Close to You (4 page)

“What can I get for you, sir?” The bartender paused in front of him.

Jackson looked down at the drinks list he held between his hands. He hadn't even had a look at it. He peered at the page, unfamiliar brand names swimming in front of him. “A Tuatara Hefe, please.” He picked a beer at random. No doubt they all tasted the same anyway.

A bottle and a glass appeared in front of him within seconds and he scrawled his room number across the bill. Ignoring the glass, he picked up the bottle. He hadn't even thought to check what the old man's views were on alcohol, but he was too wrung out to care.

He looked at his watch. Still twenty minutes before everyone was due to assemble for dinner. What was the mysterious reason his uncle had wanted to meet him beforehand? He'd referred obliquely to having “something to discuss” but had given no other clues.

Rolling the chilled bottle between his palms, Jackson lifted it to his mouth and took a careful sip. Pretty good. Maybe this country wasn't quite as backward as he'd anticipated. That would be a relief, given that everything else was a nightmare.

“A soda and lime, please.”

He glanced to his right to find a redhead had taken up residence a few stools over. A blue cocktail dress skimmed her curves and flared out over her knees.

She turned toward him, revealing a pert nose with a smattering of freckles and large green eyes. Light makeup highlighted her features. She looked real, which was more than he
could say for the artfully painted, perfectly sculpted, surgically enhanced women who occupied his old social circuit.

A subtle scent of citrus came from her direction. There was something about her that was familiar, but that he couldn't place. But then, he'd charmed and schmoozed so many women over the last few years that they all kind of blended together.

Stop it, Jackson
. He had no business thinking about the female species. They were the reason he was in this ridiculous predicament.

She caught his gaze and something he couldn't quite interpret flitted across her face before it reset to neutral. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He was so surprised by her opening that it was all he could manage. He scrambled for something else but came up blank. Which never happened. The old Jackson would have had a perfect follow-through. Within a couple of minutes he would have been in the empty seat beside her—

He hauled his train of thought to a screeching halt. That kind of behavior was exactly what had gotten him where he was right now.

“Tough day, huh?” She nodded toward his bottle, then took a sip of her soda.

He took another drink. “Something like that.” She opened her mouth as if to say something further, but he cut her off. “Look, no offense. But I'm not really interested.”

Ouch.
That hadn't come out at all like he'd intended. It was abrasive. Rude.

From the way her mouth clamped shut and eyes flashed, he was guessing it was also the last thing she'd expected to hear.

What was wrong with him? The old Jackson had been a pro at making women feel amazing as he dodged their ad
vances. He'd needed the skill to part a few lucrative divorcée investors from their money without resorting to warming their beds. He might have left the Iowa boy behind in the cornfields, but he prided himself on having a few lines he wouldn't cross.

He contemplated some form of apology, then gave up. Oh well. It wasn't like it mattered. She was just some random girl in a hotel bar in a country he never planned to visit again. With wholesome looks like that, she no doubt had guys falling over themselves—it was probably good for her to have her charms rebuffed once in a while. A good dose of rejection every now and then certainly hadn't done him any harm. He tipped his beer to himself. The men of New Zealand should really be thanking him.

“Here you are!” Thank goodness, his uncle came around the corner into the bar, saving Jackson from the chill now emanating from three seats over. He still wore his Gandalf hat, but from the neck down was dressed in a standard gray suit, with some sort of themed tie Jackson couldn't quite make out. “Sorry I'm late. Anna packed my suitcase and I couldn't find my suspenders. Ended up being in one of those infernal inner-pocket things.”

“Sorry, I should have checked if you needed help.” Jackson turned on his perch and eyed the other seating available. There was no way his octogenarian uncle was going to manage to clamber up onto a bar stool.

His uncle waved a hand at him. “Not at all. Not at all.” His face lit up. “Dr. Shire. Aren't you a lovely sight!” He changed direction, crossing the carpet toward the auburn-haired woman. “Not that you don't make a wonderful hobbit as well but, if an old man is allowed to say so, if I were fifty years younger . . .”

What?
No. It couldn't be. Jackson almost gave himself whiplash as his head spun back to the girl who was sliding off her stool with the liquid grace of a waterfall and smiling at his uncle. “Please, call me Allie. I do have to admit that it's a relief to be out of costume on a warm night like tonight.”

Sweat beaded down his back. He gave his collar a tug. He was pretty sure he was going to throw up. How had he not seen it? Admittedly the wig and the feet and the thirty pounds of padding had obscured some key features, but still. His ears buzzed. So much for some random girl he was never going to see again. Of course it had to be the one,
the one
, person he needed to win over so his Tolkien ignorance wasn't revealed to his uncle.

“If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you and Mr. Gregory to enjoy your drinks. I'll come and let you know when everyone else has arrived.” She somehow managed to keep smiling while tossing Jackson the kind of death glare that would have taken out whole armies in Greek mythology. She seemed to glide out of the bar on lean legs clad in high strappy sandals, hair bouncing against her shoulders.

His uncle pierced him with wizened eyes. “What did you say this time?”

Jackson's mouth opened but nothing came out. There was no way he could come back from this. He might as well get back on a plane home right now.

Four

N
O OFFENSE, BUT
I
'M NOT
really interested
.
Two hours later, the words still rang in Allie's head with the same clarity as if he'd just uttered them.

At least he'd had the decency to look a little ashamed when she'd returned to the bar to collect them to rejoin the group.

Maybe he'd been dropped on his head as a baby. That was about the only thing that could excuse his arrogance, his presumptuousness. Like she was some kind of morally loose barfly who had thrown herself at him.

Thank goodness she was in charge of the table seating, which she'd rearranged swiftly upon their arrival at the restaurant. She wanted Jackson as far away from her as possible in a group of nine. Louis sat to her left, at the head of the table. To her right was Spinster Sister One, then Esther in full Arwen regalia, then Jackson. Across from Jackson sat Elroy, then squabbling sister number two, then Hans, and finally Sofia, opposite her.

Allie poked a piece of steak on her plate. She hoped Jackson was enjoying the little trifecta of torment she had constructed for him, because it was going to be his dining home for the next few weeks. Maybe with the occasional spinster-sister swap to keep life interesting.

“I think it's dead now.”

She looked to her side to see Louis twinkling at her. “I'm sorry?”

He nodded to her plate. “The cow. I think it's dead now.”

She looked down to where her fork was repeatedly stabbing a now well-pulverized piece of beef. Oh. She put the utensil down. “Right.”

“I don't know what he said, so I'm not exactly sure how bad the faux pas was, but I promise he's not as awful as he can come across.” Louis nodded down the table toward his assistant. “Though, I'll grant you, he can lack a little social finesse at times.”

Finesse?
The guy didn't lack finesse. He lacked humility. Manners. Common courtesy. Not to mention an entire serving of general human decency. She struggled to keep her face neutral, battling the urge to resume the massacre on her plate. Apparently nothing slipped by Louis.

Breathe, Allie. He's a client. You're a professional. It's not a big deal. Why do you even care?

She summoned a smile. “It's nothing. Just a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“Excellent.” The old man stood, pushing back his chair, and grabbed his walking stick from where it leaned against the table. He picked up his wineglass in his free hand and stepped out from his seat.

Oh, please let him be going to the bathroom with his drink. Allie took a long sip of her water and tried to stop her gaze from following his progress, but they betrayed her.

Marching down to the other end of the table, Louis tapped Jackson on his right shoulder. “Time to swap, Jack. I want to chat with the lovely Arwen.” He beamed the kind of beatific smile down at Esther that gave him an almost saintly look. He stepped back to give Jackson space to get out of his chair before settling himself into his place.

Jackson stood for a few seconds, shifting from foot to foot. He cast a despairing look at the empty spot next to Allie, and looked for a second like he might be contemplating pulling up a chair from another table and reseating himself at the head of the other end. Good. He was uncomfortable. As he should be.

Louis looked up at his assistant. “What are you still doing here? Go and talk to Sofia and Dr. Shire.”

Across from her, Sofia and Hans were deep in conversation in German, while the spinsters had picked up their continuing squabble about whether they had made the right purchases at the Weta Cave.

Allie had never smoked a cigarette in her life, but she suddenly found herself with a burning desire to take up the nasty habit just to have an excuse to escape outside. Going by Jackson's finely honed physique, which his perfectly tailored suit only enhanced, she was certain there was no chance he touched the things.

“Was everything okay, Allie?” She looked up to see one of the restaurant's regular waiters looking at her battle scene of a plate.

“It was delicious as always. Sorry. I guess I wasn't very hun
gry tonight.” She pushed it away and leaned back to give him space to clear it.

He picked up Mr. Duff's empty plate and stacked hers on top. “Dessert?”

Chocolate. That was what she needed. Chocolate made almost anything better. “The torte, please.”

The sound of the chair next to her being pulled back made her flinch, in spite of it being muffled by the rug underfoot.

Jackson sat down. At some point he'd shed the jacket and his tie was now loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked to his left with a resigned expression for a few seconds, as if reconciling himself to the fact that he would find no conversational sanctuary with the Germans.

He looked at Allie, his eyes seeming to plead for her to say something. She just raised her eyebrows. What? He thought she was going to help him fill in the hole he'd dug? Not a chance.

Picking up the crumpled linen napkin his boss had thrown on the table, he smoothed it out, then folded it perfectly in half. Then in half again. And again. Running his fingers along the crease each time and checking that all corners were perfectly aligned.

Allie resisted the urge to grab it off him and crumple it back up, just to see if he would smooth it out again. Fortunately, a large piece of chocolate heaven landed in front of her before her fourteen-year-old self could be unleashed.

Picking up her cake fork, she plunged into the gooey dark chocolate torte and swiped the piece she'd sliced off through the whipped cream that sat to its side. Opening her mouth, she paused in anticipation of the decadent lusciousness.

“I didn't know it was you, okay?”

Her fork paused in midair. No. He wasn't going to spoil this moment. She closed her mouth around the cake. Chewing slowly, she waited for bliss to come. It didn't. Oh, it was nice, but nothing close to the usual moment of ecstasy that first bite of a great dessert delivers.

Unbelievable. The guy had even managed to ruin her moment of chocolate joy.

She placed her fork on the plate so she wouldn't stab him with it, and then turned her head and looked into his kind-of penitent face. “I have the same face. It's not like I was wearing a mask or something.”

He blinked. “No. But the wig, the feet, the . . .” He trailed off and let his hands do the talking, waving them around in what she assumed was an attempt to communicate the padding that added an extra fifteen kilos, without actually having to say it.

“So you thought I actually looked like a hobbit? That in New Zealand we really breed actual little people with large hairy feet?”

“No.” He threw his hands up. “Fine. Whatever. Don't accept my apology. Doesn't bother me.”

Apology? What apology? She checked sideways to make sure no one else was paying attention to their conversation. “It's hard to accept something that you haven't even offered.” She leaned toward him and ground out the words through gritted teeth. “So far all I've heard is a pathetic excuse for you being an arrogant sod who thinks that every female he so much as passes within spitting distance of is falling over herself for a piece of Jackson Gregory.”

He leaned forward, closing the gap between them. He had
great eyes. Bright blue, like the advertising material for some Pacific Island beach resort, which only made her angrier.

“You don't know anything about me.” He forced the words out with the effort of someone holding himself back from using more colorful language.

A surge shot through Allie at the realization that, for once in her life, she had the perfect comeback.

She leaned forward, moving so close that their noses were almost touching. “No offense, but I'm not really interested.”

* * *

H
e deserved that. He really did. But it didn't help the way his nemesis sat in her seat with a self-satisfied smirk on her face—like it was some great accomplishment using someone's line back on them. Last time he checked, Jackson was pretty sure that was called plagiarism.

They stared at each other across their corner of the table, each refusing to be the first one to back down. He wished she did look like a hobbit. At least the frizzy hair and fat suit had hidden the fact that she had startling green eyes. The rest of her wasn't exactly unattractive either, as much as it pained him to admit it.

He set his flint face. The one that had netted him success in many a business negotiation. “Quite frankly, I couldn't care less what some tour guide in some little inconsequential country thinks.”

She plunged her fork into her dessert. “Then I'm sure it won't bother you when I let it slip to your boss that you don't know the difference between an orc and a troll.”

She wouldn't. Would she?

Jackson took a controlled sip of water. He realized too late he was drinking from his uncle's glass. Ick. He forced himself to swallow. “You may loathe me all you like, but I'm still a client on your tour. Last time I checked, your company prides itself on its five-star service, even if you don't.”

She raised an eyebrow and jabbed her cake-loaded cutlery very close to his face. It looked really good. He resisted the urge to take a bite.

“Actually, Mr. Duff is our client, not you. And you have exactly five seconds to tell me why I shouldn't tell him his assistant is a big fat fraud.” Once again, the fork came flying so close to his face that he braced, waiting for impact.

He eyed up her weapon. “Point that thing at me one more time and you're going to lose it.”

She startled, opened and closed her mouth, finally at a loss for words for a second. The fork, however, still hovered above his nose like an alien aircraft about to land. Fine. She couldn't say he hadn't warned her.

Opening his mouth, he leaned forward and hoovered up the flying torte faster than a Bugatti could reach 100 mph.

He took his time chewing and swallowed the rich morsel. Her jaw hung open as she stared at her now empty piece of silverware. Not so much as a decibel escaped from her throat.

“Delicious.” He dabbed at his mouth with his uncle's napkin. “Think I might have a piece of that as well. Unless you'd prefer to keep sharing?”

Her chin snapped north again, an outraged squeak emanating from behind her mashed-together lips. A pair of very cute rosebud lips. Not that he noticed. Or cared.

Slamming her fork down, she shoved her chair out, stood,
and strode away from the table, heading toward the restrooms.

Excellent. His desperate gamble had paid off. The entire incident appeared to have distracted her from threatening to rat on him to his uncle. Jackson was sure she wouldn't forget for long, but at least he'd bought time to conjure up something for the next round.

Giving in to a small smile, he picked up her fork from where it had been abandoned on the linen tablecloth and helped himself to another bite of cake. Then again, there was nothing he liked more than a challenge.