JACKSON (The Billionaire Croft Brothers, Book One)

by Paige North

  I’m out of the car quickly, headed over to her side so I can open the door for her. The closer I get to her, the faster my heart beats.

  “Good evening, Emily,” I say, using one hand to button my suit jacket.

  “Hello,” she says, her eyes focused on the car. I lean in to greet her with a kiss on the cheek—a habit—and it seems to startle her. She smiles, though, showing dimples in her cheeks.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  “This is your car?” she responds, still eyeing it.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m driving it, aren’t I?”

  She shakes her head. “Yeah, it’s just...nothing. Let’s go.”

  I have no idea what that’s about, but once in the car we head back into the heart of the city. Sandra called ahead to Prime & Tender—Croft International is a silent partner in the Michelin-starred restaurant—and so I know that the restaurant will pull out all the stops for us tonight.

  I pull up to the curb on Boylston Street and the valet is there to help Emily out and take my keys. I guide her through the restaurant, lightly touching the small of her back, already wishing I could feel more of her.

  This might be a long, torturous night.

  I’m greeted by staff as we’re ushered back into the private room. When my hand leaves Emily’s back, I instantly feel the void.

  We’re seated, napkins gently dropped in our laps. Emily is looking around the small space with a mix of curiosity and confusion, and I know why. She thought she’d agreed to dinner with me in a room full of strangers, but no way did I intend to spend my one evening with her being ogled at by other people. I want to keep this little treasure to myself for the evening.

  “They keep this room for me,” I tell her. “It’s small, but I like it because it’s private.”

  “You don’t like people seeing you eat or something?”

  “It’s not that. I often have dinners or luncheons with high-level international clients, and I don’t need those meetings ending up in the business section of the Boston Herald. Keeping some things private is essential to my company.”

  “So you can do your hostage takeovers?” Emily asks, her eyes steady and slightly hard on me.

  “Everyone comes willingly,” I reply, enjoying the repartee. She’s already made me forget my troubles and we’ve only just begun.

  “I’ll bet,” she says. She shifts in her seat and looks awkwardly around the room, like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

  “Good evening, Mr. Croft,” a voice says, and I turn to see Chef Barton walk through the door. “I’m so happy to have you here this evening.”

  I stand up to shake his hand. “Thank you for having us. I’d like you to meet Emily Brown.”

  Emily’s eyes dart between us, and she finally offers her hand. “You’re the chef? Oh, wow, um, nice to meet you.”

  “You as well,” Chef Barton says. “Welcome to Prime & Tender. Mr. Croft has been a supporter of ours from the very beginning. We wouldn’t be the success we are without him.”

  “It’s all in the genius of your food, Andrew,” I say. I sit back down.

  “I have some wonderful options for you,” he continues. “Of course, the regular menu is available to you, or anything you desire. But for you both this evening, I recommend either the roasted lamb with fresh mint sauce or my signature five-spice seared yellowfin tuna that pairs perfectly with the Provence rosé.”

  Chef Barton tells us about the other courses and I watch as Emily takes it all in. She looks a little lost at not having a menu to look down at, or maybe it’s the abundance of courses that’s got her thrown. Either way, it’s charming.

  “I’ll send Rocco in to take care of you for the evening and get you started with some wine and your first course,” Chef Barton says. “Please enjoy your evening. I’ll check back with you later.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I tell him. Having him come in now is enough show for Emily. For the rest of the evening, I’d like to have her alone as much as possible.

  Once Chef Barton has gone back to the kitchen, Rocco comes in with wine and our appetizer, which Rocco tells us is a canapé of wild smoked salmon with avocado.

  “Did you decide on your entrees?” he asks. “Or would you like to see the menu?” He asks this to Emily—he knows I always order whatever Chef Barton recommends.

  “You’ll love the roasted lamb,” I say to Emily. “It’s legendary; people fly in on private planes just to eat it.”

  Emily is looking at the canapé as if she’s not quite sure if she should eat it or take a photo. “Oh, um,” she begins, looking between Rocco and me. “What were the choices?”

  “Whatever you want,” I tell her. “The chef recommends the lamb. He also has a yellowfin tuna.”

  “Or I could bring you our regular menu,” Rocco offers. “It’s seasonal, so only the freshest, most readily available foods are used.”

  She looks up at Rocco. “I think I’ll have the yellowfin, please.”

  “Very good,” Rocco says before leaving the room.

  “Do you always eat like this?” she asks.

  “Like what?” But of course I know what she means.

  She tosses her hands out to her side. “Like this! In a private room. The chef just came out here. I mean, I don’t know anything about the food world but I can take one look at that,” she indicates the canapé, “and know that this is fan-cy.” She says it like two words, clearly on purpose. It’s at once adorable and sexy.

  “It’s very good, yes,” I concede. “The best in the city, actually. But you wouldn’t believe what I have to pay that guy to keep him from going to New York or Paris. It costs a lot to keep talented people around.”

  “You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”

  I shrug. Of course I’m used to getting what I want. I work hard to get it, but I always win. “Usually,” I say. I hold up my glass, looking Emily in her eyes. “To the Children’s Education Fund.” She raises her glass we touch rims touch.

  As we begin the appetizer I realize I need to calm myself—watching Emily take a sip of wine or touch a morsel of food to her lips might make me explode.

  “So tell me,” Emily says, dusting off her hands—the napkin is right there in her lap. She leans forward on the table just enough to push her breasts up a little more. “Is it true that you really don’t care about charities like you said?”

  Averting my eyes, I say, “That may have been a slight exaggeration.”

  “I knew it,” Emily says, victorious. Unfortunately, she sits back in her chair again and I lose that spectacular view. The good news? I can see more of her body—at least from the waist up. I remember the feel of my hand on her back, and realize how much I want to touch her again.

  “No one can not care about charities.”

  I gently wipe my hand on my napkin. “You’re right. I care about the tax advantage they give me.”

  “You’re terrible,” she says, looking for a moment like she’s going to throw her own napkin at me. “Were you raised to only care about money?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And power.”

  She smiles, thinking I’m joking.

  “I bet you were raised in Beacon Hill and played rugby and had chef-prepared meals every night.”

  “Pretty close,” I say. “I was raised to fight but in a custom-made Italian suit.”

  “Ha,” she says. She reaches across the small table and takes my wrist, tugging it toward her. “And this thing,” she says, touching the face of my Rolex. “I bet this matters too.”

  Her fingers so close to my skin make me burn. “It matters as a symbol,” I say. “A symbol of what I’ve achieved.”

  “Let me see this thing,” Emily says. She’s not exactly gentle as she tugs my arm closer to her for a better look. She leans on the table, that spectacular view back, and inspects the watch. “Was this a gift or did you buy it for yourself?”

  “Bought it myself.”

  She traces the face,
looking at it so closely it’s as if she’s never seen a watch before. “Some lady didn’t buy this for you?”

  “My relationships don’t exactly go like that.”

  Emily looks up at me, her fingers lingering on my wrist. “What do you mean? You don’t like women buying you gifts?”

  I try to concentrate on her question, and not the softness of her fingers on my skin. “It’s not that,” I say. “Although I do prefer to do the buying. But honestly, I don’t stay in relationships long enough for this kind of gift.” Or much of anything else, I almost add.

  “Come on. I bet you have women lined up around the block for you.”

  “Emily, I said relationships. Not women.”

  “Oh,” she says, blushing slightly. “Does that mean that work is the true love of your life?”

  Keeping my eyes on her, I say, “Maybe.”

  She holds my gaze, unwilling to back down—that is, until she does. I would never break first. Her fingers slide away from me, and she crosses her hands under her arms—elbows on the table and all—giving me the view that is going to drive me insane.

  “Well,” she says looking back at the Rolex, “it looks ridiculous.”

  I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. What is it about her that makes me delighted and furious, that makes me want to run to her as quickly as I want to run away?

  “Let’s see yours,” I say. “You probably have something practical with a thin leather strap.”

  She immediately moves her arms down into her lap.

  “I knew it,” I laugh. “Let me see. I won’t tease you.”

  “You won’t?” she asks, looking at me carefully.

  “Promise,” I say. She slowly moves her hands back onto the tops of the starched tablecloth. Her fingers and wrists are bare of any jewelry. “A minimalist?” I ask. I take her hands in mine as if I’m inspecting them for hidden jewels. I run my thumb over her palm.

  “I don’t like anything fussy,” she says.

  “You certainly don’t need anything extra to make you shine,” I say. “How about a delicate diamond bracelet?” I wrap my fingers around her tiny wrist. “You’d wear it well.”

  “Do you plan on buying me something?” she asks. “I thought you didn’t stick around for things like that.”

  “I don’t,” I say delicately.

  “So don’t tease me,” she says. “You said you wouldn’t.”

  I realize this is getting a little heavy for me. I release her wrist and sit back in my seat, putting distance between us. I’m tempted to throw the table aside and wrap her up in my arms. The small touch of her skin may have only made things worse. But if one thing is a real boner crusher, it’s relationship talk.

  “I won’t tease you,” I say. Unless you want me to, I want to add but don’t. The main course isn’t even here yet, and I’m starting to wonder how much more I can take. I have a sip of the wine, then chase it with the sparkling water to help keep my wits about me. With each moment that passes—each look, each touch, each word out of Emily’s perfect lips—I wonder how I’ll ever survive being tempted by her.

  Our eyes locked on one another again, neither of us speaking—at least not with words—when Rocco comes through the door.

  As we go through the courses—an arugula salad with pear, a roasted corn soup, and a champagne sorbet—I find that as passionate as Emily is about helping others, she’s done little to help herself in terms of a social life.

  “That’s one thing we have in common,” I tell her. “Work always comes first.”

  “I spend so much time studying, not to mention working part-time at CEF, that I hardly have time for anything else aside from the occasional happy hour and grub at Mickey’s Tavern,” she says.

  It’s ridiculous, but I’m glad she doesn’t mention a guy—aside from her brother and father.

  “This is the most out I’ve been in, God,” she says, thinking. “I don’t even want to say. I had to really dig in the back of my closet to find this thing.”

  She gestures down at the gold dress, which fits her so perfectly despite the fact that I find myself wanting to rip it off her body.

  When the entrées arrive, I’m happy for the distraction.

  Rocco sets our dinner plates in front us, pieces of art, really. The rich aroma of the lamb warms me, and Emily’s five-spice seared yellowfin tuna is a plate of vibrant colors and beauty.

  Once the new wines are served—including the rosé for Emily—Rocco makes his exit. We listen as the door clicks shut.

  “Oh my god,” she says after taking her first bite. “Jackson, this is incredible.”

  I smile. “Of course it is. I only go in for the best. When I heard talk of Chef Barton opening his own restaurant I knew I had to get on board if for no other reason than to dine here whenever I wanted.”

  “You have to taste this,” she says.

  “I’ve had it,” I say. “I know how good it is. You enjoy it.”

  She takes another bite and closes her eyes as she chews. I almost drop my fork as I watch the pure pleasure on her face as she slowly works her jaw, savoring each taste. She opens her eyes as if waking from a dream, swallowing the bite. “Here,” she says, nudging her plate toward me. “You have to have some. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

  Christ, she’s killing me and she has no idea. Absolutely none.

  “I’ll taste yours if you taste mine,” I say. “You first.” I cut off a small piece of meat for her. Emily leans forward in her seat, her breasts coming dangerously close dipping into the sauce on her plate. Without a word, she drops her mouth open and waits for me to feed her, her eyes locked on mine. I move the fork toward her mouth, and her tongue slips out the smallest bit to capture the food. She wraps her lips around the fork and gently tugs back. I think I might explode right here at the table.

  “Mmm,” she moans as she chews, her eyes falling shut again. “Amazing.” I can’t move while I watch her. Never in my life has a woman had me so charged up, and over dinner. “Your turn.” She fills her fork and leans toward me again, her eyes on my lips. The fork hovers there for a moment, but I can’t take my eyes off her. “Here.”

  “Put it down,” I say, and I hear the scratchiness in my voice as if I’m choking on want.

  “You don’t want to taste?”

  God, is she this innocent, or is she messing with me? I can’t tell, but it’s making me crazy just the same.

  I stand up from the table and stride across the room to the door. I lock it. When I look back at Emily she’s still holding that damn fork but her mouth has fallen slightly open. I walk back to the table. I run my fingers over her jaw.

  “Emily,” I say. “I definitely want to taste.”

  Emily

  Jackson moves his hand to the back of my neck and pulls me toward him. His face moves toward mine, his lips parted and eyes focused on my mouth. I’m watching it happen, frozen in my chair, not breathing, heart stopped. He’s been open one moment and cold the next, leaving me wondering what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his. Now I know. He’s going to kiss me, and that means I am floating in a dream.

  His lips touch mine softly, as if testing to see my reaction. I press my lips back, showing him that I want it too. His lips move over mine, feeling me, as one hand kneads over the back of my neck, gently pulling me closer to him. His other hand softly touches my face. I press into his lips until his tongue pushes through, seeking my own tongue and tasting me, exploring me. I give him back as much as I can but no one has ever kissed me with so much urgency it’s almost messy, and delightfully so. It makes me lightheaded and I’m glad I’m sitting down, my hands resting in my lap as if I’m paralyzed which, in a way I am. Jackson Croft has me powerless to move my own body.

  When he pulls away I almost fall forward. I’m looking up at him, still standing above me, and my eyes catch what’s right in front of my face—the evidence of how excited Jackson is.

  By me.

  It hardly
seems real. This guy is my exact opposite but the way he’s looking at me now is the sexist way anyone has ever looked at me in my life. Not just like he wants me, but like he needs me in order to keep breathing.

  Jackson sits back down in his chair and I realize the moment is over. I want more but at least I’ll leave tonight having had the most passionate kiss of my life.

  Jackson’s eyes never leave mine, and his gaze is so penetrating that it still has me grounded to my seat. My breaths come in deep in slow as I try to gather my thoughts, bring myself back to reality.

  “Emily,” Jackson says, “come here.” Without thought I somehow stand up and move closer to him. “Sit down.” I look to his lap—buzzing in my stomach flutters up knowing what’s happening in those tailored pants—and begin to sit, legs together and one arm around his back. But he stops me with his hand on my hip. “No. Face me.”

  He wants me to straddle him? In here? I look toward the door, knowing he locked it but still. What if Rocco or Chef Barton try to come back in to clear our plates or offer us dessert?

  “Don’t worry about that,” he says, watching me. “No one will bother us. Now sit.”

  My face is heating up like I’m standing in front of the sun and frankly my knees may not be able to hold me much longer. But still…

  “My skirt,” I say, tugging it down like an awkward schoolgirl. “It’s…it won’t…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say. If I were wearing a flowing skirt or pants it would be different, but to straddle him, in a restaurant, in this skirt, it’s like the skirt is the one thing holding me back. Like it’s one thing too many, one extra thing I’ve never done.

  “Emily,” Jackson says again, and every time he says my name it’s a soft but firm command. His hands slid up the side of my thighs to my hips. There at the top, he tugs up the fabric ever so slightly. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

  The truth is, it gives and stretches easily. And I want him. I want to do whatever he asks, without thought, without care of who he is or what kind of person he is. So I place one leg on the side of him then drape the other on the opposite side, all the while his hands are resting on my hips, not pressing, not guiding, just letting me feel him on me.