Burn For You

31

THIRTEEN

JACKSON

“I should be going,” Bianca said abruptly, sounding like she just remembered she’d left the stove on at home.

I stopped dead in my tracks, disappointment cutting through me like knives. I’d mistaken her look for one of lust. I’d obviously been projecting my own feelings onto her, because judging by her wide-eyed, panicked look at my approach, I’d seriously miscalculated what was happening here.

She was just being nice, while I was being a creepy, pervy, wildly inappropriate douchebag who couldn’t keep his boner in his pants.

What a f*****g i***t.

“Of course,” I said, mortified. “It’s late. I won’t keep you.”

Blood pounded in my temples. I stepped back quickly, dragged a hand through my hair, and took a steadying breath.

Bianca said, “Rayford was supposed to drive me home, but I haven’t—”

“I’ll take you!”

It was out before I could stop it, a barked declaration that made her blink in surprise at its force.

“Oh,” she said. “Um . . . I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s not a bother,” I answered through gritted teeth, gutted by her obvious dismay at the thought of sharing a car ride with me. But I couldn’t let her leave like this, with all this tension and awkwardness. I’d have to make it up to her on the ride somehow, say something suave or charming that would bring on that laugh of hers and ease the steel band tightening around my chest.

Yeah, good luck with that, dickhead.

“This way,” I snapped, and turned on my heel and left the kitchen.

I didn’t look back to see if she was following me as I made my way to the garage, partly because I could hear her footsteps echoing on the marble and partly because I was too busy beating myself up for acting like such a fool. Also, my face was flaming red in embarrassment. I didn’t want her to see how horrified I was by my own stupidity.

I should’ve known that a woman like Bianca Hardwick would never be interested in a man like me. The only women who wanted me were mercenaries.

I’d been alone so long I’d forgotten.

You’re only worth the balance in your checking account! Cricket had screamed at me all those years ago, yanking her engagement ring off and throwing it at my chest. Did you really think I could love you? That anyone could love you?

Then she’d made a few choice comments about my prowess in bed, and that was the last time I trusted another human being.

I slammed the door of the garage open, flicked on the light switch, grabbed a set of keys from the hook on the wall, and stalked over to the Porsche. Rounding the passenger side, I yanked open the door and stood in seething silence, watching as Bianca hesitantly approached.

Avoiding my eyes, she slid into the passenger seat and folded her hands in her lap.

I growled, “Seatbelt.”

Without glancing at me, she slid the safety belt across her body and clicked it into place. Then she sat looking straight ahead, with an expression on her face like she was going to a funeral.

I closed the door and tried not to pound my fists on the roof of the car.

I got in, started the engine, pulled up to the garage door, and waited for it to open.

Bianca said politely, “That’s quite a car collection you’ve got. I counted twelve?”

“I have to spend my money on something,” I said bitterly.

She glanced at me. When the garage door was up, I gunned the Porsche. The car leapt forward, slamming us both back against our seats.

We drove in silence until we’d passed the gate of my property. Then Bianca said, “Why are you mad right now?”

It startled me. I didn’t know how to answer, so I stayed silent, concentrating on the road.

She said, “You’re driving like a crazy person, and I’m not ready to die yet, so maybe if you told me why you’re so angry, we could talk about it and you’d slow down.”

I snapped, “I’m not angry!” but eased my foot off the gas pedal so the car immediately dropped speed. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel unsafe with me.

After a long moment, she sighed. “Okay.”

I muttered, “Fuck.” Then I cleared my throat and looked at her. “I’m sorry.”

She turned her head and met my gaze. In the dark interior of the car she had an otherworldly look, like something out of a dream, all glittering eyes and burnished skin, electrifying beauty.

I admitted, “I’m not very good with people.”

Her lips curved up. “You are when you want to be.”

Again she’d surprised me. Was that a compliment?

I turned my attention back to the road, because looking at her was dangerous. I couldn’t trust myself not to say something stupid when our eyes held.

I asked, “Where am I going?”

“Tremé. Saint Ann Street.”

We drove in silence for several minutes, long enough for it to be uncomfortable, almost long enough for it to be weird. Then she broke the silence with another surprise.

“I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For overpaying me. It came at exactly the right time.”

I couldn’t help myself. I looked at her again. “You weren’t overpaid. You saved my ass. No one else could’ve pulled tonight off on such short notice. And the food was incredible. You were right, people opened their wallets. It looks like the auction will be the most successful the Project has had.”

She looked out the window at the passing night and slowly shook her head. “Well, anyway. Thank you.”

She sounded so melancholy. It brought me out of the pity party I was throwing for myself, and suddenly all I could focus on was her. I said, “What do you mean it came at the right time?”