And since the best way to do that is to lose myself in my work, I turn the computer back on, pull up my phone list, and start returning calls.
That’s what I’m doing when he arrives, as silent as a cat. But it doesn’t matter. I know he’s there, and the band around my heart that had started to loosen tightens once again.
“I look forward to getting your proposal,” I say into the phone, then hang up. I wait one beat, then another. Then I swivel in my chair to face him.
I don’t want it to, but the sight of him takes my breath away.
He’s not dressed any differently than he was earlier. Casual slacks and a button-down shirt, the top two buttons open to expose the indentation at the base of his neck. Nothing special about the outfit. Nothing formal about his posture. On the contrary, he is leaning negligently against my cubicle wall.
But it is the expression on his face that has knocked me flat. Passion and penitence and desire so strong it almost pulls me out of my chair. So help me, I want to enfold myself in his arms and press my head against his chest. Because isn’t Jackson the one person who has always been able to make me feel better? Who can soothe and reassure me?
Not today.
Today, I have no one.
Today, I steel myself as I look him in the eye. “This really isn’t a good time.”
He glances down, and I cringe as I realize that he’s looking right at the flowers in my trash. I start to rise—I want to explain—but I force myself to stay seated. Right now, I’m not the one who needs to apologize or explain. Jackson is. And if this evidence of how frustrated and pissed I am doesn’t prompt him, then maybe nothing will.
When he lifts his head and looks at me again, his eyes are flat and unreadable, just like his expression. Only the tightness in his jaw—as if he is clenching his teeth—evidences his dark mood. And it is only because I know him so well that I can see his rising temper. “I’ll let you get back to work.” The words are flat and measured and completely cold.
“Jackson—” His name is past my lips before I can call it back, and I sit there, slightly flummoxed, because I don’t know what I intended to say.
He had taken a step backward, but now he pauses.
I curse myself, because I am not ready to talk about this. So I just say, “Seven o’clock. Don’t forget. I’ll see you at the restaurant.”
He meets my eyes and holds my gaze for a moment longer than is comfortable. “Seven,” he finally says. Then he turns and walks away.
And though I rise and watch him move toward the stairwell, Jackson never once looks back.
seventeen
“Considering you’re the man of the hour, you’re awfully damn quiet, Jax.” Dallas Sykes leans back in his chair and pushes his dinner plate away before polishing off his third martini. The department store magnate is pretty much the walking definition of a sexy bad boy, complete with half-naked women often found draped casually over his arm. Jackson and I both crossed paths with him when our trip to the Cortez site fueled gossip, and we ended up in the tabloids alongside Dallas and his very married girlfriend.
“It’s Jackson, and I apologize. I have a lot on my mind.” He doesn’t look at me. Not that I expect him to. We’ve been managing to not look at each other for the last ninety minutes, ever since we arrived separately at the restaurant.
We’re at a round table, and I’d taken the chair next to Nikki. Aiden had to cancel dinner—apparently Trent took a long weekend, but there are issues at the Century City project that require immediate attention—so that means that we are at a five-top. Nikki, Damien, and I arrived first, and when Jackson came a few moments later, he had the choice of the seat next to me, or the seat next to Damien.
He chose to sit next to me. And though I have avoided his eyes all evening, I can’t avoid the tension that fills the air between us, so thick that I am amazed that no one else is drawn into it, like a black hole that sucks in everything that drifts too close.
I try my best to steer the conversation toward the resort in general. But Dallas—one of the primary investors—has heard it all before, and keeps his focus laser-sharp on Jackson.
“Bet you never knew you’d be such a celebrity when you were sketching your way through your childhood.” He grins. “I saw your documentary.”
Jackson smiles politely. “I hope you found it interesting.”
“Fascinating,” Dallas says. His eyes are as green as Jackson’s are blue, and he looks so earnest, that I can’t help but wonder if the bad boy, playboy thing is an act. The man is managing a multi-billion dollar company and doing a damn fine job. Plus, he’s no slouch intellectually. So what’s his story?
