Burn For You

48

Jackson turned the little white enclosure card to dust with a single crushing flex of his fist.

I said, “That’s not the worst part.”

His eyes were seriously weirding me out. I expected laser beams to shoot out of them at any second and blow the place apart.

“He’s opening a restaurant,” I said, unable to hide the quaver of fury in my voice. “Down the street. As a big f-you to me and all the plans we made to do it together.”

Suddenly my office wasn’t big enough to contain Jackson. Hulklike, his entire body expanded with his angry inhalation. I wasn’t sure the seams of his clothing would be able to hold him.

I said, “It’s just another one of his childish games. There’s nothing he can’t stand as much as being ignored, and he knew this would get my attention. He wants me to obsess over it. Which is why the only thing I can do is act like it doesn’t get to me.”

Jackson said darkly, “We’ll see.”

The implied threat made the little hairs on my arms stand on end. “I’m not condoning violence, Jackson.”

“Who said anything about violence? There are ways to deal with this kind of situation that don’t involve shedding blood.” His serial killer eyes burned. “Even though I’d very much like to rip his head off and shove it up his own ass for what he said to you.”

I allowed myself to enjoy the mental image of that for a moment. What a beautiful thing. Then I waved a hand at the chair across from my desk. “Sit. Please. You’re making the room seem smaller than it already is.”

He sat in the chair. His bulk appeared to reduce it to the size of a piece of child’s furniture. He seemed to be getting bigger every time I saw him, all legs and arms and towering strength, potent masculinity. I felt dainty in comparison, which was impressive considering what the bathroom scale had read this morning.

“I brought the contract,” he said, still bristling.

I blew out a tremulous breath.

“Bianca. Your face just went white.”

The laugh I produced sounded a little crazy. “That would certainly be a feat.”

We stared at each other. He said, “Do you want to see it?”

I held out my hand. From his coat pocket he brought out several folded pages and handed them to me. I flattened them over my desk and reached for a pen.

“You need to have your attorney review it before you sign,” he said sternly.

“I don’t have an attorney.”

“Then get one.”

“I can’t afford an attorney, Jax.”

He swallowed at the mention of his nickname. Moistened his lips, shifted his weight in the chair. Intrigued by his response, I momentarily forgot about the contract. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“It’s a legitimate question. If we’re going to be married, I should probably know these kinds of things.”

He glowered for a while, then said, “You’ve made me uncomfortable since the moment we met.”

I smiled in spite of myself. He was throwing my own words back at me and avoiding the question, all at once. He liked avoiding questions, which of course made me more curious than I otherwise would have been.

I said, “I’ve been thinking about the rings.”

He leaned back, crossed his legs, and blasted me with his baby blues. Then he said, “I can’t concentrate with these f*****g roses staring down at me like a dozen bloody middle fingers.”

Was he mad that I didn’t throw them away? “I was going to toss them in the garbage as soon as they arrived this morning, but Eeny said she’d take them. Something about a ritual involving rose petals and goat blood. I didn’t ask for details.”

Jackson stood. He grabbed the vase of roses, opened the office door, set the vase outside in the hallway, closed the door, and sat back down, looking slightly less inclined to engage in a murder spree.

“Better,” he said. “The rings. Shoot.”

Amused, I shook my head. “I want a five-carat flawless Tiffany brilliant-cut center stone with a pair of flawless one-carat stones flanking it, set in a platinum band.”

One of his eyebrows slowly lifted.

I smiled. “You got me. A simple gold band will do. What should I get you?”

He c****d his head and stared at me with new interest. “You want to get me a ring?”

“I’m not marrying a man who refuses to wear my ring. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Jewelry included.”

“Why does it matter?”

Good question. I didn’t think I could tell him I wanted every other female who looked at him to see that small gold “off-limits” sign on his ring finger, because that would make no sense. Other than legally, I’d have no claim on him. In fact, since s*x wasn’t part of the contract, as he’d so kindly pointed out, I had no reason to believe he’d be faithful to our pretend marriage.

Interesting that it hadn’t occurred to me to ask. Or to ask myself if I would be.

He said, “Whatever conversation you’re having with yourself, I’d love to join in. It looks fascinating.”

I chewed on my lower lip. It made his eyes flare, so I stopped. “I was just . . . wondering . . . about the s*x stuff.”

How can someone go from blistering anger to amusement to whatever this molten, dark energy thing was that he was doing now? However he managed it, I found myself squirming a little in my seat under the heat of his stare.

“What about it?” he asked in a neutral tone that didn’t match his eyes or the tension in his body.