Jackson was stunned by Taylor’s little speech. Nobody had ever called him gorgeous, not even starlets who thought he might be influenced by flattery. That was a lie too big even for them. And yet he knew that the woman in the passenger seat did not tell lies. Who else but Taylor would’ve dared to inform him that he looked like he was strung out on cocaine when he’d dragged himself into the office one Monday after fighting with Bonnie all weekend?
The question was, what was he going to do with the knowledge that she considered him gorgeous? At that moment, his attention was caught by flashing red lights up ahead. “Looks like there might have been an accident.”
“I hope no one was hurt.” Taylor leaned forward, blanket clutched tight. When he glanced at her, he saw that heat had given her face a soft pink glow that was at once enchanting and innocently seductive.
“Let’s see.” Reaching the poncho-clad cop standing in the middle of the street, he wound down the window. Sharp drops of rain immediately assaulted his face. “What’s the problem, officer?”
The young man leaned down. His eyes flicked to Taylor and then back to Jackson. “There’s been a three-car crash up ahead. Pretty messy. We’re detouring people up though there.” He pointed to an upward-sloping street on his right, the route marked with orange safety cones.
Jackson nodded. “Was anyone badly injured?”
“No fatalities.” His relief was clear. “Drive safely.” Moving back, he let them pass.
After turning up the small incline, Jackson said, “Look, you need to dry out and with this detour and the weather, we won’t reach your place for at least another hour.” Water sloshed around the tires as he came to a level section of the road. “You can spend the night at my place—the drive will only take twenty minutes.”
“I can’t do that!” she cried.
“Why?” It angered him that she didn’t trust him, when he’d never given her reason not to. Okay, so maybe he’d yelled at her once or twice while she’d been his secretary, but she’d yelled right back and they’d got along fine.
Once again, she surprised him. “Because paparazzi stalk you. They’re probably hiding in the bushes by the door. I don’t want to be famous.” She sounded determined.
He shook his head at her amazing mind. “If there is a paparazzo there tonight, piccola, I swear I’ll beat him up for you.” The endearment slipped out without thought. “Of course, he’s probably already drowned.”
A laugh escaped her. “Well, if you promise.”
Traffic being much lighter on this side of the city, they reached his eight-month-old Mission Bay home in less time than he’d anticipated. Pressing an electronic key, he drove the car through the security gates. About fifty meters up the drive he pushed another button to raise the garage door before driving in. It shut behind them, enclosing them in a dry haven lit with a strong white bulb. The sound of rain on hard surfaces was muted to a soft lullaby, lending an unexpected intimacy to the air.
“Don’t you think garages should have bleary yellow lights?” Taylor stretched out to pop her door open.
He let her lighten the mood, giving her space. For now. “You think something’s wrong with my ambience?” Stepping out, he found her standing beside her door like some sort of disheveled fairy wrapped in tartan.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “When I’m no longer in danger of turning into an icicle, I’ll tell you.”
Biting back his first real smile for a year, he led her out of the garage, through the converted basement which he used as a gym, and up to the first floor of his home. “Bathroom’s upstairs on the right.” He pointed to the stairs leading up from the living room. “There should be fresh towels on the rails. I think the cleaning service came today. I’ll find you a robe and throw it through.”
“Don’t peek.” She started to struggle up the stairs, trying not to trip on the blanket she refused to release, an empress giving an order to a lowly servant.
Shaking his head at her impudence, he dropped his keys on a table in the living area and walked into his study.
Ignoring the blinking message light on his phone, he placed a call to the Auckland Police Station. As usual, Detective Cole McKenna was pulling the graveyard shift. After Jackson explained the matter to one of the few men he trusted implicitly, Cole swore creatively under his breath.
“Your lady doesn’t want to press charges?”
Jackson thought about Taylor’s attempts to brush off the entire incident. “I’d like to take care of it without pulling her into something messy.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. I need a diversion from paperwork anyway. Let’s see—Donald Carson, Project Director at Dracena Medical.” He tapped some keys. “Got him. I think 3:00 a.m. sounds like a good time for a visit.”
Jackson itched to face Carson himself but he’d made a promise and if he saw the man, he’d surely break it. “Thanks.”
“I’ll swing by your place and drop off your Taylor’s purse when I’m heading off shift, just after six.”
Yes, Jackson thought, she was his. “I don’t want Taylor to start thinking I’m about to get arrested so leave the black and white at the station,” he joked, trying not to let his frustration at being unable to act himself seep into his tone.
Cole chuckled, seeing through him. “Lady must be something special if you’re trying to behave.”
They hung up on that note. His tension easing now that he’d done something about the man who’d dared to hurt Taylor, he quickly played back his messages. All four were from very smart people, including his mother, wanting something.
The demanding note in his mother’s voice wasn’t unusual. A rising star when she’d inconveniently fallen pregnant with Jackson to Anthony Santorini, her husband at the time, Liz Carlyle had had neither the time nor the inclination to raise her son. She’d saved that for his half brother Carlton, born almost ten years later.
As for Anthony, the celebrated director’s paternal instincts had finally kicked in nine years after Jackson’s birth, when he’d sired Mario closely followed by Valetta, with wife number three.
However, now that Jackson was a success, both Liz and Anthony preferred to forget that the closest they’d ever come to parenting him was writing checks for boarding schools and nannies. Neither had any compunction against using family ties to solicit his help. Frowning, he noted the details of the messages before erasing them. He’d take care of their requests later.
After he took care of Taylor.
Heading upstairs, he passed the closed door of his admittedly huge bathroom and entered his bedroom, knowing he had an unused robe someplace. Except when he reached the closet, he picked out his favorite.
The instant she shut the bathroom door, Taylor dropped the blanket and started removing her damp clothes, pausing only to place her cell phone in a safe spot. Clipped to the waistband of her pants, it hadn’t disappeared with Donald. The small change in her pockets clinked as she dropped her pants
