His Pawn

by Emily Snow

  “No,” I whisper, the air releasing from my lungs when he lets go of me to rummage around in the cupboard above the fridge. “But I do hate blood.”

  “Could have fooled me.” He approaches me as I slide onto a bar stool behind the counter. Placing a large first aid kit between us, he focuses his attention on gathering the supplies to bandage his hand. “You nearly tackled me in the office to make sure I was all right.”

  “I hated seeing you hurt more,” I blurt out. Backing away from the counter, he gives me a look I can’t quite place—quirked lips and slightly narrowed eyes—and I nibble on my bottom lip as he washes his hands. By the time he returns, I’ve regained some semblance of confidence, so I turn the bar stool to face him and motion for him to give me his hand. When he hesitates, I roll my eyes and gently tug his fingers into mine. His thighs are hard against my knees, but I pretend not to notice as I make sure he’s cleaned his wound thoroughly.

  “Just because I don’t like blood doesn’t mean I can’t wrap a bandage.” I spritz antiseptic spray over his palm. “Tom used to come home with all sorts of cuts and scrapes from playing soccer with his friends on Sundays, so I learned to suck it up to help him out.”

  “I hope you gave him a few cuts and scrapes after you found out about his mistress.”

  The laughter that bubbles from the back of my throat is so harsh it burns. “Tom cheated on me with his business partner, Shane.” I regret saying those words a split second after they fall from my lips, and I sit frozen, staring at Jace’s palm until the edges of his cut blur.

  “Williams, I—”

  “I … didn’t hurt him when he told me, though I wanted to.” Jace clenches his fingers, and I let out a choked sound as I reach for a gauze pad. “And now, I feel like a complete fool for telling you this.”

  “Did he tell you how long it lasted?”

  “Since a few months before we got married. I went with my mother to Vietnam after my dad died and Tom and Shane hooked up then.” Wrapping the bandage around the gauze on his palm, I swallow back the pressure in my chest. “Instead of letting me know he was in love with someone else, he married me. And then he wanted me to carry on like nothing ever happened because I was lucky to snag him.”

  “Did he tell you that?” Jace demands, his voice low and dangerous.

  “Yes.” And then, as I finish dressing his wound, I find myself telling Jace Exley everything. About being the bearded dragon of Java-Org. About Tom’s demands for counseling and the loss of so many mutual friends. And about the weight of inadequacy—of failure—that’s dragged me down since my ex-husband revealed that our life together was a façade.

  “And then I moved back home,” I whisper in a devastated voice. “Because that’s what twenty-seven-year-olds do when they fucking fail at life.”

  When I drop the F-bomb, an emotion I can’t place passes over Jace’s features. For a moment, he remains completely still. When I start to slide off the barstool, though, he stops me by leaning in to me. If I so much as breathe I’ll be able to taste his wintermint gum, but he steals my breath away before that can happen by brushing his knuckles over my cheek.

  “Hearing you say that word,” he murmurs, and I dart my tongue over my lips. “Seeing you do that…”

  “What?”

  “You know exactly what. But, for what it’s worth, you’re not a failure. Duncan is just a fucking prick who made you think that to make himself feel better. I’m happy you left him.” His knuckles trail down to my collarbone, and I arch against him as he hoarsely adds, “Even if I can’t have you, I’m happy you’re not with someone like him.”

  “You can’t have me or you don’t want to?”

  “Oh, Williams, there’s nothing I want more, but I can’t do that because I don’t want to ruin things with you.” He strokes his thumb over the hollow of my throat, circling my skin slowly until my breath comes out in short gasps. Releasing a guttural groan, he forces himself away from me, dragging his fingers through his hair, no longer seeming to care about his wounded hand. “You deserve better than what I can give you emotionally. And that’s why I can’t show you exactly what I want from you, Lucy.”

  SEVENTEEN

  LUCY

  The words Jace spoke to me just before retreating from his kitchen to put on another shirt and change his jeans are embedded in my brain for the next few days, and on Thursday, I realize what an incredibly stupid idea it was for me to agree to go with him to Albany. Sure, it's a relatively short drive, but three hours of sitting next to the man who's invaded my thoughts and dreams for the last several weeks is a stressful experience.

  For starters, he smells too damn good, like his shirt I wore home last week. Like the inside of his house. The low heat blowing from the vents on either side of the dashboard makes breathing him in more unbearable, and I find myself holding my breath more often than not just so I won't fall under the spell that's Jace Exley's incredible scent.

  And then, of course, he looks amazing. I'm not sure which Jace I prefer—the disheveled man I've gotten used to seeing covered in dirt and metal day in and day out, or the one sitting next to me—but I'm not foolish enough to deny that both manage to take my breath right from my lungs with little effort.

  At some point between yesterday evening and this morning, he’d trimmed his beard, and when he came into my office an hour ago to let me know it was time to go, I immediately noticed he’d somewhat tamed his unruly brown hair. He's upgraded his usual work pants for dark gray wash jeans, his welding boots for expensive-looking brown leather, and has temporarily traded in his flannel shirt for a gray tee shirt that proudly displays the tattoos on his biceps. Although it's in the low twenties today, he isn't wearing a jacket. When I had pointed out how cold it is on the way to his car, he'd muttered that driving in coats makes him feel claustrophobic.

  Now, gripping the steering wheel, he looks ... tense. I note his strained forearms and the rigid posture that looks so uncomfortable even I cringe. His full lips are drawn into a thin line, and I wonder what he's thinking. Daisy had mentioned how much he hates interviews, but I figured he would spend the bulk of the trip admonishing me for coaxing him into speaking with Allene rather than in complete silence.

  For now, though, I welcome the quiet because I'm not sure what to say. I've been a mess since he took the photos of my hands and kissed me speechless. And that moment between us in his kitchen only worsened the chaos. He hasn’t mentioned either encounter—and he probably won’t—but the thing is, both had happened. And, closing my eyes, I swear I can remember exactly the way his tongue felt dancing with mine in the photo room and how his fingertips moved along my skin just a few days ago.

  I want my boss.

  I want him to get that taste he talked about that night at the bar, and I want to feel him against the tip of my tongue. I want his hands in my hair and his fingers at the hollow of my throat again. I want to trace my fingers over his skin, even if it's for one night, and that terrifies me because it's so un-Lucy. So unprofessional and filthy.

  I want to tell him I can't think straight with him so close because I. Want. Him. And it's all because he had managed to dig his way under my skin with just one kiss and a few words.

  Instead, I clasp my fingers between my knees and stare straight ahead as angry rock music blasts from his car stereo. Every few minutes, I feel his gaze scorch the side of my face, but I don't look at him again. Not after admitting that dirty truth to myself.

  When we finally arrive at Allene’s studio at 5:28, he says his first full sentence to me since we left the office. As he parks his Challenger in the parking garage of the station's building, he asks me what time the interview starts.

  "Six," I say, and he looks over at me, a slow grin splitting his freshly-shaven features. God, I hate the pang in my chest that comes along with being on the receiving end of that smirk. Inadvertently, I skim my tongue over my upper lip. I immediately regret that decision because his focus settles on my mouth for a long beat. I clea
r my throat, but he still doesn't glance back up. "Is there something wrong?"

  "You're always thirty minutes early," he points out.

  "There's nothing wrong with coming on time."

  My face goes up in flames the second my tongue unleashes those words, but they're also what finally snaps his attention in my direction. He tugs his own lip between his teeth, holding it captive for a few seconds before releasing it. Leaning away until the back of his dark head touches his window, he shakes his head slowly. "Careful, Lucy," he finally says, the soft growl on that initial word coursing a tremor down my spine.

  I start to tell him that I was being one hundred percent non-sexual, but he leaves the car without another word. I scramble out just before he punches the key fob to lock the door.

  Once we're inside the building, we immediately meet Allene, who is prepping for her show in the large office the station's clerk leads us to. I've done my research on the blonde dressed to the nines in a slinky pink wrap dress and mile-high pumps. She doesn't look a day over thirty, but at forty-four, her career in radio started after she worked as a very successful phone sex operator for several years.

  Her claim to fame was no taboos, and she often says on her show that she gave her clients exactly what they wanted (and needed) to make their most outrageous fantasies a reality. Which makes her the talk radio version of Jace. As soon as we step into the office, her eyes slip right past me and land on my boss. She takes him in from head to toe. I feel like the girl from high school who watched cheerleaders and band girls and just about every other female in between flirt openly with the guy, but I say nothing.

  Even if the attention she’s giving burns my chest and leaves me clenching the hem of my blouse.

  They make small talk for a couple of minutes—she tells him that she's a fan of his work even though when we set up the interview she told me she had never heard of the company. Although his eyes occasionally dart in my direction to sweep over me before returning to our host, it’s apparent he’s soaking up her attention and praise like a peacock.

  What a sexy, infuriating ass. I can’t believe he’s falling for this shit.

  At last, Allene spares me a glance and offers me a slight smile. I respond with a tight flash of my teeth. "You must be Lucy, it's so nice to finally meet Jace Exley's right-hand woman." Ugh, I hate to admit it but her voice sounds even sexier in person, and it's no wonder she claims to have used it to become a self-made millionaire. Taking a step in her direction, I tell myself that number is probably overblown.

  I extend my hand, and she gives it a firm pump. "It's great to meet you, too. Thank you so much for having us on your show today."

  She purses her lips together and takes another peek at Jace. He grins, and I'm surprised he doesn't flex his muscles for her since he’s so into this. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he got her number when this is all over because I’m sure Allene isn’t off limits.

  Not like me.

  As if he can read my thoughts, he glances at me again, and the edges of his blue eyes narrow. “Smile, Williams,” he mouths as Allene clears her throat.

  "Believe me," she purrs, and it takes all my self-control not to glare at the woman, "the pleasure of having you is all mine." After a little more back and forth between her and Jace—where she completely ignores me, no surprise—she turns us over to the receptionist whom she tells to take us to the hospitality room.

  Once he and I are alone again, our shoulders nearly touching because the loveseat where we're seated is more like an oversized armchair, I twist toward him and raise my eyebrows. "Is there any woman who doesn't want to fuck you?" I demand.

  He freezes halfway into taking a drink from the beer the receptionist had offered him. Why the hell does he look so shocked? There's no way he doesn't know what the mere sight of him does to females, to myself included, but he continues to look at me like I've just given him some groundbreaking news.

  "Come again?” he says, emphasizing that first word and making me roll my eyes.

  "Does every woman you meet want to get into your pants?"

  "Oh no, love, the way you said it the first time." My heart speeds up because the look he gives me is absolutely primal. "Buttoned-up Lucy Williams is talking about fucking. During work."

  "I'm not buttoned—" I start to argue, but then he lifts his hand to my throat, fingering the top button of my blouse. My breath catches, and when I swallow hard to get just an ounce of relief, his eyes darken. "I was just making an observation."

  "You’re jealous,” he tells me in a low voice.

  “I’m absolutely not jealous. Don’t be a cock.”

  “Fuck, you’re killing me with the filthy words tonight, Williams,” he groans. “But you are jealous. I can feel your pulse racing.” He moves his hand to my throat, stroking his thumb along the hollow. “Right here.”

  “What happened to not touching me?”

  “Tell me to stop. Tell me to take my fucking hands off you because it’s not professional to want you. Because I’m bad for you.”

  “Stop.” I whisper. But I bring my hand up, covering his and holding it in place against my body. Some masochistic part of myself loves the waves of pleasure and pain that crash through me when he touches me. I don’t realize I’m vigorously shaking my head until strands of my hair fall over his tattooed fingers. “Stop because you confuse the hell out of me, Jace.”

  "I’m sorry." He releases my throat and slides the ebony locks of hair between his fingers. "I'm not supposed to touch you," he says once more, raising blue-gray irises to mine. "But when you talk about fucking, I can't help myself."

  "You confuse—" I start, fully prepared to tell him the number he's doing on my head in spite of how viciously my pulse is pounding. The receptionist standing in the doorway and softly calling his name stops me from doing that.

  "Mr. Exley, Allene's ready to prep you for your spot," she murmurs demurely. He drops my hair against my breast, skimming the edge of my bra with one knuckle in the process. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back the sigh threatening to spill from my lips. We both stand at once. Jace says something I can barely comprehend to the receptionist—his muscles tight as he shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans—and I struggle to exude even a fraction of self-control.

  When we approach the other woman, she turns to me with an apologetic frown. "I'm so sorry, but since the studio is so small, Allene only wants Mr. Exley to come back."

  "Oh." Just last week, Allene had interviewed three sexperts at the same time on her show—she had called it an auditory orgy—but I already have an idea of exactly why she doesn't want me back there. “I see.”

  "You'll be able to listen to the broadcast in here, though," she adds brightly, but Jace still gives her a hard smile.

  "Are you sure she can't come back?" When she once again tells him that Allene is firm on this due to the studio’s tight fit, he stares at me and rubs the back of his neck. Judging by the muscle ticking in his jaw, he looks like he's seconds away from telling Allene to "sod off," but I shake my head.

  "You'll do great," I assure him.

  "Right, well, it's not me I'm worried about." He backs away toward the doorway, his gaze never dropping mine. "We're not finished talking, Williams. I've been avoiding it like the goddamn plague, but now it's time to get some things out in the open.”

  EIGHTEEN

  LUCY

  I'm irritated about being excluded from the studio during Jace's talk with Allene—and frazzled from the promise he made just before he left—but the second he comes on the air, my brain shifts gears and I focus solely on the main objective of our trip to Albany: Promoting his brand.

  During my previous jobs at WLC and then working for Tom at Java-Org, I had not only scheduled more than my fair share of interviews, but I was also occasionally responsible for giving them myself, all for the sake of good marketing. Talking to reporters or radio personalities came just as awkward to me as job interviews, but I always managed to p
ower through.

  Jace doesn't have that issue.

  It's hard to believe he doesn't like this sort of thing because he projects the perfect blend of the three C's—cockiness, confidence, and charm. He and Allene are only a few minutes into the broadcast before she lays her own blatant brand of charm on thick, openly flirting with him in that seductively breathy voice of hers. Listening to her giggle and tease him shoots red spots through my vision because I am jealous. It’s ridiculous—I have no right to feel this way about a man who can’t and won’t pursue me because it’s bad business—but the thought of Jace with another woman constricts my lungs.

  Because he knows I want him.

  To my surprise, though, he effectively dodges all of Allene’s attempts to ear-screw him. When she asks about his sexy accent and whether it snags him more pussy, he tells her about the brand's partnership with Lorelei’s in London, who only carries the best bondage gear in the U.K. And after Allene grills him over what brand of condoms he prefers—because why wouldn’t she want to know what he wraps it up with—he nudges the conversation toward the line of "playthings" EXtreme designs. Then, pausing for a moment, he finally informs her that he uses the condoms in the "shiny gold packet."

  From the low whistle she lets out, she’s obviously impressed by his answer—hell, even I want to give him a round of applause for that one. Then, Allene launches into a discussion about his favorite sex positions. She doesn't talk about EXtreme herself until close to the end of their set, when there are about five minutes left before she opens the line to their audience.

  "Damn, Jace,” she says breathlessly, and I try not to clench my teeth as I imagine her leaning in close to him, her breasts dangerously close to spilling out of her wrap dress. “You're a Magnum-wearing, waterfall-fucking freak, but what is one thing about EXtreme Effects that you want our listeners to walk away with?"

  He's silent for a moment. I close my eyes, picturing his brows knitted together over blue-gray eyes and his tattooed fingers flexing as he races them over his stubble. After a long beat passes, he releases a breath and says, "That it's good to fuck."