Forgiving Jackson

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “I am so pleased to meet you.” Charm rolled off Jackson like rainwater on a toad.

  Cindy Neill Hampton was probably writing a letter in her head. Dear Penthouse, I never dreamed that the night of my parents’ fiftieth anniversary would be the most passionate of my life.

  “Do you like the party?” Jackson asked.

  “Oh, yes. My parents are very pleased.”

  “Since your family is giving the party and all, I’d like to ask a little favor,” Jackson said.

  What now?

  “This is some really great music and even if I can’t sing like my cousin, I can dance.”

  Cougar, Penthouse-letter-writing Cindy was practically salivating.

  “Yes?” she asked eagerly.

  “And since there doesn’t seem to be any work to do right this minute—”

  “Yes?” Cindy’s smile widened.

  “I wondered if you would mind if I used a little of your music to dance with Emory.”

  What?

  Cindy went cold. “As long as she doesn’t neglect her duties.” She turned on her heel and stalked off.

  “I don’t think you can count on much of a tip,” Emory said.

  Jackson cocked his head and held out his hand. “Dance?”

  And then the band shifted from a jazzy swing number to something slow and smoky. She hesitated.

  “Come on. I just lied my soul down a road to hell for the privilege.”

  Reluctantly, she let him lead her onto the dance floor where he pulled her against him and settled her head against his chest.

  He hummed a little. “Do you know what this song is called?” he asked.

  “No. I should. After tracking this band down, I ought to be an expert on big band music. It’s familiar though.” The only music she was an expert on was Jackson Beauford’s.

  “‘Moonlight Serenade.’ It’s been said that it’s the most romantic song ever written.”

  “Oh?” She leaned her head back and smiled at him, just like a woman dancing with a man would do, just like she should never do. “Who said that?”

  “Me. I said it just then.”

  Keep up the banter. Don’t let him know you almost flirted with him.

  “Do you think it’s the most romantic song ever written?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Then what is?”

  “‘The Hurting Side of Love.’” A little laugh rumbled through him.

  And she relaxed as they laughed together.

  “That’s my girl,” Jackson said.

  But she accidentally brushed against him all wrong and too close and his penis hardened against her—just like two years ago.

  She stiffened and he let her put some distance between them, but he didn’t stop dancing and he didn’t drop his arms from around her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Only, I’m really not. Because if that hadn’t happened, I’d be dead and I don’t want to be dead.”

  “I should go. I need to check on—” But she couldn’t think of anything.

  “And I’ll let you, even though I want to dance with you. I won’t try to make you stay.” He bore those silver-sage eyes into hers. “I will not take away your choices. But you were enjoying dancing, weren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “And you deserve to get to dance. You work hard. You’re pretty. You’re funny. And you smell amazing.” He laughed. “The music is marginally better than mediocre.”

  His sweet words unleashed a little pocket of joy inside her and it escaped in the form of happy laughter.

  “I won’t pull you back against me but I would like it if you came back of your own accord. If at any point you want to walk away, I won’t stop you.”

  And suddenly, she wanted to dance, to feel his warmth. Was that so bad? It was a long hike up a rocky path to press against him again but she made the trip.

  He gently moved his hands against her back. “You’re safe, Emory. You’re here at Beauford Bend with three guards on duty. And down in the gristmill house with his kids, sits the meanest former Army Ranger who ever lived. We’re surrounded by all these people. But do you want to know the biggest reason you’re safe?”

  She nodded against his shirt.

  “Because I will never hurt you. And I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

  She believed him and she did feel safe—even though his penis hardened against her again.

  “Uh-oh. Got a mind of his own, that one.” There was amusement in his voice but then he turned serious. “But mind of its own or not, I control what happens with it and you will always have the power to walk away from me.”

  They moved together silently for a while. She felt his breath on top of her head, then to the side and back again.

  “Are you smelling me?” She drew back and looked at him.

  “Only a little. You smell good.” He looked a little sheepish. “Is that okay? If I smell you?”

  “I guess.” She really couldn’t think of any reason why not.

  “You can smell me back, if you want.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She liked being back to their old banter. He hummed in her ear.

  “This song has words but I don’t know them.”

  “Make some up. Do it now. They say you’re a genius. Prove it.”

  “We’re at a party with bad food. But I like it anyway ’cause I’m in the mood, to dance with Emory.” Jackson sang softly in her ear.

  “That was pretty lame.”

  “Don’t forget that came from the incredible talent that brought you the immortal, incomparable words, ‘Ain’t no exit ramp from the hurting side of love.’”

  “It is immortal. Because it’s catchy.”

  “I had fun that night.”

  “Me, too,” she admitted. He smelled like lime and olives, which meant he had at least tasted that awful perfection salad. She smiled against his shirt.

  “You made the best bologna sandwich I’ve ever had. That chef, who was supposed to be some kind of nutrition guru, that Ginger hired to feed me never could get the frying part right. I tried to tell her it needed to be just a little burned and crispy around the edges and warm all the way through—like you did it. Plus you peeled the tomato.”

  “Of course I peeled the tomato. Tomatoes are supposed to be peeled.”

  “Not according to that woman. She talked about fiber and vitamins but I think she was just lazy.”

  “Probably.” The muscles in his back were hard against her hand. She wanted to stroke him there but she wasn’t that brave.

  “Once, she put sprouts on my sandwich. Can you believe it? Sprouts on a bologna sandwich!”

  “A travesty.” What she couldn’t believe was that she was happier talking to Jackson about a bologna sandwich than she would have been discussing any other subject with anyone else. And that was a different kind of scary.

  He hugged her closer, but only a bit.

  When the music ended, and they broke apart and applauded.

  “Thank you, ma’am, for the dance.” He smiled and tipped an invisible hat. “I will endeavor to be the man who was worthy to move, however briefly, in your arms, which are so much more than I deserve. Maybe, one day, it can happen again.”

  She felt changed. Not only was she not afraid, she felt joy. Jackson Beauford had given her that. It might not last. But for now she felt powerful. And she wanted him to know what he’d done for her.

  After he led her from the dance floor, she told him.

  “Jackson, thank you. I … I don’t know what else to say.”

  His face turned serious. “Say what you want, Emory. Or say nothing at all. But I didn’t do anything.”

  “But you did. You don’t even know.”

  “Then I’m glad.” He lightly ran his index finger down her cheek. “But I guess I’d better go do … exactly what would Jason Jackson be doing if he were real and worked here?”

  She smiled. “There’s something else.”

  “What?
”

  “It’s important that you understand that I am not offering to sleep with you. I have to make that clear.”

  “And it’s important that you understand that you’d have to ask me for me to agree. But I would agree and, for that privilege, I’d thank every god ever worshipped by anyone, mythical, mystical, and authentic. I wouldn’t want to miss one.”

  And she melted. Was it any wonder that this man with a poet’s soul and warrior’s heart always knew the right words? Still, he had won her trust.

  “Then, we’re clear?” She hadn’t been clear two years ago. She’d sent mixed signals. That could never happen again.

  “I think we are.”

  “Then would you be willing to come back out and walk me home after I shut this party down? Because I’d like to kiss you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jackson blinked. Had she said what he thought she had? That she wanted to kiss him? He would have asked her to repeat it but he was afraid she’d take it back.

  Really, it was no surprise that she wanted to kiss him. He knew lightning between two people. He’d felt it before, though not this strong. Okay. Maybe what he’d felt before wasn’t quite lightning but it had been some kind of electricity, at least a nightlight bulb’s worth.

  What was a surprise was that Emory knew she wanted to kiss him—and was willing to say so.

  “We don’t have to wait until you close this party down to leave.”

  He looked around. Good. Sammy was over by the bar. He took Emory’s arm and began to lead her in that direction.

  “Of course I have to close the party down!”

  “No. You do not. You might be running this show but I own it. Let’s think of this as giving Sammy a chance to build his confidence.”

  “Jackson!”

  He looked at her closely. He had to be very careful. He’d promised her that she was in complete control.

  “Tell me you don’t want leave with me right now and I won’t say another word about it. I’ll meet you back here at two o’clock in the morning and I’ll walk you back if that’s still what you want. That’s a long time from now but it’s your call.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. But my job … ”

  “Okay. Good. Sammy! Come over here.”

  “Yes, sir?” How did that boy move so fast?

  “Listen here, Sammy,” Jackson said. “I have a question for you and I want an honest answer.”

  Sammy nodded, wide-eyed. “I swear I didn’t take money for letting those people in your rooms. I really thought—”

  Jackson sighed impatiently and shook his head. “Will you forget that? What I want to know is can you shut down a party? If Emory weren’t here, would you know how?”

  He hesitated before he nodded. “I could, if I had a master key, so I could get the equipment put away and get into Emory’s office where the checks are. And that is if Emory had already written the checks for the temps and the band and left them in her desk drawer like usual.”

  “Have you written the checks?” He looked at Emory.

  She nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “Good.” He almost gave Sammy the master key he’d had since the night he arrived, but thought better of it. “Emory. Are you willing to give Sammy your key?” He tried to make his voice gentle, which wasn’t that easy, considering the lightning bouncing around in him.

  She hesitated but it wasn’t long before she reached into her dress pocket and handed Sammy the key.

  Jackson shivered inwardly. There was something about watching her drop that key in Sammy’s palm that moved through his soul and humbled him. It was a simple thing but, somehow, it symbolized trust. He hoped he deserved it.

  As he led her away, Emory said, “The Neills aren’t going to like this.”

  “Really? I don’t give a good damnation what the Niells or their hot-to-trot daughter like. If they give you any trouble, send their money back. Send it back double. I’ll reimburse Around the Bend from my private funds. And it will be the bargain of the century just for the privilege of walking through the dark with you to your front porch.”

  If this situation were different, he wouldn’t wait until they got to her house; he would drag her behind the nearest tree and kiss her until she forgot her name. But if Emory Lowell had ever been made for dragging and kissing senseless, she wasn’t anymore. He had to be very careful with her.

  And hell’s bells and damnation, she smiled that smile. She smiled it just for him. He went weak in the knees and that hadn’t happened since he was fifteen years old.

  But he didn’t have time for weak knees; he didn’t have time for weak anything. He should have taken her arm; he meant to. Handholding was for children and lovesick idiots. He was neither but he found himself holding her hand as they walked toward the carriage house.

  Maybe Jason Jackson was a hand-holder. Yeah, that had to be it. He laughed a little to himself.

  “What’s funny?” Emory asked.

  “Olive and cabbage Jell-O. Did you eat any?”

  “No. But you did.”

  They went up the steps to the carriage house porch. He faced her and took both her hands in his.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “I smelled it on you.”

  “You must have a very sensitive nose.”

  “And you must have a strong stomach.”

  He smoothed a curl that had fallen into her eyes off her face. He loved those fat, loose curls. He wondered what she did to get them.

  “Emory, how’s this going to go?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you going to kiss me or am I going to kiss you?”

  “I think I would like it if you kissed me.” She looked up at him shyly.

  “So would I.”

  He gathered her to him but not too close. This was going to be the most important kiss of his life, maybe of anyone’s life. She trembled a bit in his arms but he knew instinctively that it wasn’t from fear—though he didn’t try to fool himself into thinking it was from passion.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he whispered in her ear and laid his cheek next to hers. “Remember you can walk away.”

  “That would be bad of me. Isn’t it wrong to make a promise and change your mind?”

  “No. Not where sharing your body, even one small part of it, is concerned. It’s too important, too precious. You get to decide. And you get to change your mind. I want to kiss you. I love having you in my arms.” He let his hand trail up her back but lightly. “But only if you want to be here. Walking away is always a choice.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Good.” And finally he brought her mouth to his. For a long time he moved his lips against hers without taking more. She tasted like sweet iced tea with lemon. She shifted in his arms and flattened her hand against his back. She didn’t stroke him, like he would have liked, but her hand was against him; that was something that felt a little like everything. Tentatively, he moved the tip of his tongue against her bottom lip, barely caressing. When she parted her lips, he took that as an invitation and sought her tongue with his. When she stiffened, he went completely still. He was sure he had lost her, sure that she would pull away.

  But then she relaxed and moved her tongue against his. And for the third time in a half hour, his cock stood at attention—though this time it was different. The other two times, he’d been pressed against her. In truth, any woman moving against him would have produced the same effect. But she wasn’t moving against him; he’d been careful to keep his pelvis far from hers.

  It was just her mouth on his and that hand on his back.

  He pulled his mouth from her and whispered against her lips, “Don’t let me scare you.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not.”

  He recaptured her mouth, taking her lips and tongue more firmly. This time, when she shuddered, he knew it wasn’t from fear or nerves. He kissed her for a good long time, celebrating her mouth and loving the
way she had begun to cling to him a little.

  He felt another shudder but this time, it was his own. He could not reconcile his level of excitement with anything that remotely resembled reason. He’d lived too long and rotated through too many beds to be brought this near to desperation from what little had passed between him and Emory. He had not so much as brushed his hand against her breast, let alone feasted on a warm, erect nipple or cradled his throbbing cock between her thighs. What was wrong with him? Here he was, thinking like a sixteen-year-old in the back seat of a car with a cheerleader. Pretty soon, he was going to have the bluest balls on the Christmas tree—if he didn’t shoot off in his pants first.

  She pulled away a bit. “I’m not scared at all.” Then she sought his mouth again.

  Don’t press against her! he admonished his hips, which seemed to have a mind of their own and were heading in that direction. Don’t ruin this for her. This is not about you and your out-of-control cock! Hell’s bells and damnation! A little moan escaped from her and she moved her hand to his cheek.

  He began to count backwards. 100, 99, 98 …

  Finally, along about forty-two, he calmed down. He broke the kiss and bent down enough to settle her face into the crook of his neck. But he didn’t let her go and she didn’t pull away.

  “I like how you make me feel. And if you like how I make you feel … ”

  “I do,” she whispered.

  “I’m glad. You’re warm and sweet and you deserve to feel good. You deserve to be held and cared for by someone who will never hurt you. And you know what? This is wonderful. It doesn’t have to be more to be wonderful, not for me.”

  “But what if you thought it would be more? What if I made you think that?” she asked in a small voice.

  “You didn’t. But, Emory, even if you had, it wouldn’t matter. Even if you said yes in every way possible, even verbally, it’s always your right to change your mind. Your body, your decision, your power. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”

  She pulled back and turned her face to his. There was enough moonlight that he could see the panic in her wide eyes.