by LENA DIAZ,
There was no ring on his finger, but Jackson didn’t miss the obvious affection in Jonathan’s words.
“Let me go give her a call and then we can hand that contract over to the boss and head out.”
Jackson nodded and drained the rest of his cup. He eyed the bench next to the gym’s door. On it were papers that he hadn’t expected to receive. Within their legal jargon was a job offer he hadn’t thought would come.
With a past like his, he didn’t often catch a break. At least not once his name was heard and the recognition that normally always followed connected. While he was more than willing to show he could work hard by staying even later, he also was anxious to meet the head honcho. Since Jonathan had met Jackson at a bar less than a week earlier and the two had gotten to talking, landing Jackson an informal interview in the process, he hadn’t had the chance to meet the boss. He actually hadn’t even looked him up. Not when a big part of him had thought landing a job with a company in security would never pan out. He’d had too many opportunities go south when they did background checks.
Now that he’d been given an opportunity, he didn’t want to mess anything up.
Jackson looked around the “grazing area” as Jonathan called it, taking in the large common room most agents lounged in from time to time. It was after six on a Friday, so as far as he knew not many people were still inside. An agent named Thomas was locked in his office, poring over papers, and a woman named Jillian had said hello before retreating into her office to do some “security reinforcement,” but beyond that the place was mostly empty. Jackson couldn’t deny he preferred it that way. While he liked Jonathan for his vote of confidence, he wasn’t about to ask the guy to pal around.
He threw away his paper cup and went over to his exercise bag, already picturing the black shirt he was about to change into. Jonathan had suggested he bring a change of clothes if they ended up doing some training. At the time Jackson had thought that was a bit presumptuous, but now he was grateful for the optimistic move. His gray shirt wasn’t hiding any of his perspiration. If he was about to meet the main boss, then he’d at least try to keep his top half somewhat presentable. He stripped off his shirt and grabbed the clean one from his bag. He was holding it in hand when the sound of clicking echoed behind him. He turned, confused.
And then promptly stared.
The clicking was caused by a pair of high heels moving across the hardwood through the grazing area and straight toward him. In those high heels were long legs wrapped in black that attached to a woman not at all looking like she should have been standing in a bodyguard agency. Along with her heels and leather pants, she wore a white blouse that jutted down in a V, partially showing off a chest that wasn’t large but was still generous. She wore a dark red blazer that had no doubt been intended to play off her dark red hair, which fell in large, loose waves and looked absolutely soft to the touch. He didn’t wonder if her hair was natural or not. Her skin was on the pale side and, even though she wore full makeup, he could see a few freckles splashed atop her cheeks. These small details coupled with her high cheekbones, sharp jaw and thin—yet not in a bad way—lips created the image of a confident, beautiful woman. Jackson knew he took in all the details quickly, but as he looked into the green-eyed, unending stare of the absolutely attractive woman in front of him, he wondered if he really had been staring for too long.
The woman cleared her throat, and her eyes flicked downward quickly before coming back up. Her cheeks, rosy already, seemed to take on another shade of blush. Jackson realized he was still standing without his shirt.
“Sorry,” he said, hurriedly throwing on his spare. The woman smiled and waved her hand, dismissive.
“You’d be surprised how many shirtless men I run into while in here,” she said. “I suppose it’s an occupational hazard, especially since we had the gym put in.”
Jackson’s brow rose as he lowered his shirt.
“You work here?” he asked, confused. Dressed as she was, he’d assumed maybe she had come in as one of Jillian’s friends or maybe even Thomas’s girlfriend. Certainly not an employee.
The woman smirked. “You could say that.”
She stuck out her hand. He noted a silver band on her thumb and pristine fingernails and polish. Whoever she was, he’d bet her attention to detail always erred on the side of meticulous. Jackson shook and was surprised at how firm her grip was.
“You’re Jackson Fields, right?”
Jackson nodded.
“Jonathan speaks highly of you. I see you’ve probably been sparring.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while since I had a good match,” he admitted. “He’s good.”
The woman nodded.
“He’s smart, too,” she added. “He knows how to handle difficult situations with objective thinking and rarely acts impulsively. He’s a smart kind of brawn and one of the best examples of knowing how to fight smart versus flying off the hinges.”
Jackson tilted his head slightly. The woman’s tone had shifted into that of a parent talking about someone else when really she was trying to teach her kid the lesson. A passively pointed conversation. One directed at him. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave the woman a long look. He didn’t care how attractive she was; he didn’t like being lectured.
“Some would argue that thinking too much can sometimes complicate a situation more than acting impulsively,” he shot back, tone matching.
“And most of those people find themselves on the wrong end of those situations when all they needed to have done was take a beat and think logically.”
Any trace of a smile had been wiped from her lips. Jackson knew he’d met his match.
“Acting on impulse suggests passion,” he said. “When you have passion as your driving force, you are harder to slow down. To stop. To beat. Taking the time to overthink everything suggests that that person doesn’t really care what he’s fighting for.” He shrugged. “And, in my opinion, I would bet that person doesn’t even know what passion is.” The last part was, of course, meant for the woman in front of him. The one judging him like all the others had done before and still did. He raised his eyebrow at her just in case she missed his jab. She wasn’t the only one who could be passive.
The woman’s jaw set hard, her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned slightly. She looked like she was rearing for a comeback when Jonathan walked in from the hallway. He smiled at the two of them and walked over.
“I see you’ve already met the boss, then,” Jonathan greeted.
Jackson’s eyes widened.
Of course she was the boss.
Nikki Waters.
She cut eye contact with him when she answered the man. “We were just having a pleasant conversation in which I think Mr. Fields was implying I needed more passion in my life.”
Jonathan burst into laughter.
“Rough around the edges, remember?” he said.
Nikki held out her hand in response.
“Your contract, please,” she said to Jackson. He handed it to her without a word. Not because he was intimidated or embarrassed, but because he didn’t just want this job. He needed it. Unless he’d already shot himself in the foot. Instead of tearing up the papers like he was afraid she might, Nikki put the folder beneath her arm and fixed him with a fierce stare. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I have an important meeting.”
Jonathan seemed to sober a bit.
“Good luck,” he said. She nodded, turning on her heel. She paused long enough to say something to the trainer.
“And his hair is too shaggy.”
Then she was gone.
* * *
NIKKI TAPPED HER heel against the ceramic tile and desperately wanted not one but several more drinks. She didn’t often indulge in alcohol, but tonight of all nights she found her nerves craved it. Looking at the
people around her, all in varying physical descriptors, ethnicities, ages and interests, she questioned why she was even there.
Was there not another way?
Was this her last option?
Would this even work?
“—so I have to stay in perfect shape all the time,” the man across the table from her said, obviously proud. “How could I help people sculpt the perfect bodies if their fitness instructor didn’t have one, too?”
Nikki’s need for another drink was almost as great as the mass of the man’s biceps. She gave him a polite smile that she hoped wouldn’t be construed as romantic interest. The man might have been attractive, but in the two minutes they’d had to talk he hadn’t once asked her a question. If Nikki had wanted to sit in silence, she would have stayed at home instead of coming out to a speed-dating event.
“I actually had a woman come up to me after class and say I changed her life with my w—”
A bell went off and Nikki nearly clapped. The man seemed upset he couldn’t finish his “stories of me,” but she had no doubt he’d continue them with the woman at the next table. He didn’t say goodbye as he stood up and started to leave. Nikki took the opportunity to pull her phone out of her purse and check the time.
Her thoughts jumped to the man back at Orion who had clearly made the accusation that she didn’t know what passion was. Even though she’d known Jackson Fields probably wasn’t the best conversationalist, she’d been surprised at his quickness to undercut her subtle accusation with one of his own. Those blue-gray eyes hadn’t backed down and hadn’t submitted. In his short rebuttal about “passion” he’d been passionate.
Nikki sighed.
He’d also been right about his assumption of her lacking passion.
But maybe, just maybe, tonight would help with that side of her life.
Before she could leave thoughts of him behind, she pictured him again. Even though he’d been shirtless, showcasing a tan and a toned chest, it was his smile that had first caught her attention. Despite his past, it had been strong, showing a man who looked confident, even if his dirty blond hair shagged out over his ears and his cut jaw had sported a little more than a five o’clock shadow. She’d bet he hadn’t been expecting to actually get offered the job. Or else, hopefully, he would have tried to look a bit more kempt. Though she hadn’t necessarily been put off by his appearance, either, shirt or not.
Nikki shook her head, trying to sling off the snapshots of his body. Tonight wasn’t about him or work. It was about Nikki and trying to find someone she could laugh with, share some quality time with. Someone compatible who didn’t scare easily when she told him she ran an agency of muscled men who had protected hundreds of people over the years.
She put her phone back in her purse and pasted on a smile as someone cleared his throat, bringing her attention to the new man in front of her.
She froze.
This man was definitely not the one she was looking for.
“I know we’re supposed to tell each other good things about ourselves in the hope of making a meaningful connection in the next two minutes,” he started. “But how about instead I use that time to tell you about all the things wrong with you?” He gave a smile. It sent ice through her. “What do you say to that, Miss Waters?”
Copyright © 2016 by Tyler Anne Snell
ISBN-13: 9781488005800
Hostage Negotiation
Copyright © 2016 by Lena Diaz
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com