His Unforgettable Fiancée (11 page)

His hand tightened on hers and she tensed. Then he released her and she thought for a moment she was free. But in one quick move he circled her waist in his big hands, pulled her up and over him and then turned so she was under him. In the space of a few seconds she went from sitting on the edge of the bed to blinking up at a man with wicked intentions on his mind.

“So, Delaney, where is this feather you were talking about?”

His molten gaze rolled over her curves, touching on the skin where her shirt had ridden up at the waist, lingered on the dark shadow of nipple under white cloth and traced the flow of shoulder into neck exposed by the stretch of her collar.

“Huh?” She dragged in a much-needed breath. Sweet potatoes and pecan pie, she was in so much trouble. If just the feel of his eyes set her on fire, what would happen when he actually used his hands on her?

She couldn’t risk finding out.

“Okay,” she said, wincing because it was more of an aroused croak, “I get the message.” She wiggled to the right, gained a few inches of space. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Uh-uh.” He dragged her back and hooked a leg over hers to keep her from squirming away. “I gave you your chance to get away.” He buried his nose in her hair, and moaned softly. She almost echoed the sound. He smelled so good, of citrus and spice and a touch of woodiness that made her mouth water. “You didn’t take it, which tells me you are right where you want to be.”

“We really shouldn’t do this.” His hand landed on her stomach right where the shirt left her bare. Pure instinct had her arching into his touch. Still, she fought for reason. “I’m listening now. I’ll go.”

“Too late.” The heat of his breath on her throat sent a shiver racing through her. “I take my threats seriously. Unlike you, since there is no feather to knock me away with. Ah, the things I could do to you with that feather.”

To demonstrate he trailed his fingers, featherlight on the cotton of her shirt, up her torso, along the side of her breast, over her collarbone, where skin met skin and she lost her battle to contain a moan. When he reached her neck, he flipped his hand to use the back of his fingers to lift her chin to the perfect angle to receive his kiss.

Oh, so soft, his mouth settled on hers. She opened for him instantly. His tongue met hers in a dance of wonder. Not a passionate tango, but a slow waltz of turns and holds and the occasional lunge. She sighed and went boneless beneath him.

“Stop,” she pleaded. No matter how good this felt, she worked for him. “You have to stop.”

“Careful.” He nipped her chin with his teeth. “Or I will.”

“Oh, you’re evil.”

“Because I insist you admit you want me as much as I want you?” He fondled the lobe of her ear with his tongue. Her entire lower body tightened. “Or because I don’t agree we need to keep business and personal separated? Yes, I’m a bad, bad man.”

His hand went to the bottom of her T-shirt, and bunching it, he pushed the fabric upward. Looking her in the eye, he demanded, “Yes or no?”

She knew what she should say, what her dad had taught her, what her career and all her training warranted. Yet never had she yearned for a man more. His strength tempered by his vulnerability got to her on a visceral level. Arching into him as he drew her closer, her eyes fell shut on a sigh.

“Yes. Oh, please, yes.”

She expected her clothes to disappear, for him to jump on her offer. And her. Which, oh yeah, she was more than ready for. Instead, he leaned down and soft lips opened over hers. His tongue sought hers and now they tangoed. He led with authority, a true aficionado who seduced with desire and demand. Senses dazzled, she followed every synchronized twist and slow, passionate pivot, sinking into the bedding and drawing him to her.

Her clothes did disappear somewhere along the line, and she reveled in his touch on her flesh. She fought past blankets to reach him, to rid him of whatever he wore, only to find smooth, unencumbered skin. Oh, my. Long and lean, he was beautiful, marred only by the nearly healed wound on his abdomen. Her fingers went to the scar.

“Learning the details of what happened probably sparked your nightmare. Won’t you talk to me?”

He was silent for a beat then he sighed. “I can’t recall much, mostly emotions—confusion, anger, shock. It gives me a massive headache to think about it,” he stated dismissively. His fingers closed over hers, pulling her hand away from the scar. “Does it offend you?”

Surprised by the question, she blinked up at him. In the shifting of his gaze she saw the geek lurking behind the stud. “No.” She squeezed his hand and then freed herself to caress the scar with her thumb. “I was a master-at-arms in the navy. I’ve seen much worse. But that doesn’t mean it’s not still raw. It won’t hurt you to make love?”

He grinned, confidence fully restored. “Babe, my head bothers me more than that little cut. Fortunately, you gave me a pain pill. I’m primed and ready to go, and I can’t think of a better way than in your arms. Such a sweet armful. I may have no memory, but I know spectacular when I’m curled up next to her in bed.”

Ah, so smooth and yet her heart still melted.

“Still wishing I had a feather, though.”

“Would you forget the feather?”

“Not going to happen,” he assured her. “I’ll just have to improvise some more.” He continued to tease her, drawing a single finger between the valley of her breasts and then to a peak, where the light touch tormented her into arching into his touch, demanding more.

Instead he shifted his attention, moving his imaginary feather lower.

“Stop,” she said around a giggle, grabbing his hand at her waist. “Well, we’ve learned you aren’t inhibited.”

“I’d say not, as I consider feather play to be quite tame.”

Have mercy. It made the mind boggle at what he would find to be kinky.

He nuzzled her neck, using his tongue to dampen her skin, and then blew gently in a new form of sensual teasing. The shift from the heat of his mouth to the cool of his breath brought goose bumps to her skin and the desire to get closer. She bowed her neck, giving him better access.

“And you are quite skilled.”

She felt him grin against her skin. “So happy you’re pleased.”

“Oh, I am. But I have to wonder.” She moved her hands around from his back and trailed her thumbs slowly, oh, so slow, down his sides. “Are you ticklish?”

“Let’s not find out.” He bucked up, grabbed her hands in both of his, anchored them to the bed and took her mouth again, slowly lowering himself onto her, linking them in the ultimate dance. Where thought surrendered to sensation and bodies communicated without words.

No longer teasing, he twirled her between moments of utter tenderness, when she felt cherished and special, to sweeps of passionate intensity that drew the wanton out of her. Oh, yeah, she liked that, liked demanding he please her, liked hearing his groans when she pleased him.

Touch for touch, kiss for kiss, her heart raced to the beat of his as pleasure spiraled past excitement and joy to euphoria. And she clung to him as they both plunged into bliss.

* * *

Grace curled up in Jackson’s arms. Her life had changed forever. She loved him. Crazy, of course. She was a former public servant and he was a billionaire. She wanted to put down roots and he lived in hotels. She craved order and he created games that thrived on chaos.

There was no future for them. She accepted that, but she could have now. She could have his back and make sure he got the rest he needed to heal. And grab every moment possible with him before he got his memory back and didn’t need her anymore.

* * *

She had her head on straight when she met Jackson in the first-floor restaurant for breakfast. She admired the French-bistro vibe as she ordered fresh fruit and a croissant. Between bites of strawberries and buttery, flaky bread she filled him in on his senior staff.

“They’re quite an impressive bunch.” He flipped through the reports she’d given him. He still couldn’t read well, but there were pictures so he could put faces to names.

“You’re pretty impressive, too.” She handed him her last packet, a file on him he could read when his vision improved. “You have to remember you’re not working at your normal speed. When I had a concussion, it took me four weeks to feel right again. I know people where it took months.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Because you’re expecting too much from yourself too soon.”

He pushed his plate of unfinished eggs aside. “I don’t have a choice, do I? Two days from now I have to be back in Las Vegas to face a room full of people as a man I have no idea how to portray.”

“Actually, sooner than that.” She faced the front of the restaurant and over his shoulder she saw two men approaching. “Bogies at six o’clock. Jethro Calder and Clay Hoffman are headed this way. That’s your financial advisor and your head of security.”

Both men were tall, dark and handsome. Not exactly a cliché she could rattle off to Jackson. The executives were about the same height—easily six feet, maybe an inch or two over—and wore expensive business suits. Jethro Calder wore navy blue with a pin-striped tie. He had short black hair and his picture failed to show the depth of his blue eyes. Clay Hoffman carried more weight, in the form of muscle mass, and wore black on black with no tie. His hair and eyes were dark chocolate-brown.

Both were larger-than-life characters, confident, assertive, intimidating. And Jackson put them both to shame.

“Maybe we should have responded to those message slips, after all.”

“And said what? Jackson can’t come to the phone right now because he doesn’t remember who you are?” He chugged a sip of coffee as if it was a bracing shot of fine whiskey. “I’ll handle this.”

“Jackson,” Jethro Calder greeted him as the two men arrived at the table. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of.” He felt comfortable enough with the boss to pull out a chair and join them at the table for four.

Clay was more direct as he took his seat. “What the hell, Hawke? You can’t go off the grid without letting me know. I’ve had men looking for you for the past two days.” His dark gaze narrowed in on Jackson’s jaw. “Is that a bruise?”

“I knew this trip was a bad idea,” Jethro tossed in. He grasped Jackson’s chin to turn his head for a better view of the bruise. “What happened to you?”

Jackson pulled away and held up a staying hand. “First of all, Grace, these Neanderthals work for me. Jethro Calder and Clay Hoffman, this is Grace Delaney.”

Two assessing gazes landed on her.

“Ma’am.” Clay nodded at her, his dark eyes already having cataloged everything about her, from her shoe size to her short crop of hair. “How long have you and Jackson been friends?”

“Not long,” she assured him. She’d only brought her wallet downstairs. She pulled out an old business card, flipped it over and wrote her social security number on it before calmly handing it to him.

“You don’t have to do that, Grace,” Jackson’s protest had a bite to it. He nailed his men with an intent stare. “She’s with me. That’s all you need to know.”

“I have nothing to hide,” she soothed him. “He’ll check me out anyway. This just makes it easier for everyone.”

“Sheriff of Woodpark?” Clay mused.

“Ex-sheriff, actually. My term ended on the thirty-first.”

“Hmm.” He tucked her card into his pocket as he turned back to Jackson. “Tell us about the bruise.”

Jackson simply lifted one dark eyebrow.

The security exec didn’t back down. He rolled his impressive shoulders and pinned Jackson to his chair with an intense stare. “Protecting you is my job. I can’t do that when you take off on your own. I need to know what happened to determine if you need additional medical care.”

“He does,” Grace said.

“I don’t.” Jackson sent her an admonishing glare.

The two men looked back and forth between them.

“Which is it?” Jethro asked.

“He has a severe concussion. And he left the hospital against the doctor’s recommendation.” Her gaze never left Jackson’s during her revelation so she saw the flash of hurt quickly replaced by irritation.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Always.” She made it a promise. “Which is why your health comes first. He’s handling himself.” She flicked her gaze to Clay. “But he should definitely see his physician when he returns to Las Vegas.”

“Maybe you need to start from the beginning.” Clay directed the comment to his boss.

Jackson sighed. Showing his aggravation, he crossed his arms over his chest. “As she said, I have a concussion. Our best bet is someone ran me off the road and stole my wallet and my motorcycle. I don’t remember much about the incident.”

Grace hid her surprise. She hadn’t expected him to be so forthcoming.

“An officer took me to the sheriff’s office, where I met Grace. She’s been an angel.”

He ran a finger over the back of her hand on the table. Dang the man. The deliberate gesture was obviously meant to solidify the impression they were a couple. She narrowed her eyes in a what-the-heck look and he moved his head in a sideways just-go-with-it gesture. She didn’t like where this was going, but she left her hand where it was.

“She went with me to the hospital and then drove me to Santa Rosa for more tests. And, no, I didn’t want to stay overnight for a pounding head. You know how I am about hospitals.”

“Concussions can be dangerous.”

Uh-huh. Grace applauded Clay’s warning. Vindicated at last. Perhaps his associate could actually get Jackson back to the doctor. She’d caught on to his game. He was giving them just enough truth to placate them without revealing the true extent of his injuries.

“Believe me, Grace isn’t letting me overexert myself.”

“Does the sheriff’s department have any leads on your motorcycle?” Jethro asked.

“Not as of yesterday.” Graced fielded the question. “It would be helpful if someone could forward the license and vehicle identification numbers to the sheriff’s office. Jackson was a little slim on details.”

“A concussion can mess with short-term memory.” Clay played right into Jackson’s version of events.

“What brings you two here?” Jackson changed the subject. “Any fires I need to know about?”