by Robyn Grady
Mortified, Nick couldn’t look at Jordan, but as she pushed her mother’s chair past him, Elanor met his eyes and gave him a distant but not unfriendly nod. Despite the ridiculous circumstances, Nick found himself admiring her for her fortitude and grace when she had more reason to hate his family than anyone. He watched until they disappeared out of the courtroom, then turned back to find his father glaring down at Adam.
“Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”
Nick’s jealousy returned full force, crushing his chest and throat again. The thought of his playboy brother anywhere near Jordan incensed him. “Did you—” touch, dance, kiss “—speak to her at the party?” He could barely get the words past his clenched teeth.
Adam’s glance was sharp as a tack. “Nick, I didn’t get a toe in the door before Syrius was bleating at security to have me removed. Why?”
Intense relief laced Nick’s exhalation. He unclenched his palms and they were damp. Ignoring Adam’s question, he turned abruptly and reached for his jacket. The act of putting it on, gathering up his phone and briefcase, gave him a few seconds to think about that relief. Okay, we’ve ascertained that I’m not fond of the thought of anyone else’s hands on her. Fine. We can work this out.
Now composed, he gave his father a stern look. “I have to get back to the office, but try and behave yourself this afternoon.” He frowned at Randall. “Insult Syrius all you like, but leave his family out of it.”
He strode away, allowing himself a small smile when he heard his father say to Adam, “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”
Four
Nick pressed the doorbell, glowering at the peephole when he heard her ask who it was. “It’s Nick. Open up, Jordan.”
He still waited half a minute, tapping his thigh impatiently, until she opened the door. She peeked around the corner of the door, one hand covering her lower face. Her hesitation became immediately clear; a pale green chalky substance covered most of her face. Her hair was loose but held back from her face by a headband. She wore silky light blue pajamas, a less than welcoming expression, and her feet were bare.
That didn’t mean she was off the hook. “Are you ill?”
“No.” Frowning, she looked over his shoulder into the empty corridor of her apartment building and then stepped back.
“Expecting someone?” he asked, giving her a thorough inspection.
“Do I look like I’m expecting someone?” She lifted her hand from her face and gestured him forward impatiently. “Come in before someone sees you.”
Nick stepped inside and then turned and waited while she closed the door.
Jordan leaned her back against the door her skin flushing pink beneath the green facial mask. “How did you get up here?”
He shrugged. “Someone was coming up, I followed.”
“Nick, you shouldn’t be here.”
His temper bridled. He’d been on a slow burn for about twenty-four hours now. He’d had a huge row with his father last night after confirming his plans to hire a P.I. to investigate one of Syrius’s directors for corruption. It became more and more obvious that the old man had no intention of retiring any time soon, not while Syrius Lake was around to take potshots at.
Reading the papers today had turned the heat up. Nick’s frustration had about hit boiling. “We had an arrangement.”
“I sent you a text.”
Nick swore under his breath. A text that said nothing. Sorry, something’s come up.
He would have accepted her canceling their regular appointment if she hadn’t been photographed eating a late Friday afternoon lunch with Jason Cook, the most worthless playboy on the planet. An ex-pro rugby player who destroyed hotel rooms, threw things at bartenders and went through money like water. And who’d reportedly had a steamy romance with Jordan a year ago.
His father’s next potential campaign against Syrius made Nick’s decision to ally himself with her all the more attractive, but the lady herself seemed comfortable with the status quo. Somehow he had to persuade her that she wanted more, knock her off balance enough to start thinking of him in a different light.
Hence the unannounced visit. It didn’t hurt that the thought of Cook’s hands on her infuriated him. He reached out, hooking his finger into the V of her pajama top, and pulled her into him. “You and Jason in the newspaper this morning…You want him, Jordan?”
As her unresisting body bumped against his, the impact caused the top button to slip through the hole. The material gaped as she inhaled in surprise. The creamy swell of a luscious, unfettered breast taunted him.
How many men did she share her body with? The question had tormented him for hours. How many men savored that perfect mouth, nuzzled her impossibly soft and fragrant skin.
Under his glare, her eyes sparked with annoyance and her pink cheeks burned through the green streaks. She laid her hands flat against his chest and braced against him. “I didn’t realize that giving me a gift branded me as your exclusive property.”
“It doesn’t, but your Friday afternoons are mine, not bloody Jason Cook’s.”
“Jason is only a friend these days. Not—” she lifted her chin defiantly “—that it’s any of your business.”
“Some friend. I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement.”
“I was.” Her eyes flickered away and back. “I am. But I think we’re being watched.”
Nick raised his brows, waiting.
Sighing, she clasped the edges of her pajama top closed and pushed past him, padding down the short hallway through a stylish kitchen and to a side table in the lounge. Nick followed, his eyes closely monitoring the sensual slide of blue silk-clad hips.
Jordan picked up an envelope from the table and turned to him. “These came yesterday.”
Nick took the envelope and pulled out two enlarged photographs of Jordan entering and leaving their Friday hotel, wearing a little black dress with a wide belt. He remembered it because the belt had an unusual clasp and his eager fingers had wasted at least three seconds fumbling with the damn thing. The photo was dated last Friday, their last meeting. “You’re always being watched and photographed.” He handed the photos back. “What of it?”
“These were couriered to me here, yesterday morning. No note. No sender details.”
Nick pursed his lips. “And that was enough to send you rushing into Jason Cook’s arms.”
She gazed at him steadily. “Why do you suppose we went to the Backbencher’s Bar, Nick?”
“Probably the only place in town he hasn’t been thrown out of.”
“Because it’s the press’s watering hole, where most of them spend their Friday afternoons. I did it to throw whoever might be watching us off the scent.”
Nick processed her tone and earnest expression and battled down the jealousy bubbling in his blood. Considering the publicity surrounding the court case, she would have known her presence at that bar, especially with a man of Jason Cook’s reputation, would end up in the next day’s papers.
Not to make him jealous. Not to patch things up with a past lover. The relief surprised Nick with its intensity. He had to remember his purpose here tonight—keep her guessing, spike her interest. His very real jealousy was an added bonus.
Jordan shifted under his gaze as if uncomfortably aware that her face was covered in green goop. “Get yourself a drink,” she told him, pointing at the small bar in the corner of the room. “I’ll go and clean up.”
Nick’s eyes stayed with her until she turned into the first door down the hall. Her bedroom, he presumed, relieved to be left alone momentarily. It gave him a chance to explore, try to get a handle on her.
He moved fully into the lounge, his eyes busy.
Her apartment was modern, minimalist, but surprisingly homely and welcoming. One of the two black leather sofas was scattered with papers. There were more papers on the coffee table and a mug of something in the middle with steam coming off it. The expansive drapes were drawn but he’d
bet there was an amazing view of the city and harbor beyond from her thirteenth story apartment. The walls were bare except in the dining nook where two large, striking sketches faced each other above her elegant dining table. One depicted a 1920s couple sitting at a table, the woman looking coyly away as the man held her arm by the wrist and above the elbow, kissing his way up her arm. The other was a couple dancing, maybe the tango, he decided.
The bar had everything he could want but Nick wasn’t in the mood for alcohol. He walked to the sofa, sweeping the papers into a pile and setting them on the coffee table.
There was a property listing on top, torn from a real estate magazine. It depicted an old villa in the Marlborough Sounds at the top of the South Island. Not the sort of place Jordan would be interested in, surely. The lady could afford to buy the entire South Island. She was luxury all the way. What use would she have for a broken-down old villa?
Then again, what did he know of her likes and dislikes outside of the bedroom?
While waiting for her return, he glanced at the next item on the pile and saw a newsletter headed The Elpis Foundation. He only took note because the author was Reverend Russ Parsons, an old family friend.
Before he could read the contents, Jordan returned, her face clean and her hair released from the headband. Nick nearly smiled when he saw she’d changed. A cream sweater and soft black pants were probably safer than the lovely but flimsy pajamas. She obviously didn’t trust him to keep his hands to himself.
Jordan perched on the arm of the couch, her hands restless. Her feet were still bare, toenails pearly-pink and gleaming. Nick swallowed the remnants of his unwarranted anger and jealousy, thinking that this was how she looked alone in the evenings. Freshly bathed, by the clean scent of her. Her hair brushed out and gleaming. Skin scrubbed and glowing.
She fidgeted under his scrutiny, her mouth a little sullen.
“Nice apartment,” he commented pleasantly.
She glanced at his empty hands. “Did you not want a drink?”
He wasn’t bothered but then again, he liked the idea of her waiting on him. It would also serve to prolong his visit, break the ice, open the way for him to try out a little charm.
“A Scotch would be good.”
She hadn’t expected him to say yes, he knew by the little twist of her mouth. He settled back while she prepared his drink with a kind of polite displeasure. No smile when she handed it to him, either.
Nick reached for the mug on the coffee table. The liquid inside was cooling by the pinched look of the surface. He handed it to her, thinking how improbable this was. Jordan Lake home alone on a Saturday night with only a face mask and mug of chocolate for company.
She took the mug. An awkward silence descended.
“Looking to invest in some property?” he asked, picking up the leaflet. It would be a good investment. Marlborough Sounds boasted some of the most desirable real estate in the country.
“I already bought it.”
Nick looked up in surprise. “Can’t see you in the DIY store, somehow.”
Her mouth twitched but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’d be surprised.”
He leaned back, spreading his arm along the back of the couch. Their eyes met and held for long seconds and that old familiar awareness arced between them. She was so naturally beautiful, larger than life beautiful, even with little or no makeup on. Nick’s chest swelled when her eyes widened and then hazed over with her own recognition of the incredible desire between them. She felt it, too, he exulted, this pull that gripped his throat and stole his breath. Every time was like their first meeting in a sterile elevator. An unquenchable desire that hit him like a bullet between the eyes.
Just like now.
Jordan broke the spell and looked down into her drink. “You’re—different,” she said. “What’s changed?”
She shifted one foot to rest on top of the other, her restlessness showing insecurities he didn’t know she had.
Nick faced her fully. “I want you, Jordan,” he answered truthfully. “That hasn’t changed.”
She looked up under her lashes. “And you can have me. On Fridays. At the hotel.”
It didn’t surprise him that she’d picked up on his recent change of behavior toward her. In their brief conversations to date, she’d shown a perceptive intuitiveness, eroding his assumptions that she was nothing more than a spoiled heiress who liked making an exhibition of herself.
Damn his brother for putting the thought in his head. Damn his mother for the will and her belief that he was the perennial dutiful son, and his father, too, for being such a vindictive, intransigent bastard. But for their interference, Nick would be perfectly happy with the prior arrangement. The thrill of a forbidden pleasure. A once-weekly event that, while momentous at the time, belonged in a compartment of his brain that had no bearing on how he lived his life or the decisions he made.
“Perhaps it’s seeing you in court every day,” he suggested. It was as good a lie as any, he supposed.
She nodded. Her feet were still playing with each other, he noticed. “By the way, I’m sorry about my father’s behavior the other day.”
Jordan shrugged, drawing his attention to her front, his interest quickening when he saw she wasn’t wearing a bra under the soft wool.
“They’re as bad as each other,” she responded.
“What would Syrius do if he found out about us?” Nick probed.
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
Nick knew that was his major stumbling block. He had to get her so interested, so wound up in him that she’d forget about her father’s wrath.
“And yours?” she inquired politely.
He sipped his drink, wondering how truthful to be. Lies had a way of tripping you up, so it was best to keep things simple. “He wouldn’t like it,” he said slowly, “but it’s not up to him, is it?”
Jordan sighed and looked away. “Maybe we should…”
Nick’s whole being jolted in rebellion. He knew what she was going to say. Stop? No way! He was already on edge after only a week’s abstinence. It was torture sitting in that courtroom day after day, watching her every move out of the corner of his eyes. Her mile-long legs crossing and uncrossing, the drift of her expensive scent, an occasional hot-blooded glance in his direction. Nick was at the end of his tether. He shook his head adamantly. “I’m not ready to give it up just yet.”
Jordan pursed her lips. “And the photos?”
Nick had had enough. The desire he felt for her was too close to the surface. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to allow her to see that she affected him. Intensity so often created the same interest in the recipient.
He stood abruptly, looming over her. She raised her head just as his hands dived her hair, lifting her face to his. “You think I want this? Need this?”
Her eyes were wide with surprise. She gasped in a quick breath.
“You’re like a drug to me,” he gritted, glowering down. “An addiction. Every Friday, I leave that hotel and think, yes. This time, I’ve got her out of my system. This time…”
Despite this being about knocking her off-kilter, his own body was primed like a detonator. He exhaled, fighting for control, searching for the innate good manners and responsible behavior that had shaped his life. He was a businessman, dammit, not one of her playboys.
He gentled his hands, stroking her hair. Soothed by the silky soft strands running through his fingers. “But then I change my mind, start thinking about next Friday.”
He caressed her cheek and her eyelids fluttered as he knew they would.
“It’s just sex, Nick,” she whispered, turning her face to press a kiss in his palm, that one small act softening her cavalier words.
In her hurry to wash, she’d missed a tiny patch of green by her earlobe and he rubbed his finger over it, his own excitement rocketing when her lips parted involuntarily on a sigh.
“Yes it is,” he murmured. He stroked one fin
ger down her throat, felt her pulse leap. She ghosted a fraction closer while keeping her backside in contact with the arm of the sofa. Her head fell back even more in invitation and he bent to nuzzle the fragrant skin under her earlobe. Soft and smooth, her skin was still slightly damp from being freshly washed. Whatever she’d used in her face mask smelled good enough to eat, to taste, again and again.
She strained up, her face turned to his. Darned if he could remember what they were talking about when her mouth bumped against his cheek. It was too much of a temptation, even though he was pretty sure he’d started the body contact not intending to kiss her, only to tease a little. To make the point that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Just before his lips met hers, he touched his index finger to the corner of her mouth and frowned down into eyes that smoldered with electric blue desire. “I won’t give it up just yet.”
Her expression softened. Dipping his head, he took her mouth, filled her mouth, sank in welcome relief. His desire flowed from him into her and back again in a heady rush. She moaned low in her throat, trying to rise, pressing up into him. Happy to help, he slid one arm down her back and brought her hard up against him. The kiss deepened, she opened for him, hungry, appealing for more, her tongue eagerly seeking his.
With one arm supporting her back, he slid the other hand under the sweater, needing the silky slide of her skin. Always when he touched her, some part of his mind registered the softness of her skin. Never had he felt such soft skin; his fingers rejoiced in it. He palmed her torso; she felt hot, so hot. She swayed, her hands clutching at the backs of his arms. Nick slid his hand up, climbing the taut slope of her breast. He heard her breath catch, felt his, when she twisted and pushed her nipple, tight and hard, into his palm. He held her like this, almost horizontal, one arm supporting her back, the other playing with her breasts, exulting in the response he knew he could elicit in her.
But then she sucked in air and shrank away, her mouth stilling under his. When she opened her eyes he could see the battle she waged, need versus denial. Self-denial.
