by Olivia Logan
Well if he could play to the paps, then so could she. After all, it was work, and work meant getting public-garnered ratings, and what did people like more than a passionate exchange? Swallowing back the lump of self-doubt and nerves, CJ slid herself forward, making sure her face was angled to the large cameras, her eyelids drooping in what she hoped passed for a suggestive flirtation. But she was unprepared for the confused flicker in his own eyes. Forcing her senses back to reality, she pushed her lips into a pout, ignoring the womanly thrill when his eyes dropped to them.
“In that case, this date wants a few more turns on the runs.”
“Fine with me.” His breath was warm on her face as he leaned closer. “Any particular run? I have made dinner reservations at The Lobby.”
“The Lobby restaurant? As in book-six-months-in-advance Lobby?”
“The very same. So, which run?”
“The Black Diamond. I’d like to say the Double Black Diamond, but I think it’s only fair to give you a fighting chance.”
• • •
She was hiding something. No rookie skier could survive that slope and best him on it, too. Raising the iced glass of whiskey to his lips, Jack narrowed his eyes at the restaurant door. He could call in a PI. Shaking his head almost immediately, he pushed his glass to one side. No, he would find out himself. His ex-stepmother had been cunning in hiding her past, and yet he had found out about her. He would do the same with CJ.
He drummed his fingertips lightly on the table. Where was CJ? She hadn’t struck him as a “make the date wait” girl. In fact, like their first date, he expected her to be waiting for him. A wry smile pulled at his lips. They had all waited for him. Till now.
Nodding politely at a nearby table that he knew definitely seated at least one member of the press, he scanned the room. The usual celebrities and minor royals graced the restaurant as he knew they would. He had been tempted more than once to talk business with them, but that was the last thing he could be seen doing should a camera suddenly appear behind an ornate shrub. Though it didn’t seem he was alone anymore in acting for the paps. CJ’s successful performance near the lips had the desired effect in getting their attention. She had been following his lead, something he didn’t think she would do. Clearly he had underestimated her once again.
The sound of a commotion drew his attention to the door, and he felt his jaw slacken as his date entered. The expensive chandeliers and candelabra light bounced off the purple, sequined dress, shooting sparks of light around the room, her berry ends on show thanks to the large curls she had twisted them into, the curls themselves not hiding the V halter neck of her dress.
She halted on the precipice of the ornate marble floor as the band finished its number. Couples swirled back to their seats while others swayed gently to the start of the new slow tune. The women around her eyed her with disdain, the men with something he didn’t want to name, but it made him stand up and walk toward her as the music began again in earnest.
Sliding a hand around her waist, he pulled her to him, his fingers tingling at the softness of her skin. Her hand was warm to his touch, and he pulled her closer as the dance dictated. The press of her against his suit shirt rendered the truth null and void.
Lowering his head, Jack inhaled the light scent of vanilla that engulfed her wherever she went, her delicate earlobe, free from earrings, only centimeters away.
“Good evening, CJ.”
“Jack.”
He looked up sharply at her hissed comment, his eyes raking over her wide eyes, the pupils like dark orbs sucking him in.
“I ... I’m not a very good dancer.”
“I don’t think anyone is going to notice your dancing with that dress.” Interesting. His temptress from the slopes was blushing. He narrowed his eyes, looking closer. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman genuinely blush before. Not unless the gal wanted something.
“Thank you. At least I will take that as a compliment.”
“It was one. Vintage?” He wasn’t interested in women’s fashion, but after his LBC comment, he had asked his secretary to fill him in on the basics. Any real “caring” date would take an interest, and to close the deal on this project, he would be as “real” and “caring” as it took.
“I’m impressed. Someone’s been doing his homework. It kind of is and kind of isn’t.” She stopped at the frown pulling at his brows. “It’s from a prop website. As in items of clothing that were once used in films. So technically, as it was featured in a film set in the 1950s, it is vintage.” She shrugged lightly, her pale, delicate shoulders drawing his attention as they had the night of their first date.
The band’s soft, mournful tune was soon joined by the dulcet tones of their singer. It was an odd thing for CJ to smile about.
“Care to share?”
“What? Oh nothing. Well, the song’s a little strange to be honest.” Her voice was as soft as her smile.
“Strange how?”
“The woman is saying the kiss of her lover changed her life and without it she will die. Okay, I take that back. Now she is saying she will die a thousand deaths if she can never kiss him again.” A thoughtful look crossed her face, as if this piece of information didn’t make any sense.
“She is singing in French,” he said, raising his eyebrow questioningly. “You speak fluent French?” If he didn’t think she was hiding something before, he knew she was now, especially after the noncommittal shrug of her shoulders.
“The whole kiss-related thing. I mean, really? Dying for a kiss,” she carried on. She was blatantly ignoring his question. He would let her get away with the distracting remark—for now.
“That doesn’t sound like the ideals of a romantic agony aunt.”
“I’m an agony aunt. Not a storyteller. I tell my listeners the truth.”
“And if a kiss makes them feel that way?” Her reply to that ought to be interesting.
“And if it doesn’t? Then love songs are more like propaganda, surely,” she said, her voice solemn, her eyes wide as they held his.
“You know what they say: You never know till you try.”
Jack froze, sure the same astonishment spreading across her face was mirrored on his. What the hell made him say that? He had a deal to complete. That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? A deal, to prove to his father, to everyone, why he was the rightful CEO, not the playboy who was known for “sleeping and leaving” as one paper dubbed his antics.
He watched through lowered lids as she shook her head, the berry ends dancing in the candlelight at the movement.
“Nope. No. I don’t think that is necessary. Like at all,” she said, the whispered denial belied by her darkening gaze.
He knew he should stop there. Should refuse to tease CJ until he knew how far she could go.
“Maybe the kiss she was talking about only works when she and her lover aren’t surrounded by a dance floor of people,” he said.
Her eyes were wide with confusion and something he wasn’t ready to put into words. The same thing he was sure was making him see how far she could be pushed. And yet ... it was not the right time. Not that it ever would be the right time.
He stepped back, allowing CJ to gently push herself away from him, determination lighting her features.
“I think I spy dinner. We should go there.” Her voice was cool as she turned and marched away from him, the sashay of her hips making him think of only one place he should go.
Into an ice-cold shower.
Chapter 5
Why hadn’t she switched her phone on vibrate or, better yet, sleep mode so no one could contact her? Rolling over to reach for the quacking handset, CJ squealed as the thick coverlet gave way to thin air, her back hitting the floor with a thump. Ouch! She sat up, rubbing her lower back with one hand and scrolling through the bright screen with the other. Damn. Just look at the amount of new notifications and new followers she had gained on Facebook. Forty-one new followers in one night! That surpassed even
her earlier figures. Flicking open the messages stream, she narrowed her eyes on one tweet in particular.
She leaned against the tall bed, drawing in a shaky breath, her head swimming as a picture of herself and Jack on the dance floor pixelated.
Pressing a hand to her lips, she shivered, the memory of his hands against her waist making her head spin. Except it hadn’t just been his hands against her. They had been pressed together chest to chest. Her fingers still tingled even now from where they had rested against his hard chest and she groaned aloud, pushing her face into the pillow.
She was the biggest kind of idiot! She knew all about men like Jack Harper, despite how he had looked at her last night. Like she was the only person in the whole room who mattered. Of course maybe that was because she had accidentally given away the fact she could speak fluent French. That was a mistake. He might have suspected something after she beat him on the slopes, but she had mentioned she had been skiing. She nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. The fluency in French would be a little trickier to explain.
Opening her eyes once more at the quack beside her, she felt her jaw drop. They were trending. Willing her trembling fingers to still, she opened up the steadily moving stream of tweets, finding her 8dates1month hashtag sitting in the top five. How long had that been there? Gliding her thumb over the hashtag, she swallowed back the large lump in her throat. Her last tweet after their date had been retweeted 210 times.
Private Jet champers & skiing—nice. Dates2&3down #8dates1month with @HarperInc
That was suddenly trending? It wasn’t even emotive.
Rocking backward on her knees, she pushed herself up, her brows drawing together as she scanned the rest of the linked tweets. That wasn’t right. That dirty sneak.
Throwing the phone down onto the soft cover, she kicked it from her feet and marched to the bathroom. If he thought he could take over her show, he had another thing coming. Ignoring her usual cleanse, tone, moisturize, concealer, mascara, blusher, lip gloss morning routines ingrained in her by her mother, CJ opted for the basic package of just concealer, mascara and lip gloss and grabbed her go-to black wrap dress and shoved her feet into her favorite pair of Peter Pan brown boots on her way out the door.
Now if she were an egotistical tycoon, where would she be? She tapped her feet impatiently at the pseudo calming music in the lift until she heard the rock as it hit the ground floor.
Cursing the fact she didn’t have longer legs, she strode across the lobby, pausing midstride. She had no idea where an egotistical tycoon would be. If the front desk didn’t know where he was, then no one did. They had eyes and ears everywhere. Approaching the desk, she kept her smile firmly in place. French or English?
“Good morning, madame.”
English it was.
“Hi. I’m in room 237 and I was looking for ...”
“Me, CJ?”
No way could she not remember the dance she had been trying desperately to forget as her eyes were drawn to Jack.
“Yes, you,” she ground out, her jaw aching from keeping it clenched for so long. “Would you care to explain this?” She pushed her phone against his well-muscled chest, the small contact against her fingers making her more aware of him than ever as he took it from her. She was unprepared for the strong loop of his arm around her waist, guiding her footsteps to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, her breathing suddenly heavier at his touch. Was he thinking of last night, too?
Cold air swept around her as he released her, giving her the answer she needed. One golden eyebrow arched as he twisted the phone back around to show her. “I think you need to switch it on, that’s why it’s black.”
Grrr! If she weren’t paranoid about being featured in the national press for her behavior, she would be tempted to not act like such a lady. Grabbing it back, she keyed in her passcode, passing it back when the screen flicked to life, displaying the abhorrent tweet:
Skiing with @cjstratt on a Black Di run. Dress looked good, don’t you think? #8dates1month JH
“JH can only be you. You are tweeting directly and including pictures!”
“Are you the only one allowed to tweet? Is it suddenly a crime for anyone else to? And we already had this conversation. People like to see pictures.” His face was the picture of wide-eyed innocence.
“On this occasion and in this situation between us, yes, I am the only one allowed to tweet. Besides, I thought the whole point was for you to save your deal and look good. How is tweeting making you look good? I am telling the truth at least,” she protested, taking back her phone and clicking off the offending object.
“And I’m not? Did we or did we not go skiing on a Black Diamond run? And from where I and all the other living, breathing males in the room were standing, the dress did look good.”
CJ opened her mouth, unprepared when the tirade she had been building dissipated on a gush of air. She closed it again firmly. He thought she looked good? Pushing back the warm feeling blossoming from deep down, she shook her head. There had been models, actresses, sparkly young things who easily outshone her, and as for the comment on the other men ... pah! She was flattered maybe, but she wasn’t the gullible fool she used to be.
Tweeting, audience interaction was her thing, her forte, and he was trying to muscle in on her thing. He had already set the dates. Typical! What else should she have expected from him, from men of the world he came from?
“Won’t your tweeting look like you are defending your reputation against what I am saying? And the question people will want to know is why you are on the defensive.”
“Who said anything about being on the defensive? I’m joining in. I decided it was impersonal for my marketing team to tweet for me. And you may not have seen the top ten trending list, but we’re in it.”
“For your information, yes, I did,” she said, her voice as tight at the victorious flick of his eyebrows.
“Are you packed to leave?”
CJ looked up to see the top of his head, his thumb moving quickly over his own phone.
“I never unpacked. Why?”
“Date number four.”
“Really? It’s only just gone ten in the morning. Unless you are suggesting a breakfast date, which I would have to give you trumps for as that is original.”
“I thought so.”
Stepping back, she leaned into his shadow against the glass window, watching how the late morning light bathed him in its brilliance. He was serious. He thought breakfast a date. Not that she didn’t see why it couldn’t be. After all, according to studies, that was the most important meal of the day.
“Why do I need to be packed? The restaurant is over there, and while I’m sure they shut shop for breakfast already, I doubt that would cause a problem for you.”
Her heart lurched at the small dimples that emerged. “You’re right; they would, but that is not where we are going for breakfast.”
Oh man! “Dare I ask where we are going?” She straightened.
“You can ask, but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
“Surprise, surprise. I’ll go get my things. FYI—I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but cryptic and interesting are too different things. Most importantly, do I need a snow suit?”
CJ could feel the blush spread from her toes upward, sure her face must be an interesting shade of scarlet as his eyes dropped from her head to her feet. “No, you’ll do.”
“How gracious of you.” She rolled her eyes. Stepping past him, she froze midstep as an arm shot out, halting her movements, pulling her gently toward him. He smelled like frost and mint and all man. Two of those things she was fine with.
“Unless you want to put on that dress from last night? Despite what people may or may not think of me, you’ll find I don’t pay empty compliments. If I say it, I mean it.” His whispered comment was meant for her ears only; the nonchalance she was attempting wasn’t working as well as she’d hoped if the acceleration of her heartbeat and her heightened senses were symptoms
of anything to go by.
Licking her dry lips, she curled her fingers by her side, praying no press were nearby as he stepped away, giving her room to breathe. Yes, she managed a pout yesterday, but that was before last night.
“I don’t think in this weather that’s a good idea, but if that’s all the helpful advice you have, then I’ll see you in five.” Raising her chin, she marched past him, aware of the spectacle they made.
Remember who he is, CJ. She set the mantra on a loop through her mind as she rode the lift up to her room to grab her unpacked case before making her way down again. She should have known he’d bring up last night. Though she shouldn’t be that surprised. His reputation in the markets was he never missed a trick or an opportunity, and that was all this—what she—was to him. An opportunity to improve his name.
Pulling on the vintage coat, she curled her hands into her bag. She should be remembering what she was here to do, not wasting time thinking about moments that shouldn’t have happened. Yes, Jack Harper was the dictionary definition of hot; in fact, if she looked up hot in a thesaurus, the only words she would find would be his name listed over and over again. The annoying problem was that he made her feel things she had never felt with anyone else. She had advised plenty of callers about the “bad boy appeal,” but they had generally been “bad” boys, not playboys. Playboys like Jack Harper were a new breed she had never come across, and thanks to her antisocial hours, she hadn’t been able to observe them in their natural habitat.
The boys she met growing up were just that, mere boys who had been around her age, not ones who had been older. Her mother had once tried to introduce CJ to a friend’s son at a summer party many years ago ... No, she didn’t want to think about that party. She had spent too long crying over it already; crying over the comment made by a faceless, probably young man, who made CJ’s decision to leave that world behind her all the easier. Only to then find her journey into the new world was hampered by her ex, who clearly didn’t believe in reinventing yourself.
