“I’m flattered,” he said, moving farther into the room. Larissa stood her ground, even though her legs felt wobbly, and the small room seemed to shrink in around him, trapping her. “Did you rush back to your room to research me, Larissa? Or did you already know everything you needed to know about me before you came to the island in the first place?”
“That’s a loaded question, I think,” she retorted, refusing to move even as he drifted closer, even as his shoulders seemed to block out the whole of the far wall. He was not actually growing larger before her very eyes, she told herself sharply. It was just that damned chemical reaction again, her body’s helpless response to him, making her crazy. “I’ve known you since I was a child. There’s very little I don’t know about you, directly or indirectly.” She waved a languid hand as if none of it interested her in the least. “Except for your inner thoughts, of course—assuming you have any of those.” She smirked. “I’ve found that men of your great consequence and vast self-importance most often do not.”
“I think you are confusing the two of us,” Jack replied softly, his dark eyes glittering, as if he could not decide whether he found her amusing or irritating. “I am not the one rumored to be the most vapid creature in all of Manhattan, if not the entire country. Quite a feat, Larissa. How proud you must be.”
She felt a stab of something like pain, like shame, shoot through her and shoved it aside. The tabloids said all that and worse, daily. They had done since she was a teenager, and vapid was practically a compliment in comparison to the things they called her. What should she care if he joined in the chorus? Why should it matter that he did so to her face, with every appearance of believing it? She told herself such things could hardly matter to her any longer. She should be entirely immune.
“Oh, come now,” she said, clucking her tongue. She did not let her gaze drift to that intoxicating hollow between his pectoral muscles, lovingly outlined by his shirt. She did not let her eyes travel further south to investigate that washboard of an abdomen. “You remember—I’ve known you forever. I knew you back before you decided to reinvent yourself, back before you became the most boring man alive. I knew you when you were fun.” She shrugged, knowing she looked careless and amused. Effortless. Blasé. It was her greatest talent. “Back when you were, if I recall it correctly, voted the most dissipated playboy in all of New York City every year for the better part of your twenties.”
She’d run into him, fatefully, at the tail end of that period, she thought, willing those unhelpful and unnecessary memories away. Right when he’d been teetering on the edge of respectability in the wake of his beloved mother’s death. For all she knew, their little weekend tryst had been the straw that broke him. Just one more sin to add to her roster, no doubt. She had given up counting them all.
“Is that why you hate me so much, with so little reason?” she asked then, spurred by some emotion she hardly understood, some small glimpse of something in his expression that she barely comprehended. “Because I knew you when? That hardly seems fair. So does most of Manhattan.”
“I don’t hate you, Larissa,” he said, his voice a rough caress in the small room, abrading her skin, making her arch slightly against it, as if he’d really touched her. “I know you.”
He reached over then, and tracked a leftover droplet from her bath down the side of her neck, across her collarbone, his finger scorching her. Terrifying her. Her gaze was trapped in his. Fire. Anger. And something else, something darker, that she was afraid to explore.
That, God help her, made her want. Yearn.
“What are you doing?” she asked, hating herself for the breathlessness in her voice, the weakness spreading through her. The helpless wanting that even so small a touch could evoke in her. He was an exercise in self-immolation. And he was entirely too addictive, a quick slide into nothing but madness. She’d escaped him once, but she had no reason to believe she would be so lucky again. In fact, she knew better.
But she didn’t move. She didn’t step away.
His lips twitched and a very male triumph lit his dark gaze. She hated that even more.
“It occurred to me that there is very little do here on Endicott Island,” he said, his finger toying with the V-neck of her shirt, teasing her. Yet—still—there was a measuring coolness in his eyes. As if he was testing as much as teasing her. “And we wouldn’t want you bored. I’ve seen what happens when you get bored.” He let out a small laugh. “The whole world has, I imagine.”
“I’m very easily bored, and just as easily photographed, it’s true,” she agreed, forcing the breathlessness back into remission. Covering the hurt she shouldn’t allow herself to feel with a sniff. “I’m bored right now.”
He only smiled.
“While you’re here so unexpectedly,” he said, his fingers drawing out an intoxicating rhythm inside of her, making it pulse deep into her core, “we might as well remind ourselves of the one thing we’re really, really good at, don’t you think?”
She had the urge to play dumb, to ask him what he meant, but the glittering light in his gaze stopped her. She was afraid he would demonstrate what he meant, and how could she possibly survive that? He thought she was the same person she’d been eight months ago, the same person she’d been five years ago. Brittle, hard. Empty. Capable of withstanding anything without truly letting it touch her. Numb. He would treat her like the girl he’d known then, that ghost of herself, that walking shadow. And in so doing, he would ruin whoever she was now, softer and quieter and certainly no match for the likes of him.
She couldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t.
But she also couldn’t let him see that she’d changed. It would end the same way, and she would lose so much more. He would assume it was a trick, a game. He would accuse her of ulterior motives. And Larissa couldn’t defend herself, could she? She couldn’t explain what had happened to her, much less who she’d become—she was still in the process of figuring that out.
And she was so deathly afraid of the answer.
“I thought you said one taste was more than enough,” she tossed back at him lightly, surprised to find that the words still stung. She knew they shouldn’t. What was one more low opinion? She smiled up at him, mysterious, unknowable. The Larissa Whitney promise. Her impenetrable armor. “But no need to worry. Most men, like you, can’t even begin to handle me.”
His smile bordered on feral. She felt it hard in her belly, like a kick, and then his eyes went dark.
She stopped breathing.
“Watch me,” he said hoarsely.
And then his hands were on her shoulders, warm and sure. And she was lost.
He pulled her close, his lips twisting slightly into something too hard to be a smile, and then he took her mouth in a searing, impossible kiss.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS worse than she’d remembered, when she’d allowed herself to remember him at all. It was better.
So much better.
Hotter, sleeker, rolling through her like a tornado, tearing her apart, making her shake as the wild passion claimed her. Her hands found his narrow hips, the taut, smooth muscles of his back, and despite herself, she clung. His skin was so warm, so firm, blazing through the tight shirt he wore, making her long to reach beneath it.
She felt him everywhere.
He kissed her again and again, as if he was as swept away in this fire, this madness, as she was. As if he never meant to stop. Her toes curled against the floorboards. Her eyes fell shut, her back arched, bringing her closer to his drugging heat. She ached everywhere he touched her, and ached even more where he did not. She melted. She burned.
She was in so much trouble.
She was not drunk this time, feeling daring and careless and out of control after a long night at a chaotic party. She was not numbed and halfway to dead inside. There was nothing to dull the exquisite force of him or her own helpless, needy reaction, and however dangerous she had believed him to be before, she knew now she had greatl
y underestimated his power over her.
She was such a fool.
And still she kissed him back, angling her mouth for a better fit, moving closer in his arms, pressing up against the hard wall of his chest. She couldn’t seem to help herself. It was as if he’d been created just for her, carefully constructed to make her lose her mind.
But she was not the same girl he’d once known, however peripherally—not the same person at all any longer, and it was that thought that finally penetrated the delirious fog in her brain. She knew what she was doing here, with him—what she was risking. But he was still playing old games, settling old scores. She knew it, no matter how good he tasted, how perfectly they fitted. She couldn’t let that matter.
She couldn’t lie to herself—hadn’t she made herself that vow?—and pretend that letting this happen would do anything but destroy her.
For good this time. She could feel the truth of that deep inside of her, like some kind of primal feminine knowledge she’d never accessed before.
She tore her mouth from his and backed up then, as she should have done from the start. Better late than never, she told herself. Another mantra that could apply to her whole life these days. It was cold comfort.
“Well,” she said lightly, easily, pretending she couldn’t feel him still, that her whole body did not ache, yearn, need. That her heart was not still thudding, hard and insistent, her blood racing wild and excited through her veins. “Apparently you handle things quite well. But I think I’ll have to decline.”
“Why?” The single word was almost a laugh, arrogant and sure, his gaze frankly incredulous as it seared into hers, invitation and temptation. And that impossible fire that always burned between them, that seductive blaze.
Why, indeed?
But she was not the old Larissa, the heedless Larissa who thought only of a moment’s pleasure—the better to avoid thinking about anything else. She could not play games with this man and skip away unscathed. And she was very much afraid that she had already damaged herself beyond repair.
So she shrugged, pulling the familiar mantle of Larissa Whitney, heartless, careless flirt around her like the armor it was. Her favorite disguise. Because she did not dare let this man see anything more, anything deeper. She did not dare show him anything he could destroy.
“Because you want it too much,” she said airily, turning away from him and drifting toward the fireplace as if she could dismiss him that easily. She closed her eyes for a tight, brief moment—for strength—and then glanced over her shoulder at him, and smiled. Saucily. As if she wanted nothing more than to tease him. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have touched her, much less kissed her. Jack could see the passion in her green eyes, making them luminous. He wanted to make them glaze over with heat. Her mouth was still swollen slightly from his, and he wanted to taste her again. She was narcotic. And still she played her damned games. Lies within lies, like the Russian dolls his mother had collected.
Why was he surprised? That was the real question, and one Jack knew he should investigate. But instead, he watched her.
“I didn’t realize I scared you so much,” he drawled, injecting a note of mockery into his tone, knowing it would get her back up, refusing to question why he wanted that reaction. Any reaction. “I thought nothing could.”
“Bats,” she said immediately, that charming lilt to her voice, the one that made her so impossible to dismiss. The one that made her seem like some latter-day Holly Golightly. “And scorpions.” She gave a mock shudder. “But you? I’m afraid not, Jack. I know that must come as a grave disappointment.”
“I know why you’re here.” It grated out of him, more angrily than it should have. “You can stop all your playacting and simply admit it.”
She glanced back at him again, still standing before the fire, damp and delectable from a bath he could imagine in all-too-graphic detail, her short dark hair slightly mussed and entirely too alluring. He could not seem to reconcile himself to the dissonance—to the fragility of her delicate bones, her waiflike figure, juxtaposed with that cold, heartless core of emptiness he knew was the hidden truth of her, holding her up like a spine. She was indestructible, for all she looked like the next gust of bitter wind against the rattling windows might blow her over.
And those eyes of hers should have been hard as stones, but reminded him instead of the sea. His beloved, unknowable Atlantic, forever complicated by the storms, the island’s rocky shoreline, the towering wall of pines. Shadows chased through her mysterious gaze, then disappeared, leaving him to wonder if he’d imagined them.
“Why don’t you tell me why I’m here?” she suggested, her voice low. She turned back to the fire, dismissal and disinterest stamped along every inch of her aristocratic back, the incline of her elegant neck. “Or we can just pretend that you already did. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to add in the necessary insults in my memory of the conversation that never was. It will be just like the real thing.”
There was a certain dryness to her tone, a certain dark humor, that he couldn’t quite take in. It spoke to a kind of self-awareness he’d never believed she could be capable of achieving. He wished he could see her expression. If she had been another woman, he might even have entertained the possibility that he’d hurt her feelings. But this was Larissa. She didn’t have any. Not the way other people did. Not unless she could use them as leverage.
He let his gaze travel over her celebrated body, admiring her despite himself. How could he not? She was one of the great beauties of the age, or so the media claimed with predictable regularity. And he had tested the theory with his own hands. He knew all of those fine, patrician lines. The curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, the delectable round thrust of her bottom. He knew that soft place just below her hairline at the nape of her neck. He knew what would happen if he pressed his mouth to it, the little gasp she would make, the way her whole body would arch and then shudder.
He found the simple black pants she wore, the small, snug T-shirt, her feet bare against the floorboards, far more erotic and captivating than any of the many elaborate costumes he’d seen her in before. Almost as if she was not as out of place here as he believed her to be. But he was not likely to share that kind of thought, not with a woman like Larissa, and not when it was no doubt proof of his own abiding insanity. She would only use it against him somehow. Everything was a weapon. Everything and everyone had a use. He knew that better than anyone.
She was some kind of witch, though he knew others preferred a different word to describe her, and he had spent years trying to figure out why he’d fallen so hard beneath her spell. Why she had haunted him when so many other women had failed to make any impression at all. He had a thousand different theories, but he still didn’t have an answer. And it hardly mattered any longer.
“I feel suitably chastised,” she said, making him aware of his own brooding silence. She turned around then, her skin flushed from the fire, her eyes darker than they should have been. But her smile was the same as it ever was. That impertinent curve of her lips—as alluring as it was concealing. He should not have this insane urge to try to figure her out. He should not find her so damned fascinating, despite his best intentions.
“See?” Again, that saucy little quirk of her lips. “No need to have the conversation at all. Feel free to let yourself out.”
“The Whitney Media Board of Directors meets next month,” Jack said before he knew he meant to speak. He watched her wince slightly, then check it, and thought he’d landed a blow. He had the impression that she forced herself to resume her usual air of disinterested bonelessness—and felt something move in him in response. He called it cynicism. Weariness. After all, he’d just exposed her little game, hadn’t he?
“You really have become the most tedious man,” she said softly, a light in those captivating eyes he couldn’t read. “I can’t think of anything I would rather discuss less while in the middle
of a storm on a lonely little island than Whitney Media.”
“I’ve heard rumors,” he said. He tracked her, his eyes narrowing, as she drifted over to the armchair near the fire and folded herself into it, drawing her knees up beneath her. “Everyone has.”
“Manhattan runs on rumors, I find,” she said in the same easy tone that he found disturbed him in ways he did not care to examine. “The city that never sleeps because it is far too busy whispering salacious tales into every willing ear, stirring up as much dirt as possible before dawn.” She shrugged as if it was no matter to her, the prurient interest of others. “The veracity of said dirt is never important, of course.”
“You need to appear at that meeting, don’t you?” he countered, because he didn’t need to listen to any stories about her—he’d lived them. “You were very smart to stay out of the papers these past months. But now you need to prove to your father and his disapproving cronies that you’ve become truly respectable, or they’ll declare you unfit and appoint a proxy to vote your shares of the company.”
He wasn’t saying anything any businessman wouldn’t know, simply from reading opinion pieces in the Wall Street Journal. And yet her emerald gaze seemed to simmer with something that might have been anger, had she been someone else. But then she smiled that Mona Lisa smile at him.
“You say that as if I have been in a pitched battle for control of the company since my eighteenth birthday, like some desperate heroine on a daytime soap opera,” she murmured. One delicate hand went to her neck, as if testing the shape of her collarbone beneath her fingers. In another woman, he would call it a nervous tic, a telling gesture. But this was Larissa. She had no tells, only traps. She met his gaze without apparent distress. “I hate to disabuse you of your melodramatic notions, but I’ve had a proxy vote for me for as long as I can remember.” She made a face. “I can’t really think of anything that would bore me more deeply than a board meeting. Particularly if that board had anything to do with a company I was tired of hearing about before I reached kindergarten.” Her perfectly arched brows rose. Her stormy gaze was cool. Deceptively so, he thought. “As you already know, I really don’t like to be bored.”
Heiress Behind the Headlines Page 3