by BETH KERY
He set down his crystal goblet on the table with a brisk thud, and she had her answer. She damned her curiosity, but merely looked at him calmly, refusing to back down.
“Where the hell did you learn about Clint Jefferies?” he demanded.
“I’m a reporter. I overhear a lot of things, even if I’m not directly involved in a story.”
His mouth went hard. He picked up a napkin and wiped off his hands. “So this is your reporter’s curiosity rearing its head again.”
He didn’t say ugly head, but she had the impression that’s what he was thinking, given his frown.
“I’m interested as a human being. I’m making conversation, Jacob.”
“I don’t talk about my past. Is that a problem for you?” he asked quietly. “For this?” he gestured between them.
He was asking her if it was necessary for him to share himself on a deeper level, given the temporary nature of their sexual relationship. She set down her champagne flute and wiped off her mouth.
“Is it because it’s painful? Talking about your past?” she asked.
“No. It’s because it’s not important to me anymore. I don’t want to emphasize it. I refuse to.”
Her gaze swung to his. His mouth slanted in anger. He scared her a little bit, in that moment.
“I told you once that I remake myself every day.” He waved down at himself with his bunched napkin and tossed it heedlessly on the butcher-block table. “This is it. This is who I am. This is what I can offer.”
“The moment,” she whispered.
“The moment,” he agreed.
Harper got up from the stool slowly. Their former lightheartedness might never have existed. The oppressive silence in the big, sleek kitchen seemed to press down on her.
“I think I should be going,” she said.
“Wait.” He grabbed her hand and stood, stepping into her. She glanced up at him, seeing his sharp frustration. For a few seconds, she wasn’t sure what he’d say. It struck her that he didn’t know, either, whether he wanted her to go or to stay.
“I’ll make the moments special, Harper.” He touched her jaw. There was a fire in his eyes, but she saw irritation and . . . concern there, too. “You agreed that you needed something to make you forget your grief, for a while, anyway. I told you I can do that. This is our time now. Don’t walk away when it’s just begun.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I know. I don’t understand me, either, half the time. It’s just that my past . . . Clint Jefferies . . . the work I do. None of it is relevant to this.”
She nodded, recognizing he was right. Why had it hurt so much when he’d refused to open up to her about his past? His past wasn’t what counted. She touched his hard midriff through the T-shirt he wore. The moment felt very fragile. Then he dipped his head, and their mouths met, and she felt the frayed threads of their connection touch. Reweave.
Coil tight.
A minute later, he led her back to his bedroom suite and secured the door. She didn’t say anything when he guided her to his bed and removed her robe.
There was something tenuous and temporary about their association with each other. But when they touched, something ignited. It was a chemistry so powerful, it obliterated all common sense. It reconnected them, even after an awkward, severing exchange.
Maybe the moment was enough . . . as long as the minutes and hours continued, anyway. Because he took her places in those moments, places that temporarily obliterated the realization of how alone she felt in the world.
* * *
“Stay the night,” he rasped near her ear after they’d made love again, and she lay awash with warmth and satiation in the circle of his arms. “I’ll have a surprise for you in the morning.”
“I have to work in the morning,” she whispered at the same time she ran her lips over his whiskered jaw.
“I’ll get you up early. One of my drivers will get you home in plenty of time to get ready for work.” He leaned over her, taking her deeper into his embrace, pressing his lips to her hairline. She shivered in pleasure. “Trust me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
And there it was again. It didn’t feel like his words were smoke and shadows. It didn’t feel like her agreement to them was.
She really did trust him, no matter how guarded and elusive he was.
* * *
When he wakened her, it was still dark. She squinted when he turned on a bedside lamp. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, dressed in workout clothes—different ones than he’d worn last night. His hair was mussed and he looked a little sweaty . . . not to mention extremely sexy. She glanced around, disoriented.
“Is it still nighttime? Did you just work out?” she asked in sleepy confusion.
“Yeah. It’s my routine, five days a week.” Well, that certainly explains the rock-hard body. He brushed her hair back from her face, and she shivered. “So is this next part. You’re coming with me for that. Here’s your robe.”
She rose groggily and scurried into her robe. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see. It’s nice.”
That’s all he’d say as she followed him down the grand staircase and through the great room. They walked out onto the cool terrace, and Harper saw the pink glow of sunrise over the mountains to the left.
“Good morning, Mr. Latimer,” a woman said.
“Hi, Gabby. Shelly, thanks for coming on short notice,” Jacob said.
“Not a problem at all. Happy to do it,” Shelly said.
They approached two women who were standing near a lit outdoor fireplace. They wore white smocks and pants and were smiling. Harper noticed the massage tables that had been arranged near the fire. Shelly and Gabby both peeled back the linens and blanket on them invitingly.
“You get a massage every time after you work out?” she breathed out quietly, for Jacob’s ears alone. “An outdoor massage at sunrise?” she added, glancing out to the spectacular panoramic view of the blazing sun peeking over the top of the mountains and sending rays of fire into the glittering jewel of the lake. She noticed Jacob’s wry expression and laughed softly. “Of course you do.”
The masseuses turned away while they undressed and got under the blanket. Harper was faster than Jacob, since she wore only a robe. She watched him with her cheek turned on the soft sheet as he shucked off his clothing and tennis shoes and came facedown on the table, the gold and red of the sunrise gleaming on his bronzed skin and body. He caught her staring as he drew the sheet up over his ass, but she didn’t look away. Maybe it was the novelty of the situation, or the warmth on her skin from the nearby fire, but she didn’t hide the admiration in her eyes, either. He noticed. Their gazes held and stuck, even as the masseuses approached their tables.
Harper had the flickering thought that she was glad Jacob got Gabby, who was middle-aged and stocky, but strong-looking, while Shelly was younger and attractive. As soon as Shelly began her massage, though, Harper couldn’t have cared less if it was a supermodel that occasionally massaged Jacob’s gorgeous body in the romantic setting. The woman was talented. Jacob clearly hired her for her skills, not her looks.
The massage in combination with the warmth from the fire had Harper as limp as a cooked noodle by the time Shelly finished.
“That was fantastic, thank you,” Harper told Shelly through lips that had gone slack and tingly.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Please get up slowly. You’re very relaxed,” Shelly said quietly before she and Gabby exited the terrace, giving them privacy.
She looked over at Jacob. He was coming to a sitting position on the table, the white sheet draped low over his taut abdomen. His blondish-brown hair was mussed and strands fell onto his forehead. He looked good enough to eat.
“Did you like?” he asked.
“So much that I can’t
move. My muscles have never been so spoiled,” she mumbled, throwing back the sheet and reaching for her robe.
“Then we’ll do it tomorrow, as well.” She glanced up at him as she tossed the robe around her shoulders. “I mean, if you’d like? Dinner tonight, too? I promise I’ll do better than raiding the fridge this time.”
She laughed. “Don’t promise on my account. That was the best meal I’ve had in years.”
“Is that a yes?”
She glanced over at him. His gaze was on her bare breasts.
“You know it is,” she said softly. He looked up and met her stare. She felt that increasingly familiar unfurling in her lower belly.
“Jacob?”
Harper looked around at the woman’s voice, startled. Her eyes widened when she saw Elizabeth Shields walking briskly across the terrace in her pumps. Harper scrambled hastily into her robe, drawing it closed over her naked body. Unfortunately, she wasn’t fast enough. Elizabeth halted in her tracks, her stare on Harper. Then she looked abruptly downward at the stone floor.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t alone,” Elizabeth said.
“What is it?” Jacob asked her in a clipped tone.
Elizabeth glanced up cautiously. When she noticed that Harper was covered, she stepped forward. She had a cell phone in her hand, and was covering the receiver.
“It’s Alex calling about the ResourceSoft acquisition. I’m afraid there’s been a snag,” she glanced over at Harper, clearly still uncomfortable airing Jacob’s private affairs in front of her.
“It’s okay, Elizabeth,” Jacob said. “What’s the problem?”
“There’s a liability issue. A man has come forward and claimed a prior copyright on the software.”
Jacob cursed under his breath. He held out his hand, frowning forbiddingly. Harper sensed the shift in his focus, along with his irritation. Elizabeth gave him the phone.
Harper turned away, tightening her robe and smoothing her hair while Jacob talked to whoever was on the phone in terse, brisk language. He didn’t take long, but even so, she caught a glimpse of his diamond-hard focus. It intimidated her a little, seeing that brilliant, glacial side of his personality. He signed off as she turned around. His gaze flickered across her, and she sensed his methodical mind working through a myriad of scenarios.
“I’m sorry. I’m going to have to leave for San Francisco this afternoon,” he said distractedly.
“Oh.” She was expecting him to say something like that, given what she’d just overheard on the phone. Still, she was disappointed. They’d gone from the warmth of the moment and the promise of more excitement and intimacy tonight to having it all ripped away in a second. “Well, I’m sure it can’t be helped . . .” She faded off, made uncomfortable with Elizabeth standing there, listening to the whole exchange.
“It sure as hell can’t,” Jacob muttered angrily, hopping onto the terrace, still holding the white sheet against his lower body, insouciant in his mostly nude state, even in front of Elizabeth. He handed the phone to his assistant.
“Call Jenny and Marianne and let them know I’ll be there this evening.” He rattled off a few other instructions to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth made a few suggestions. Harper started to feel like a third wheel, they were both so intent on their plans. Finally, Elizabeth nodded and started to walk away.
“No. Wait,” Jacob called tersely to Elizabeth. He turned to Harper.
“Come with me? To San Francisco.”
She blinked in amazement. She’d thought he’d forgotten she was there.
“I have work.”
“It’s Friday of Labor Day weekend. I’ll wait until you’re off. We’ll fly out of the Truckee-Tahoe Airport and be in San Francisco in forty-five minutes. I’ll get you back on Sunday. Cyril is in San Francisco right now. Maybe you two could get together while I’m in meetings, discuss the film contract or screenplay ideas.”
She glanced anxiously at Elizabeth, who was watching her closely.
“Okay. I mean . . . I guess that could work,” she said impulsively, finding it impossible to resist.
Finding him impossible to resist.
For a second, his irritation and preoccupation with the snag in his acquisition might never have been. He flashed a smile. Harper thought he looked relieved. For a few seconds, she was positive she’d made the right decision in agreeing. How could it be a bad choice, when it made him smile that way?
“Make the arrangements please?” he said to Elizabeth, his gaze remaining on Harper.
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, giving Harper one last uneasy glance before she walked into the house.
“I’m sorry about your deal complications,” Harper told him when they were alone again.
“I’ll get it straightened out,” he said grimly. His expression lightened a little. “And at least you’ll be there.”
She forced a smile and walked toward him. “For the weekend. For the moment.”
He reached out to palm her jaw and ducked his head, seizing her mouth in one swift, unexpected movement. His kiss was hard. Hot. Greedy. Harper felt her toes curling into the stone terrace. Her brain went blank for several heated seconds.
He tore his mouth from hers and pressed their foreheads together, fisting her hair. She looked up slightly, seeing the gleam in his eyes.
“I’m going to make them moments you’re never going to forget. Trust me?” he asked quietly against her open mouth.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Because as usual, her doubts couldn’t exist simultaneously with his touch. That’s what had her breathless at the idea of spending the entire weekend with him.
Not to mention scared half out of her mind.
Look for Part 5, MAKE ME RISK IT, available from InterMix on May 3, 2016.
Keep reading for an excerpt from BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE, a red-hot romance like no other—where the rules of desire are broken, night after intoxicating night. Available now from Berkley.
Francesca glanced around when Ian Noble entered the room, mostly because everyone else in the luxurious restaurant bar did the same thing. Her heart jumped. Through the crowd she saw a tall man dressed in an impeccably tailored suit remove his overcoat, revealing a long, lean body. She immediately recognized Ian Noble. Her gaze lingered on the elegant black overcoat draped over his arm. The random thought hit her brain that while the black coat was right, the suit was all wrong. He belonged in jeans, didn’t he? Her observation made no sense whatsoever. He looked fantastic in the suit, for one, and for another, according to a recent article she’d read in GQ, he was reputed to almost single-handedly keep London’s Savile Row thriving. What else would a businessman who was the scion of a minor branch of the British monarchy wear? One of the men who had entered with him reached to take his coat, but he shook his head once.
Apparently, the enigmatic Mr. Noble wasn’t planning on doing more than making a cursory appearance at the cocktail party he was hosting in Francesca’s honor.
“There’s Mr. Noble now. He’ll be so pleased to meet you. He loves your work,” Lin Soong said. Francesca heard the subtle note of pride in the woman’s voice, as if Ian Noble was her lover instead of her employer.
“He looks like he has far more important things to do than meet me,” Francesca said, smiling. She took a sip of club soda and watched as Noble spoke tersely on a cell phone while two men stood nearby, his overcoat remaining slung in the crook of his arm in readiness for a quick getaway. The subtle slant of his mouth told her he was irritated. For some reason, this all-too-human display of emotion relaxed her a little. She hadn’t revealed it to her roommates—she was known for possessing a ‘whatever, bring it on attitude’—but she’d been strangely anxious about meeting Ian Noble.
The crowd returned to their conversation, but the energy level of the room had somehow amplified with Noble’s arrival. Odd that suc
h a distinctive, sophisticated man would become an icon for a tech-savvy, T-shirt-wearing generation. He looked to be thirtyish. She’d read Noble had earned his first billion with his breakthrough social-media company years ago, before he’d put it up for a public offering, made thirteen billion more, then promptly started another hugely successful Internet retail business.
Everything he touched turned to gold, apparently. Why? Because he was Ian Noble. He could do anything he damn well pleased. Francesca’s mouth curved in amusement at the thought. It somehow helped to think he was arrogant and unlikeable. Yes, he was her benefactor, but like artists throughout history, Francesca had a healthy dose of distrust for the patron shelling out the money. Sadly, all starving artists needed their Ian Nobles.
“I’ll just go and tell him you’re here. As I’ve mentioned, he was quite taken with your painting. He chose it hands down over the two other finalists,” Lin said, referring to the competition Francesca had won. The winner would be granted the prestigious commission to create the centerpiece painting for the grand lobby of Noble’s new Chicago skyscraper, which they were in. The cocktail reception in Francesca’s honor was being held in a restaurant called Fusion, a trendy, pricey restaurant located inside Noble’s high-rise. Most importantly to Francesca, she would be awarded a hundred thousand dollars, something she could sorely use as a struggling master of fine arts graduate student.
Lin magically materialized a young African-American woman named Zoe Charon to converse with Francesca in her absence.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Zoe said, flashing an orthodontist’s dream smile as she shook Francesca’s hand. “And congratulations on your commission. Just think: I’ll be looking at your painting every time I walk into work.”
Francesca suffered an increasingly familiar pang of discomfort over her clothing in comparison to Zoe’s suit. Lin, Zoe, and just about every person at the reception in her honor were appareled in the height of sophisticated, sleek fashion. How was she to know that boho chic wouldn’t work at a Noble cocktail party? How was she to know that her brand of boho chic wasn’t really chic at all?