He is leaning casually against the door frame in khaki slacks and a faded denim button-down. His hair is slicked back from his face, and his eyes are hidden behind aviator style glasses that partially cover the cut on his cheek. He hasn’t shaved and I can’t help the way my fingers itch to stroke the stubble that makes him look even more masculine and delicious.
Without a word, he takes off the glasses to reveal eyes that are filled with so much wicked promise it makes me aware of how very little I wear beneath this dress.
It’s not the reaction I want—tonight, he is supposed to melt for me, not the other way around. And so I cock my head and keep my face blank, the kind of expression I’ve relied on to get me through so many of Damien’s business meetings, where my role is to simply take notes and not react to the progress of negotiations.
“How did you get through the security gate?”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he says, then steps past me into the foyer. As he does, our hands brush, and though I don’t want to feel anything, there is no denying the sparks that this man generates in me. I tell myself that’s okay. I can use that. I can let my own attraction to him fuel my performance.
And I can let his attraction to me cement his fall.
“The dress looks lovely on you,” he says, examining me with a look so incendiary it’s a wonder my blood doesn’t boil. “But I knew it would. The memory of you looking innocent in yellow is burned in my mind. But you weren’t innocent at all, were you?”
My foyer is little more than a short hallway, and now I lean against the wall beside the door, feeling a bit trapped as he stands in front of me, just close enough to be inside my personal space. Just close enough for me to catch his scent.
Just close enough that I can’t help but remember.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” His words are an eerie echo of my thoughts, and as he reaches out, I draw in a breath, unprepared for his touch. But it is not me he’s reaching for, and when I realize that all he is doing is closing the door, I release a shaky breath—and curse the wave of disappointment that crashes over me.
“I haven’t,” he continues, apparently unconcerned that I have yet to say a word. “You in yellow, as bright as the sun shining through the car window. You unbuttoning your dress, revealing yourself to me. Touching yourself, teasing yourself. And it was me you imagined, wasn’t it, princess? Me who filled your thoughts. Who made you hot. Who made you need. Open your eyes,” he demands, and I do, surprised to realize that I had shut them in the first place.
He is right there, so close I can feel his heat. So near that all I would have to do is lean slightly forward to feel him warm and hard against me.
I do the opposite, leaning back, my palms flat against the wall behind me as I desperately wish that I could sink into the drywall and simply disappear.
“Tell me you remember, princess. Tell me you remember how it felt.”
I want to stay silent—to prove to him that even though he thinks that he took control the moment he walked through my doorway, it isn’t true.
Except, of course, it is. I may have hoped to keep the upper hand, but I should have known better. I know the man, don’t I? And I know myself, too.
“Tell me,” he repeats.
I tilt my head back. I meet his eyes. And I give him the answer he’s looking for. “Yes. I remember. And I remember you wanted me, too.”
“I did. I do.” His smile is thin and cunning and just a little bit wicked. “Looks like I’m about to get what I want.” As gently as a summer breeze, he brushes his fingertip over the swell of my breast.
I draw in a breath, determined to fight against the heat that even so simple a touch is fueling in me.
“I think you’re going to get what you want too, princess.”
“I want the resort, Jackson.” I meet his eyes, making sure that mine show nothing but cold calculation. “The resort. And like you, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get exactly what I want.”
As far as I can tell, my words don’t faze him at all. If anything, he seems amused. “And that’s why your new dress is red. You’ve lost your innocence, princess.”
“Stop calling me that.”
He cocks his head, as if considering. “My rules,” he says. “Or had you forgotten already?”
“Dammit, Jackson.” I don’t know why the nickname bothers me when his touch did not. There’s nothing in a name, after all. And it is his touch—and my reaction to it—that reveals so much.
