my text, you would have known I was coming over,” he said with the same cocky attitude from the night before. The one that set me on edge.
I looked up at him, not caring about the sweat and my appearance for a minute, or even that my face was on fire with mortification. My nasty look didn’t faze him. Jackson stood there with his arms folded across his chest, resting his shoulder against the doorframe like he owned the place. Based on what Nicolette told me that morning, he very well could, but I didn’t care. Who the hell did he think he was? It didn’t matter that he was so handsomely beautiful I had to stop myself from gasping when I looked into his deep brown eyes. It didn’t matter my heart was racing, and it wasn’t from the six-mile run. And it didn’t matter I couldn’t control any of the ways my traitorous body reacted when he was near because he was encroaching on my space and I had to let him know he had crossed a line.
“That is irrelevant,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest to mimic his stance. “How did you get past the doorman?”
He laughed, throwing his head back the same way he did the night before. My anger bubbled to the surface and I wanted to reach out to slap him. The only thing that stopped me was my astonishment at my own strong reaction to this man I barely knew. How come one minute I wanted to kiss him as if my life depended on it and the next, I wanted to wring his neck?
“Your doorman recognized me from last night. He thought I was your boyfriend.” Jackson smirked at me and I scowled back.
The mention of the night before brought back memories of the kiss we shared and now I was back to wanting to jump his bones. This was exhausting.
“Well, I will just have to have a talk with him,” I mumbled, pulling my key out of the tiny pocket in my shorts and shouldering past him to unlock the door.
I refused to be held a prisoner in the hall by him and the quicker we got into the apartment to discuss those photos, the quicker I could be rid of him. He followed me inside but I didn’t welcome him and I didn’t ask him to sit. Closing the door behind him, he looked around, taking in the apartment I loved even though it was really Nicolette’s place.
“This is a nice apartment,” he commented as he walked over to the large picture window that overlooked the park.
“Yes,” was all I could say because the familiar guilt of not paying for the apartment I lived in crept back in.
Jackson turned and narrowed his eyes at me, as if trying to figure out why I answered the way I did. I didn’t give him any indication and instead walked to the kitchen, leaving him standing in the living room, and grabbed a water bottle to fill up from the fridge.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” I finally asked when I finished drinking. He was still standing in the living room, looking at me from across the expanse of the room.
Jackson continued to look at me and my body heated under his gaze. Fighting it was no use, though I w
asn’t happy about my unintentional reaction. I didn’t know what it was about him but when he looked at me that way, I felt like I was the only woman alive and like he wanted to devour me. It was unnerving and erotic all at the same time.
Clearing my throat, I turned away, setting my water bottle in the sink to put physical distance between us. I knew he would still be staring at me when I turned around, but didn’t expect he would have moved so silently into the kitchen and be standing right behind me when I did. Taking a step back, I put my hands behind me to stop from bumping into the counter. He was so close, too close, and I couldn’t think straight or even remember what it was he was doing in my apartment anymore.
“I had to talk to you,” he finally said, his voice low as if he were sharing a secret with me.
I brought my hands up in front of me, inches from his chest.
“Jackson,” I said, my voice just above a whisper.
My heart was pounding under my ribs and I felt lightheaded but I was rooted to the spot where I stood, just centimeters between us. I couldn’t move, or maybe I didn’t want to. What the hell was Jackson Radcliffe doing to me?
“Don’t say my name like that, because if you do it again, I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you,” he growled, backing up and running his hand through the chestnut-colored curls on top of his head.
I was finally able to breathe with a few feet between us and I gulped in air like I was drowning, though I did it discreetly so he didn’t notice how he affected me. Needless to say, I wasn’t doing as well as I hoped.
“The picture,” I finally managed to say, once there were a few feet separating us.
He nodded. “Right. I don’t know why you thought I would be able to stop it from being published. Just because I’m famous doesn’t give me any more power than you have with the press. Less, even. My family doesn’t exactly have the best relationship with the press”—he paused for a beat—“or the paparazzi.”
He frowned as he said the last word like it left a bad taste in his mouth, his voice trailing off for a minute before he looked up at me. The look, which almost seemed like sadness, was gone.
“I, well, I mean, what can we do then? If my boss thinks I’m sleeping around, that will really bring bad publicity to the school where I teach. I could be fired.”
I didn’t mention my worry about the paparazzo’s words or how they made my gut clench every time I thought about them. I was no one’s plaything and I didn’t want my colleagues, father, or friends to hear the speculation. They would begin to wonder about me and even if I didn’t lose my job, my reputation would be ruined. Panic began to rise in my chest at the idea. What little money I did contribute to the apartment would be gone if I lost my job, and if I was blackballed as a slut, I’d never get another job. I gripped my chest as the panic threatened to take over.
Jackson watched me as I began to spiral into despair right before his very eyes. Something flashed across his face. Was it guilt? No, that didn’t make sense. Before I had time to delve more into what the look meant, he spoke again.
“I have an idea,” he said with a conspiratorial look on his face.
“Well, please, grace me with it,” I snapped because here I was, sweat still clinging to my hair and drying on my skin as I flew into a panic.
I wanted to get this over with, so I could shower and never see Jackson Radcliffe again because being in his presence was increasingly uncomfortable in too many ways. I wanted my ordinary and relatively boring life back.
Jackson smiled at me, in a way that said he was up to something. Maybe he was trying to disarm me, again. I wasn’t going to let it happen a second time though, and I walked around the island to put a whole piece of stationary furniture between us as I waited for his reply.
“If we convince everyone that we’re dating, then no one can say that you’re sleeping around.” He didn’t mention the word I was trying to forget.
I stopped and looked at him with my head cocked to the side and my eyes squinted. “I’m sorry, what?”
He had to be joking. Did he really think I wanted people to think we were dating?
He held up a hand to keep me from responding right away. “Hear me out. If I hire a photographer to take a few pictures of us—around town, at dinner, at a benefit I’m having this weekend—and give them to the press, people will think we’re dating. You can’t be fired for dating, can you?”
I let what he said sink in for a minute. He did have a point.
“Well, no, but then the rest of the world will think we are dating.”
Jackson shrugged and rounded the island to stand in front of me, catching me off guard before I could flee. He was close again, so close I could smell his scent, which wrapped around me in a way that made me want to sink against his chest to get a better whiff. This was dangerous and dealing with Jackson Radcliffe was like playing with fire. I was almost guaranteed to get burned.
“Would it bother you if people thought we were dating?” he asked me and at this point, he was so close I had to look up to see his face.
I wanted to say yes.
“I, uh, don’t know,” I mumbled, unable to form a coherent thought with the proximity of him.
“Don’t worry, once the pictures get more sporadic and start to die out, everyone will forget about us and move on to the next couple. And we can pretend like this ‘relationship’ never existed,” he said with a wave of his hand.
I looked at him for a minute before I answered, searching his dark eyes for something else that would give away why he was offering to help me.
“Well?” he asked, his voice husky and his head lowered closer to mine.
I closed my eyes, because looking into his was making it hard to make a rational decision, and this decision had to be rational. I had to think about my career and everything that came next, not just about Jackson. If it were up to me, though I could barely breathe for the desire that pulsed through me when I was around him, I would never see him again. He made my life complicated in a way I couldn’t tolerate or even describe. I didn’t need complicated. But if that picture got out and my parents and the principal thought I was sleeping around with celebrities, I could be fired and likely wouldn’t get another teaching job in the city for the foreseeable future.
“Okay, fine. Let’s do it,” I said. “But don’t expect anything from me in return,” I added and took a step back, putting my hands on my hips for effect.
Jackson held up his hands, as if in surrender, and said, “I wouldn’t even dream of trying.”
But something, maybe the smirk or the way he looked me up and down after he said it, made me think he had no intention of keeping that promise.
I lied, of course, because the main reason for me deceiving Liza in the first place was to do exactly what I told her I wouldn’t. But since I was already misleading her, what was one more lie?
“Good,” she said, giving me a skeptical look but ultimately, she seemed to believe me and didn’t ask any more questions.
I felt guilty, a little, but not as guilty as I should have because it meant I would be able to see her again, and that was the ultimate goal. My brain still warred with this idea, because getting close to anyone, including a woman, was not something I did, but I couldn’t ignore the magnetism I felt towards Liza and the emptiness I felt at the idea of never seeing her again.
When I pulled myself from my thoughts, I realized she was staring at me as if she were waiting for me to answer her.
“How soon should we get this thing sorted out?” Liza asked me, again apparently.
I took a minute before answering her because I hadn’t worked out the details in my head yet. This would mean I had to send the photos back to Nancy, and ask her to publish them; something I had never done before. But after that, the rest should be simple—hire a photographer and ask them to follow Liza and me around while we did ordinary things. The other stuff would be more difficult—getting Liza to trust me enough to spend more time together than it wou
ld take to get the photos.
Suddenly I remembered there was a benefit tonight for the domestic violence charity of which I was on the board. It was really short notice, but I was hoping I could convince her to go with me.
“What about tonight? I’m hosting a benefit.”
Her eyes widened and she shook her head slightly.
“Tonight? That’s awfully short notice. How will it work?” She looked at me with suspicion.
I opened my mouth to tell her I had a fixer but closed it quickly. If she heard about Nancy, she would wonder why I didn’t just have her take care of the photos. Luckily, I was good at thinking on my feet.
“We have photographers we use for the department store and our photo shoots for the fashion line. I can call them.”
The look of suspicion still decorated her pretty face and I wondered when I would be able to convince her the look wasn’t necessary.
“Besides, I’m sure the regular paparazzi will be all over the place once they find out I’ll be there,” I added.
Liza smirked and gave a tiny laugh. “You’re just that famous, are you?” she asked me, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
It took me a minute but once I realized what she meant, I laughed too because the way I had said it made me sound like a pompous ass so I didn’t even blame her for the comment. “I guess so,” I said with a shrug and a smirk that matched hers.
“Well then, I guess we will be all right,” she said returning the shrug. “But if you don’t mind, I have a benefit to get ready for.” She shooed me towards the door with her hand as she tried to smooth the errant curls that were framing her face.
One Night Page 6