by Reese Ryan
His gaze narrowed and his lips pressed together in a smirk as he watched her eat. He took a sip of his water and set the glass down.
“If there’s something you need to ask me, Sasha, please do. I’ve nothing to hide.” He took a bite of his meal.
Her mouth suddenly felt dry and a knot tightened in her stomach. “I thought we weren’t discussing business tonight.”
“And how is an inquiry into my love life related to our business dealings?” He tilted his head, assessing her.
“Everything. Because your mother didn’t just hire me to help build your business. She and your father were adamant that I focus on cleaning up your reputation.”
His eyes widened and he put his utensils down with a clang.
Sasha put her fork down, too. She raised a hand. “Before you get angry with me or them, let me explain.”
Jordan folded his arms. “I’m listening.”
“Your mother truly does believe that you’re a talented artist. That you could easily become a global superstar. A household name.”
“I find that difficult to believe.” Jordan’s brows knitted, his tone caustic.
“It’s true.” Sasha smiled softly, remembering her conversation with Eva Jace. “I know a proud mother when I see one.”
“And do proud mums usually send someone out to ‘fix’ their children’s reputations?” His nostrils flared.
“Sometimes.” She shrugged, then sighed. “Look, your mother simply believes that your reputation of being demanding and...well, difficult, might be hampering you from being offered some incredible opportunities. And...”
“And...what?” Jordan folded his arms on the table as he leaned forward, head tilted.
“And she’d like to see you get some positive press for a change. Rather than stories about you and your flavor of the month.” Sasha’s cheeks stung with heat.
“My mother wants me to settle down and give her grandchildren.” He took another bite of his food. “Not interested.”
His adamant response felt like a punch to the gut.
“Monogamy isn’t your thing, I assume.” She tried not to sound like a kid who’d just learned that Santa and the Easter Bunny weren’t real.
He grunted. “Bucks human nature, as evidenced by the astronomical divorce rate.”
“Your parents seem happy together, as do mine. And Vaughn and Miranda—”
“Barely know each other.” He sighed, sitting back in his chair. “I know she’s your best friend. So I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true.”
“They make each other happy.” She shoved her food around her plate, her appetite suddenly gone.
“For now.” He put a forkful of food in his mouth. “Don’t get me wrong, Sasha. I don’t wish ill of them at all. Quite the contrary. I’d love it if they were to prove me wrong. And I wish them eternal happiness together.”
“But you don’t really believe it’s possible. And it isn’t something you’d want for yourself.” Sasha stabbed a poor, defenseless shrimp. Her fork clanged against the dish, drawing Jordan’s attention.
Heat swept up the back of her neck and across her cheeks as he assessed her with something akin to pity.
“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you. But you asked me a question and I answered it truthfully.” His voice was softer. Apologetic. “I’d think that’s what you’d want. For me to be honest.”
“It is, of course.” She forced a cursory smile. “I just think it’s... I don’t know...sad. That’s all.”
Jordon put down his fork and cocked his head. “You think I’m the pitiful one because I don’t believe in some fairy-tale eternal love that has failed half the general population?” He sounded amused. “That’s rich. I’ve always considered it to be the other way around.”
“You feel sorry for Vaughn and Miranda?”
“Not them specifically, but folks in general who spend most of their lives unhappy, in search of something as rare as sightings of Sasquatch.”
“Do you really believe that? That love is an unobtainable impossibility?” She wanted to be indignant, but instead her heart broke for him.
He sighed heavily. “Life is far too short to waste it on something that may or may not happen for me. I’d rather live each day to its fullest. Take life as it comes. I’m less apt to be disappointed that way.”
“Hmm...” Sasha nodded. Suddenly things seemed quite clear.
“That was a sound full of meaning, if ever I heard one.” He forced a smile. “Let me guess, you’ve come up with some brilliant analysis of exactly what my problem is.”
“You could say that.”
“And will you leave me twisting in the wind, or do you care to share with the class?” His eyes twinkled with amusement.
“I think you’re scared. Terrified, in fact. Godzilla’s coming, run-for-your-life scared.”
“Scared? Of what? Do tell.”
“Of getting your heart broken.” She shrugged. “Same as the rest of us. Only, the rest of us are brave enough to take the chance.”
Jordan was no longer amused. He narrowed his gaze and gulped some of his water.
“You think I’m frightened of having my feelings hurt? Failure and disappointment...that’s part of life, love. I often take risks with my work. One can’t be avant-garde without the nads to buck a few trends.”
“True. But it takes more courage to be vulnerable to someone and truly let them into your life, doesn’t it?”
“We’re as different as chalk and cheese in some regards, yet...” Jordan tapped one finger on the table as he assessed her. He seemed to be carefully debating his next words. “Look, Sasha, I might as well put my cards on the table. You know how very attracted I am to you. Am I wrong in thinking you feel the same?”
Sasha swallowed hard. Her heart raced and her pulse pounded in her ears. “You’re a client, and I don’t get involved with my clients. Regardless of how I feel about them personally.”
“And how do you feel about me...personally?” The amusement had returned to his voice and to those captivating eyes.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me,” he insisted.
She sighed. “Fine. Yes, I’m attracted to you. I find you handsome and intriguing. I’m floored by your talent and moved by your concern for the environment and your willingness to mentor young artists.”
“So why not explore our mutual admiration and have a bit of fun together?” His hand crept closer to hers on the table. “Because I’m quite taken with you, Sasha. I think we would get on well together.”
“I’m not interested in a casual fling,” she said abruptly, debating whether to put all her cards on the table, too. “I’ve been there and done that too many times before. I want something real. I want what Vaughn and Miranda have. And I could never have that with you because you’ve made it quite clear that isn’t what you want.”
“I see.” He lowered his gaze briefly before it returned to hers. “And you’re quite sure you wouldn’t consider it?”
“I’m sorry if that means this trip is a waste for you.”
“Not at all.” The disappointment in his eyes belied his warm smile. “You’re a fascinating woman, Sasha. And I quite enjoy your company, regardless of the circumstances.”
Sasha smiled, relieved. They enjoyed the rest of their meal in cordial, relaxed conversation. Still, she couldn’t let go of the small hope that Jordan might change his mind.
“One more thing,” Jordan said. “I’d like you to be my guest at a private event I’m hosting at Sorella next week.”
“What kind of event?”
“It’s a mixer for Prescott George. I offered to host it after we talked about my being more social in the group.”
She grinned. Maybe Jordan Jace wasn’t a lost cause, after all. “I’d love to.”
Ch
apter 7
Sasha handed the valet her keys and followed the red carpet to the front door of Jordan’s gallery, Sorella.
She traced the elegant gold flourish along the edge of the heavy, black linen imprinted with a fancy, gold font. Her invitation to the Prescott George event Jordan was hosting.
Sasha handed her invitation to the hostess working the front door and stepped inside. Soft jazz played over the speakers, and the space was already filling up with well-dressed, affluent people. Many of whom she recognized from their glossy magazine covers and feature articles in business journals.
“Ms. Charles, you made it.” Lydia’s obligatory smile more closely resembled a frown, and her voice was tight. She shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Jordan asked me to apologize for not greeting you himself. He’s meeting with a few fellow Prescott George members. He’ll find you when he has a free moment.”
“Thank you, Lydia.” Sasha scanned the room. “Have my friends Vaughn and Miranda Ellicott arrived yet?”
“Yes. In fact, Vaughn is one of the people he’s meeting with in his office. His wife went upstairs a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you, Lydia.”
Initially, she’d been miffed at Lydia’s chilly treatment. But looking in the woman’s eyes now, she clearly understood.
Lydia was in love with Jordan and considered her a threat. Sasha could hardly blame her.
It took everything she had to maintain her distance during their time together at sea. She’d succeeded in keeping her hands off Jordan, but he’d been on her mind constantly. And she’d enjoyed every moment they spent together during their seven-day excursion.
By the end of the trip, he hadn’t persuaded her of the benefits of a harmless fling and she hadn’t convinced him of the benefits of a long-term relationship.
They’d ended the trip in the same place they began. Frustrated and desperately wanting each other. Only, her feelings for him had grown deeper. Because they’d spent their free time hanging out together. Watching movies. Swimming in the ocean. Sightseeing in Mazatlán and Puerto Vallarta.
Each moment had made her feel closer to Jordan and want him even more.
She felt sorry for the woman. Almost as sorry as she felt for herself.
“My relationship with Jordan is strictly professional, you know.”
“I’m sure you believe that, Ms. Charles.” Lydia shoved her glasses up again. “But Jordan certainly doesn’t.”
The woman walked away, her pumps clicking angrily against the hardwood floors before Sasha could say anything more.
Sasha made her way through the growing crowd of people and up to the second floor.
“Miranda.” She approached her friend studying one of Jordan’s large sculptures.
“Sasha!” Miranda wrapped her in a tight hug, then squeezed her hand. “I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”
“I was invited by a client,” Sasha said cryptically.
“So you’re the one working with Jordan Jace. Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“You know I don’t talk about my clients, unless they’ve given me the okay.” Sasha smoothed down her skirt.
“Well, then, let’s not talk about Jordan the client. Let’s talk about Jordan Jace the very sexy brotha.” Miranda snickered, dodging Sasha when she tried to shush her.
“His assistant already hates me,” Sasha whispered loudly. “I reassured her that my relationship with Jordan is strictly business.”
“I’m not buying it.” Miranda studied Sasha’s expression as she sipped her glass of wine. “The moment I mentioned him your cheeks got bright red and you’re acting all nervous.”
Sasha folded her arms and blew a stream of air through her pursed lips. She shrugged. “Yes, he’s handsome and sexy and brilliant and funny. But he’s also a notorious player who doesn’t do relationships. Sure, he’s interested in hooking up, but what then? I’m over the whole casual dating scene. I want what you and Vaughn have.”
“Oh, honey.” Miranda’s expression went from playful to serious. “I didn’t realize... I never would’ve teased you if I’d known—”
“If you’d known what?”
“That you’re really, really into him.” Miranda lowered her voice as she looked around.
“Is it that obvious?” Heat crawled up Sasha’s neck and face. She didn’t bother denying it. Her friend could see right through the lies she’d been trying to tell herself. “No wonder his assistant wasn’t convinced.”
Miranda beamed. “No, I just know you that well. And I can’t remember the last time I heard you speak so glowingly of any man. Jordan made quite an impression on you.”
Sasha sighed. “It doesn’t matter. He’s a client. Even if he weren’t, I’m not interested in another meaningless fling.”
“Those can be fun, too.” Miranda wiggled her eyebrows, and they both laughed. “But if you really like him, don’t give up so quickly. Maybe Jordan doesn’t believe in getting serious because he hasn’t encountered the right woman yet.”
“I’ve made that mistake before.” Sasha guided her friend away from two couples that had come to look at the sculpture. “It never ends well, and I don’t want to waste my time anymore.”
“Miss Charles, there you are.”
Sasha turned toward the familiar voice. She smiled at the older woman dressed in a black Chanel suit pinned with a diamond brooch that likely cost more than Sasha made in a year.
Eva Jace. Jordan’s mother. Accompanied by his father, Jonathan Jace.
Sasha introduced them to Miranda, who took her leave and returned to the main floor of the gallery.
“I didn’t realize you would be here tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Jace,” Sasha said.
“Jonathan hates to miss any of the Prescott George events, whether we’re here or in London.” The woman smiled lovingly at her husband, who glanced around the gallery as if displeased with the art there.
“You weren’t here the night of Jordan’s opening, so—”
“That wasn’t a PG event.” The old man practically snorted. “It was an art opening. Though my son uses the word quite loosely. Back in my day, art actually resembled something concrete. Didn’t need the artist to spin a fanciful story to explain it.”
Sasha pressed her lips together tightly and managed an obligatory smile, though her blood was boiling.
Did he have any idea what Jordan had achieved already in his short career as a sculpture artist? Or how many of his pieces stood in the courtyards of towns and corporate headquarters? How could the man be so flippant about such a remarkable achievement?
Jordan’s parents were staying at their place in San Diego, and they’d managed to attend a Prescott George event at his gallery. Yet, they hadn’t bothered to attend his opening.
No wonder Jordan is so resentful and pretends not to care what they think.
“Thankfully, not everyone is as stodgy and out-of-touch as you are, dear.” Eva gave her husband a pointed gaze. “Whether you like it, or not, our son has made quite a splash in the art world. And Miss Charles here is going to help him gain the attention his work deserves.”
“He gets plenty of attention, on the arm of one woman or another,” he groused. “None of it good.”
Sasha’s cheeks flamed and her teeth clenched. Her stomach burned, thinking about some of the photos and articles she’d read. Instead, she focused on all of the wonderful things she knew about Jordan Jace. Things he’d kept from the world, and apparently, Eva and Jonathan Jace.
“We’re working hard to change that, Mr. Jace.”
“And exactly how is this little project going?” The man shoved a hand in his pocket. “You might as well know that I was against this little excursion. Enough time and money has been spent on Jordan’s little hobby here.” He gestured around the space. “What we should be doing is trying t
o talk him into making the sensible decision to join his brothers at Jace Investments.”
That. Was. It. Sasha clenched her hands into fists at her sides.
“Mr. Jace, you have no idea just how much good your son has done in underserved communities here in San Diego. Not to mention the strong message his art sends about our need to be better stewards of the planet and our environment.” Her voice vibrated with controlled anger. She should stop while she was ahead, but she couldn’t. She had to defend him. “Perhaps his pieces aren’t as literal as you’d like them to be, sir, but they’re quite magnificent, if only you’d give them a chance.”
Jonathan grunted. Though instead of anger there was something in his gaze that resembled admiration. It quickly faded, replaced by irritation. He folded his arms.
“I apologize if, at times, I seem a bit rough around the edges. But this is our son’s future we’re talking about here.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“I understand, Mr. Jace. But it is Jordan’s future. Shouldn’t he have a say in it?”
The man narrowed his gaze. “Maybe it makes me old-fashioned, but life was better in the old days. When sons eagerly followed their fathers into the family business. When art was art. And when Prescott George did things that truly mattered. Something more than milling around galleries comparing the size of our wallets and our overpriced collections of watercolor scribblings and leftover plane wreckage.”
Jonathan Jace straightened his jacket and looked beyond Sasha at his wife. “I’m stepping out for some air.”
Sasha slowly turned toward Mrs. Jace, her heart racing. She fully expected the woman to tell her she was fired for speaking to her husband that way. That she would see to it that Sasha never landed another worthwhile account in this town or anywhere else. What she saw instead stunned her.
Eva Jace’s face was animated by a genuine smile. “Don’t worry about my husband. His bark’s far worse than his bite. Deep down, he’s a cuddly teddy bear. If you can get past the spikes and barbed wire.”