He looked pensive for a moment, then he bent down and kissed her cheek, like the lover he was pretending to be. But she didn’t want to pretend.
She wanted him back.
She wanted to feel him inside, desperately, fiercely. She wanted to stand in public, right here in the middle of Manhattan, and kiss the man she’d once loved so passionately. Claim him back, erase the lost years, bridge this horrible chasm that yawned between them.
But that would mean accepting the past.
And she couldn’t do that. She was still incapable of making that leap of faith, of admitting her life had been a total lie.
He stroked her hair, and she leaned instinctively into him, petrified that she was allowing herself to fall right into that gaping chasm.
But as he gathered her against his body, she felt protected. Safe. She cursed softly. Olivia hadn’t had this need for a man in sixteen years. She’d forgotten how damn good it felt to just let go for an instant and lean on someone. She breathed deeply, inhaling the faint scent of tobacco.
“You don’t smoke,” she murmured into his lapel, not caring right now whether he did or didn’t.
“Henri does.”
She glanced up, met his eyes. Even with the dark contact lenses, he was suddenly the Jack she remembered. She’d missed him. So much.
He took a packet of cigarettes out of his coat pocket held them out for her to see. “Black tobacco,” he said.
“Very European,” she said.
“So is smoking. It’s been an essential part of Henri’s cover for years. Gives him a reason to lurk outside buildings.”
She wondered how many times in his life he’d role-played like this. How much was fake right now?
“Don’t worry,” he said, misreading her consternation, “I don’t inhale.”
She huffed lightly. “They all say that.”
The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth that met with the scar.
She reached up, touched the scar with her fingertips. He tensed slightly.
“You don’t smile, do you, Jack? You used to.”
She felt him pull away, distance himself. He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “It pulls at the scar, feels weird.” And he was closed again, his voice hard again, the old Jack gone again. “Come, I have a car waiting. You can tell me about your meeting on the way.”
“On the way to where?”
“The Hamptons, of course. We’ll go pick up your things first.”
Back to the ocean. The past.
He took her arm, escorted her across the plaza, his eyes and movements watchful.
“They’re gone,” she said following his gaze. “The men, I told him I didn’t want them, and they’re gone.”
“No, they’re still there.”
“I don’t see them.”
“That’s because they don’t want you to.”
“I asked him to take them off.”
“Olivia, this is your life we’re talking about. He’s not going to gamble with that. He’s going to want those men and that antidote close to you at all times. Don’t look now, but across the road, under the row of trees, there’s one there. And there’s another behind us, near the stairs.”
She stole a quick glance, couldn’t help it. And she saw the man across the road.
Her father had lied to her—again.
Jack led her up to a sports car, a low white convertible with the top down. Olivia noted the badge on the hood—a Lamborghini.
“This is yours?”
“Henri’s. He’s got a thing for foreign sports cars, especially the Italian ones,” he said with a wink as he opened the passenger door for her. “The rental company couldn’t accommodate my request for the special edition, which, of course, Henri would have preferred. But the Gallardo Spyder does have some nice features—like the retractable roof, the four-wheel drive and the video camera on the rear spoiler.”
He closed her door, climbed in the driver’s side, angled his head. “Got to keep up appearances, you know?”
She shook her head, amused. He truly was gorgeous. He meshed his rugged power with an urban sensibility in a way her father and Grayson never could. He made her stomach swoop. He made her warm in places she shouldn’t be thinking about right now. Her gaze fastened involuntarily on his lips, and her mind began to wander.
“What are looking at?”
“I…I’m just wondering how many women Henri has back in Europe.” How many mouths those lips have kissed. And she heard the soft husky tone in her own voice.
He stilled, his eyes holding hers. Something subtle shifted in his features and the energy in the cockpit was suddenly tangible, dark.
Then he snorted, severed the contact and started the car. The Lamborghini roared to life and purred throatily, causing the car to vibrate gently under her.
“Because if my father finds out you have a whole bunch of ladies tucked away in Europe somewhere—”
“Ah, so you did tell him about Henri?” She heard the relief in his voice.
She nodded.
“How’d he take it?”
“Not well.”
“You tell Forbes?”
“Not yet.”
He shifted into first gear. “He probably knows by now, anyway.” And he swerved into the traffic with an ostentatious, exhibitionist shriek of rubber on tar.
She braced her hand against the dash. “I suppose this is how Henri drives?” she yelled into the wind over the snarl of the engine.
“Henri has speed issues.” He hit the gas and swerved between cars, his eyes glancing up to the mirror.
“And what does Jack drive when he’s at home?” she called into the wind as she tried to hold her hair down.
“Jack doesn’t have a home, Olivia.” He swerved in front of a cab, and the driver laid on the horn. She winced as tires screeched behind them.
“What about Jacques?” she yelled into the wind. “Does he have one?”
He accelerated suddenly, swerved, and she was flung sideways against the door.
She’d hit a sore spot, and he was taking it out on the road.
Olivia sat tense as a coiled spring, heart racing, fingers clutching the armrest, her hair whipping about her face as he snaked through the traffic at a maniacal speed. Maybe it was better if she died like this. Now. Then maybe she wouldn’t have to face the road that lay ahead.
Tires screeched.
She squeezed her eyes shut, braced for the crunch of metal. But nothing came, just a sharp lurch to a stop and the throaty drone of the engine straining against the brakes. She peeked through her lids. He’d actually stopped for the red light, thank God.
She stole a quick glance at his profile. His hands rested loosely on the wheel in spite of the way he was commanding the car. He was a chameleon, shifting between personas as easily as he shifted the gears.
“I don’t think it’s Henri who has the speed issues,” she said a little angrily. “Could you possibly drive just a bit slower?”
He glanced at her, but she couldn’t read his eyes behind those black shades. The light turned green and he took off, at a quieter speed this time, slowing to an almost regular pace. She allowed the air in her lungs to escape. Had he just been trying to rattle her?
“Tell me what happened with your father, Olivia.”
“I told him I was not going to marry Grayson. I told him I loved another man and that I was going to Los Angeles with him in six days.”
His eyes shot to her.
“Watch out, Jack!”
He swerved easily, still looking at her.
“How the hell did you see that, you weren’t even watching! Please, Jack, watch the road.”
Silence.
She drew in a deep shaky breath.
“Why did you tell him that?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped, tension making her curt. “It just came out. I think I wanted him to prove to me that it wasn’t an issue. I wanted him to prove that he didn’t care where I was on the thi
rteenth.”
“And he didn’t.”
“No, Jack, he didn’t. He wants me out of the country on Monday. You happy now?”
They were forced to a stop by another traffic light, and he used the moment to cover her hand with his, give it a quick squeeze. “Good job, Livie.”
“Good? At what? Deceiving my father?”
“I know it’s tough, but you did great. You’ve forced his hand. He’s going to try and find a way to get you out of the country now, and we’ll be ready. It’s more than we could have hoped for.”
She didn’t feel great about that at all. She closed her eyes, rested her head back into the neat little space designed for a head, nothing more.
“What was the plan before, Olivia? Where did he want you to be on the thirteenth?”
Her jaw tightened. Telling him would be handing him her father on a platter. She felt torn.
Then she thought of Harvey, of how she’d landed him in hot water. And she thought of the men still following her, in spite of her father’s promise. Squeezing her eyes shut she saw flashes of those horrific images from the Congo.
She thought of the president, and how the nation loved him—and gave in.
“He wants me on his yacht in the Caribbean. The entire Venturion board will be there for some big announcement that night, along with their spouses and other high-powered guests.” There, she’d done it. She’d just handed her dad to Jack and his mercenaries—but if her father was innocent, it wouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
Jack reached instantly for his phone. He pushed a button, put the phone to his ear, maneuvering just as deftly through traffic with one hand.
“McDonough, we have a location. The entire Cabal will be on a yacht—” he turned to her “—where in the Caribbean?”
Nerves skittered through her belly. It shouldn’t matter, she reminded herself. “Off Little Cayman,” she said. “Most of the guests will be transported from the big island.”
“—Cayman Islands area. Get in touch with McBride. Start setting things up for a takedown at sea. We’ll need divers, underwater surveillance equipment, boats—” he swerved sharply “—a vessel that looks like one of the fishing charters would be good. Pull our team out of Honduras. They’re the closest, and we can spare them for a week or so. We’ll need to be in position before Cabal members start arriving.” He turned to her. “When will your father be there?”
She hesitated. He was making it seem so real. “He’s supposed to be on his boat by the morning of the twelfth. It’s called the Genevieve…after my mother.”
He relayed the name to his man, and hung up. “You have got to get me on that yacht, Olivia.”
“How in heaven am I supposed to do that, Jack? I just told my father I wasn’t coming, that I was going with you to Los Angeles.”
He turned into her street, slowed the vehicle as he approached her building. “He’s not going to let that happen, believe me.”
“And how do you think he is going to stop me?”
“Maybe he won’t have to. Not if you tell him you’re coming to the Caymans—with your date.” He pulled to a stop outside her building. The doorman was already moving toward them, attracted by the car and the promise of a healthy tip. Jack cupped her cheek. “Thank you, Olivia, for trusting me.”
“I don’t.” She looked away. “I don’t trust you anymore than I trust my own father right now.”
“Why?” he said softly.
“Why? What kind of question is that?” she said, searching for a way to open the fancy door. The door man beat her to it, opened it from the outside. She climbed out, waved her hand over the convertible. “Because none of this is real—this car, you, me, us, that’s why. It’s a charade. What’s there to trust?”
Jack glanced pointedly at the doorman, warning her to tone it down. She shut her mouth, stormed into the building.
He caught up to her at the elevators, leaned his arm against the wall, trapping her. He brought his face close to hers. “Hang in there, Olivia,” he said softly. “I know this isn’t easy.”
“Easy?” She huffed. “Easy doesn’t even…come close…” Her voice trailed off. His mouth was so near. She could feel his breath warm over her lips. She could sense his energy. It literally pulsed through her, like it always had. This man was so alive. So vital. She swallowed, tried to look away, but he snagged her chin with his finger, forced her to look back into those dark glasses where all she could see was her own distorted reflection.
“Please, Livie.”
Hot tears filled her eyes. She wanted him. She wanted Jack back. She wanted to tear those dark shades off his face, to see him, to know what was going on deep in his mind, at his core. She clenched her jaw in frustration as a tear slid down her cheek. He smoothed it away with the pad of his thumb and lowered his head.
“God, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, Livie.” His voice was thick and rough and it curled through her. He brushed his lips softly over her wet lashes.
Her throat tightened, and warmth pooled deep in her belly. The elevator bell clanged as the doors opened, and Olivia jumped, startled. She tried to regain her breath as they entered together. The doors slid shut, and it was just the two of them, cocooned and reflected many times over in smoky mirrors. The tension in the air was tangible. Hot.
Jack removed his glasses, and once again she was thrown by his black contacts, how darkly foreign he looked.
“I don’t like pretending, Jack.” She jabbed the button for her floor. “I don’t like this charade.”
He moved close to her. The elevator lifted, began to hum. “We don’t have to pretend, Livie.” His voice was low.
She tried to swallow. She could see her reflection in the mirrors, and she could see the flush of arousal on her own cheeks. It made her feel even hotter, more flustered, more aware of her sexual response to his presence.
He lifted his hand and trailed the backs of his fingertips up the side of her face, leaving a wake of exposed nerves.
“Jack.” Her voice came out hoarse. “No one’s watching now. You can cut the games.”
He leaned forward, whispered against her ear. “You know this is no charade, Livie.” His hand followed the line of her shoulder and trailed down the outside of her arm as he spoke. “Where in the Hamptons would you like to go?”
“I…I have a place on the beach,” she managed to say.
His hand found her hip, and he splayed his fingers over it, moving gently around her rear. “So…a little trip back in time?”
She forgot how to breathe. She remembered the way they’d made love on the beach, in the sea, in front of the fire. Her throat grew thick, her brain fuzzy.
“Is it your place or your father’s, Livie?” he whispered.
“It’s…mine,” she managed to say as he gripped her butt and pulled her hard up against him.
That was no charade pressing long and rigid against her pelvis. That was hard reality. That was him wanting her in the most basic way possible.
Her eyelids dipped and her vision blurred. “I…thought I told you not to call me that.”
His hands explored the curves of her butt. “If you can call me Jack,” he whispered hotly into her neck “I can call you Livie.” He moved his hand around to the front of her thigh, and she began to ache for him to move his hand closer. She suddenly, desperately needed his touch at her throbbing, hot core. She arched her back, tilting her pelvis into his touch, giving him access, letting him know she wanted it, needed to feel him touch her.
His breathing became heavy, fast. He put his mouth over hers, parted her lips, thrust his tongue deep and cupped her hard between the legs. Olivia’s knees went weak. She could feel the heat of his palm right through her clothes. Molten fire speared to her core. She moved against him, urgent, hungry, opening to him, needing him. He deepened his kiss, thrusting his tongue, moving the heel of his hand against her while his other hand reached for the wall, and he slammed the emergency stop button with his palm
.
The elevator jerked and bounced to a sudden halt.
Somewhere in the back of her brain Olivia could hear a distant alarm bell begin to clang and she wondered if someone might see them on the security camera. But she couldn’t stop, couldn’t think. She was alive, aching, burning, like she hadn’t burned in years. She was consumed with the need to feel his body against hers. She yanked his shirt out of his pants, desperately tore at the buttons, her hands seeking his skin, feeling him. He was warm, hard and muscled like rock, the hair of his chest rough under her fingers.
She could feel herself on the brink as his hand moved between her legs, coaxing her further. Her breaths became short and light. She felt dizzy. The elevator alarm was still clanging. They didn’t have much time before someone would call for help. She reached for his belt, fumbled with the buckle, unzipped his pants, felt him swell hard and hot in her hands. A small groan of pleasure escaped her throat.
He reached round, undid the small zipper at the back of her pants, loosened them, slid them down her hips, sighed with hot pleasure as he discovered her G-string. He slid his hands along her buttocks, kneading her skin, her curves, parting her. He began to breathe harder, urgent, desperate.
She could hear banging on the elevator doors on one of the higher floors. “Hurry, Jack,” she panted, “please…hurry.”
He spun her around so that she faced the mirror. He moved her G-string aside, slid his hand between her legs, found her soft folds, slid his fingers up into her, slipped into her slick heat. He groaned, grabbed her breasts with one hand, parted her with his finger, and she felt him enter from behind, thick, hot. He thrust hard, deep. Olivia gasped, splayed her hands on the mirrors.
He thrust again and again, deeper each time, emotionally penetrating a part of her that had remained closed for years. Her hands steamed the glass, slid as she braced against his thrusts, her breaths escaping her in rhythmic exhalations.
She could see his face in the mirror. She watched his eyes, and he watched hers as he moved into her, stroking harder, faster, hotter. She dipped her back, moving her body against him, and suddenly she stopped, her mouth open, her pupils dilating until she could barely see…and she exploded with a sharp cry, her muscles contracting in powerful, rippling waves of release.
Rules of Re-engagement Page 10
