by Robyn Kelly
“Ms. Whitkins, you need to tell me now or I’m going to get mad. Trust me, you don’t want to see me mad.”
“I’ve seen you mad, remember?”
“That was annoyed. This is mad!” He’s shouting into the phone, and it sounds as if he’s right next to me. Suddenly there’s an arm around my waist, and I’m thrown into the back of a limo.
I land a little less than ladylike, and by the time I right myself (and my clothes), Jackson has climbed in and shut his door. I try the handle on my side but it’s locked. The limo moves and I spot Ron behind the wheel. I should kick and scream. I’m sure they assume I’ll do that. I’ll try disarming them with calmness.
“Are you two expecting me to hand over my phone, or are we going to wrestle for it?”
Jackson straightens his tie. “Business first.”
The thought of wrestling Jackson does have its appeal. As does kicking him in that special place I learned in my self-defense class. This man certainly brings out conflicting emotions in me.
He’s dressed for work on a Saturday afternoon, and looks like sin in a suit. I guess when you’re a billionaire, you never get any free time. I’m surprised he could fit a kidnapping into his busy schedule.
“We’re going to need a little privacy.” Jackson presses a button and a glass partition inside the driver seat closes between us and Ron. While I’m admiring the technology, Jackson moves in very close. His voice is soft, but there is no mistaking the tone. “Let me make this perfectly clear. You are not getting out of this car until you tell me how you knew about my offer.”
My heart races and my breathing is shallow. I’m just not sure it’s because I’m frightened. I need some distance. “You should put your seat belt on. We’re in a moving vehicle.”
“I would suggest being more concerned with your safety than with mine.”
I’m tired of this man threatening me. “I will tell you when you stop monitoring my phone!” This kidnapping isn’t serendipity. I could be having lunch now if he wasn’t still tracking me.
He grabs me by the shoulders and moves in so close I can feel his breath on my face. “Why can’t you just obey me?”
I shoot back, “And why can’t you use the magic word?”
He looks puzzled. “Abracadabra?”
“Please. Please is the magic word. Were you raised by wolves?” His face goes blank, and I can see his emotional partition go up like the glass partition in the car. I instantly regret it. I met his mother. She’s a sweet woman. It’s not her fault she gave birth to the devil’s spawn.
“I was raised by the juvenile detention system, as I’m sure you know,” he drones.
So that’s what Robert found on the Internet. What I didn’t want him to tell me. Jackson’s face and posture are such a mask now, I almost wish the dangerous side of him would come back. At least he seemed alive.
I give him the only apology I can manage, considering I’m still technically kidnapped. “I didn’t know.”
I get his lie detector glare, and then he sighs. “I’m about to make a multi-million dollar purchase and this deal has to be done in strict secrecy. I need to know how you discovered it.” There is a pause. Before I can respond, he adds, “Please.”
He used the magic word. There was no pleading in his voice, as I’m sure there never is. I would have preferred he said it as if he meant it, but he made the effort.
“I just met the real estate agent to give her the keys, and she said someone called her this morning to see the place. I remembered all your questions last night, and put two and two together.”
“You couldn’t just tell me that on the phone?”
“I thought you asked those questions last night because—” Don’t finish that sentence, Jillian. It will only give him more ammunition against you. “I felt played. And then you were so bossy on the phone.” It’s not much of an amends, but he did hijack me off the street.
“And I didn’t use the magic word.”
“That didn’t help.” Looking back at my behavior, I’m embarrassed by how childish I acted. All of my emotions seem to get amplified by this man. At least I’ve taught him to say “please.” Maybe I can teach him “sorry,” too. That’s another word I’ve never heard out of his lips.
I realize as much as I’d like to take his inventory, I need to keep the focus on me. I take a deep breath and try to sound civil. “Why are you interested in the church?”
“Condos. The reason the lot hasn’t sold is that the church has landmark status. I can’t tear it down. But it appears the parsonage isn’t restricted at all.”
The thought of Jackson owning a church is so mind-boggling it makes me smile. Jackson mistakes my smile for something else, and puts his hand on my thigh.
“And who knows, maybe I’ll start my own religion. Would you like to join my flock?”
“I don’t think your ego needs any more devoted worshippers.” I think of the little black dress. “But I do like the habit.”
The car comes to a stop. Jackson opens his door, steps out, and offers me his hand. I grab it and realize we are at my apartment building.
“We’re not done here, Ms. Whitkins. Dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“What for? Are you thinking of buying a restaurant, and need my opinion on that, too?”
“You and I have unfinished business about last night.”
I’m about to ask for a little more information, but he disappears back into the car and drives away. He just assumes I’m free on a Saturday night? It makes me even madder that he’s right.
I take the long, slow ride in the elevator, sending positive refrigerator energy to my kitchen. I’ve never had any supernatural powers, so I’m not surprised when it’s still not working.
I go through the mail, pay the bills (which I can afford to do now that his check has cleared) and grab a load of clothes for the dry cleaner, with the little black dress on the top of the pile.
I normally do my errands during the week, so I’m not used to the longer lines on the weekend. It’s three o’clock by the time I finish. I think about getting a sandwich, but if Jackson is taking me to dinner in a few hours, I guess I can wait.
I decide to call my dad. I look at the clock and do the calculation for the time difference. It’s only six in Maryland.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, honey. How are you? Any earthquakes?”
Our conversations always go about the same. He asks me about earthquakes; I ask him about the weather. Then he tells me what he’s done, and I talk about what I’ve done. What I’ve done usually takes more time.
“What do single women like you do on a Saturday night?” His question surprises me. He’s never asked that before.
“I’m going out to dinner tonight.”
He’s on that like a bloodhound. “With a man?”
“Yes. A client.” He might be listening in right now, so I change the subject. “I’m not looking to date. I don’t even know if I can afford to stay in the city, since I don’t have any jobs lined up. I may have to come live with you, unless you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Well, I’m volunteering at the senior center, so most of the women I meet are old enough to be my mother. There’s always room for you here, honey. You know, I’m an odd duck, and I think you’re the only person who could put up with me. Do you remember Mrs. Condon? She lives two doors down. Her husband passed away a year ago. She’s been flirting with me. But, you know, she drinks.”
The words hang in the air. We both know what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who drinks.
I try to lighten the mood. “How’s the book coming?”
“Oh, I had the greatest interview this week. I met a woman at the senior center whose father worked there!” Dad is writing the definitive (and probably only) book on the Deluxe Record Company—it started in 1920 and went bankrupt in 1931 during the Great Depression. “She said she used to have a bunch of records, but tossed them when she had to move in
to the center. It broke my heart.”
Ever since I can remember, my dad has collected every record put out by the Deluxe Record Company. His grandfather had been a recording engineer there, and had left him both his record collection, and his house in Baltimore. Now that Dad’s retired, I’m starting to worry he might be a little obsessive-compulsive about his hobby. I suspect he volunteered to work with seniors to get access to their attics, looking for records.
“Well, Dad, I always check thrift shop for 78s.”
“Just remember, I still need the elusive 44211.”
My dad has been searching for Deluxe Record 44211 since I was a child. The 44000 series were their spoken records. Deluxe would record performers touring the vaudeville theatres in Baltimore. He has his grandfather’s log that shows the missing record number was recorded in May of 1923 with the initials RV. That’s when Rudolph Valentino was in Baltimore—and Dad thinks it’s a record of him. He’s come up with scenarios worthy of a Dan Brown novel to explain its mysterious disappearance.
But I also know when he gives me his shopping list, he’s ready to hang up.
“Well, I’ll let you go. Have a good night, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I put the phone down and look around my apartment. I’m antsy, restless, and bored, and it’s not even 3:30. I should probably clean my apartment and change the sheets. It has nothing to do with seeing Jackson tonight. I’m just going to straighten up. I’m not going to clean; I’m just going to straighten.
Two hours later, my apartment is spotless. Purely unintentional. I just started with a light dusting, but was horrified at how dirty the cloth was, so I got the Swiffer, and then the vacuum and then I had to mop the kitchen and bathroom floors, and let scrubbing bubbles take care of the tub (but I did squeegee the shower doors). I also changed the sheets, and finally got around to tightening the screw on the toilet seat.
I’ve been thinking of what to text Jackson. When he says unfinished business, does he mean the bill, or what was happening when we were alone? If we’re in a restaurant, he probably means the bill. He doesn’t turn up the testosterone until he’s behind closed doors. I want my text to sound casual, but I have to start setting boundaries.
“Running l8. What r we meeting 4 2nite?”
His reply is quick and short. “Business then pleasure.”
He needs to stop telling me, and start asking me. I text, “May only stay 4 first. Hoping 2 get 2 bed early.”
When my phone rings two seconds later, I debate answering. I can’t think of a good reason to avoid it, so I take the call.
“I thought I’d phone, since you’re running late. Talking is so much faster than typing. So, if I understand, it’s business and then right to bed?”
I should know by now he’s better at this than I am. “Where can I meet you?”
“I’m picking you up. Your apartment is on the way to the restaurant.”
I can ask the question I didn’t ask Ron last night. “How do you know my address?”
“It was on the W-9 you so thoughtfully provided.”
“How did you know that isn’t my office address?”
“Because I own the building.”
Jackson is my landlord? “Did you buy that today, too?”
“I already owned it. People are going to think you’re stalking me.”
No one would ever believe it’s the other way around. “It must be part of my plot to ruin you.”
He’s silent. Finally, I’ve left him speechless.
“I’m starting to think you already have. At least where other women are concerned. Since you’re running late, I’ll give you an extra half hour. But I’m picking you up at 7:30 sharp.”
I hear his phone disconnect before I can complain about my refrigerator. No good-bye. No “See you soon.” His style is to keep people off balance. Like telling me I’ve ruined him for other women. Does he imagine I believe that? How gullible does he think I am? Gullible enough to let him get his hands on me—and in me.
But business first. He must want his invoice for the party. Did he really expect me to give him a dinner for twenty people and keep the rest of the money? He’s already so arrogant—imagine how much worse he’d act if he thought he had bought the full-service package.
The caterer is the biggest part of the bill, and then when I add the bar, DJ, church rental, décor, and insurance, I’ve made a hefty dent in the $150,000 he gave me.
The last number to enter is my fee. I’ve never had to do so much in so little time. Well, I didn’t have to do it. Still, I enter the number into the spreadsheet and my first invoice shows Jackson owes me money. I don’t feel comfortable asking for more, so I revise my fee downward and print the invoice. I’ll write a check for the balance I owe him: $1.13.
If Mr. Hunter is not happy with the amount, he doesn’t have to use me again. But part of me likes the thought of Mr. Hunter using me. And part of me doesn’t.
I’m sure after dinner he will be inviting himself up. Or taking me to his place. Or taking me in the backseat of his car. If I don’t want that, I’m going to have to be equally direct—once I decide.
So what do I want? There’s no debating that he knows his way around a woman’s body. And I’m certainly attracted to him physically. Is it enough? Could I have casual sex with Jackson? A better question is what kind of kinky stuff does he like? Is he into bondage, or whipping, or making me get on all fours and bark like a poodle? What would I be willing to try?
I’ve spent the last five years on the outskirts of the San Francisco kink community, and it’s not the scary and strange place I thought it was. Yet, I’ve never had any interest in experimenting with it before Jackson.
I have an entire dinner’s worth of time to decide. A lot will depend on which Jackson I dine with tonight: the bossy dictator, the sexual predator, the thoughtful listener, the gentle seducer, or the manipulative control freak. He has more sides than a princess cut diamond.
I look at my watch, and realize I need to get moving. The thought of seeing him sets off a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. I need to calm down. I need to take a few deep breaths, find a dress, shower, and get through the evening without making a fool of myself. I can do this.
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
It’s 7:29 and I’m ready. I would have liked some mascara, but my hands are a little unsteady. I don’t remember any man having this effect on me. When the intercom beeps, I will tell him to wait downstairs, and that way I don’t have to be alone in my apartment with him. My clean apartment. My very clean apartment. And hopefully my hands will stop shaking by the time I get to the lobby.
At 7:30, there is a knock on the door, and I jump. When I look through the security lens, I see Jackson. He wasn’t supposed to be inside the building—then I remember that he owns it. The butterflies in my stomach turn into raptors.
“Who is it?” I squeak.
“You know who it is. Open the door.”
“I mean…just a minute.” I’ve already made a fool of myself and I haven’t even opened the door yet.
“Jillian, I know you’re standing right there.” His tone is very…what…can someone sound patient and demanding at the same time? “Jillian?” he asks again, not sounding so patient this time.
“I’m thinking,” I blurt out.
“What are you thinking?”
My heart races and the back of my neck is sweaty. “I’m thinking if I open this door, we are really going to do this.”
“Yes, we are. We are really going to dinner. We are really going to talk business. Unless you don’t open the door, and I have to stand in the hall all night.” He fakes a whisper. “I hope your neighbors don’t notice.”
His little joke lightens the mood. I tentatively unlock the door, and slowly pull it open, staying behind it as if it’s a shield. He stands in the hall and watches me, trying to judge my emotional state. “May I come in?”
He’s so damn sexy in his dar
k-gray suit that I can’t speak. I just nod my head…a little too quickly, like one of those bobbing-head toys in a car that just hit a speed bump.
He moves cautiously into the apartment, eyeing me as if I were an injured animal that might attack. “Jillian, why don’t we leave the door open so you’ll have some fresh air. Have you eaten today?”
I try to think. Have I? I worked, and then met the realtor, and then cleaned the apartment, and then made his invoice, and then showered, and then had this damn panic attack. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Your blood sugar might be low right now. Do you have anything in your refrigerator? Can I look for you?”
My blood sugar. That’s right. This happened before. At my wedding. I wanted to fit into that damn dress, and starved myself. And then embarrassed myself. But Bill was too drunk to notice. “He’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
Did I say that out loud? “My husband. I was thinking about him.”
“I’m sorry about your husband. But you need to think about yourself right now.”
“I was. The blood sugar. Yes, I think it’s low. But I don’t have anything to eat. My refrigerator died. Your refrigerator, I mean. I was going to go shopping.”
The elevator chimes and Mrs. Johnson walks by, with her groceries. I watch Jackson deftly intercept her.
“Pardon me. Jillian’s blood sugar is dangerously low and she doesn’t have any food in the apartment. Could you spare a piece of fruit or something? I’ll gladly reimburse you.”
Who is that man? He sounds as sweet as an Eagle Scout helping an old woman across the street. Mrs. Johnson falls for the act—hook, line, and sinker.
“Would a yogurt do?” She’s practically cooing. I bet Jackson uses that sweet voice to get women to do what he wants all the time. I just wonder why this is the first time I’ve heard it.
They both turn to look at me, and now I know how the animals in the zoo feel. Jackson smiles. “Jillian, would you like a yogurt?”
I swallow and try to hold it together long enough to answer. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Johnson. And Jackson…” He tilts his head. He looks so sweet and so concerned I can’t stand it. “Please stop talking to me like I’m holding a gun to your head.”
