She’d crawled farther under the sheets, shaking her head. “No, you go first. I’d rather wait.” Now she lay on the bed, her pulse pounding in her ears. For a girl who’d wanted to make a fresh start on a new life, she’d really put her foot in it. Among other things.
Sweet heaven.
A tremble erupted throughout her body like small aftershocks hitting one right after the other as the heavy weight of her indiscretion slowly sank into her brain. She tried taking deep breaths to calm her wayward nerves. It didn’t work. Her breaths came out in short rapid bursts.
Then she remembered her yoga instruction, something she’d come to rely on when Allen the Loser had accounted his way out of her life, taking with him the bulk of her hard-earned cash. Slowly she sat up on the bed and swiveled to plant her feet on the floor. She stood, circled her arms above her head, stretching out until her fingertips touched, pinkies down, and inhaled slowly, deeply, letting oxygen fill her lungs. Then just as slowly, with finesse she’d learned from the yoga master, she let her breath out smoothly as she lowered her arms and hinged her body in half until her fingers touched her toes. Better. Much better. She repeated the movements several times. Tension rolled off her. Her fuzzy head cleared and the rapid beats of her heart ebbed to a restful rate.
It was amazing how well the technique worked on her.
For the short term anyway.
She was certain she’d have many more moments of anxiety. Her life was about to change forever. Moving across the country and starting up a new venture in an unfamiliar town was enough to make her anxious. And spending the night with Jackson, her new partner, and having to face him on a regular basis wasn’t exactly the best-case scenario for a girl who’d blundered with her last love affair.
So far she was batting a big fat zero in her new life.
The peaceful hum of water ceased with another turn of the faucet, and the shower door clicked open. Sammie sank back onto the bed, lifting the sheets to her chin, making sure her naked self was adequately covered. Instead of picking up her clothes and getting dressed, she’d been focused on yoga. Ironically, all of the peace she’d gained in the past few minutes was effectively wiped away as the door to the bathroom opened and Jackson strode out.
He wore a plush robe the color of rich dark ink. Black suited him, and the day-old stubble on a chiseled face and wet, blond-streaked hair curling at his collar put him on par with a GQ model. But then, she’d already known that about Jackson Worth. He wore his clothes with style, he had a smile that could melt Arctic ice and, darn him, he had a charming personality that would set any female’s mind spinning. The bottom line … Jackson was dreamy and dangerous and last night all of her internal warning signals had malfunctioned.
He carried a snowy robe in hand and tossed it onto the bed. It landed beside her in a heap of marshmallow softness. “Maybe you should get dressed,” he said, his usual air of confidence a little shaken. “We need to talk.”
Without waiting for her response, he moved to the window to allow the daylight in and caught a glimpse of a replica of the Eiffel Tower. With Jackson gazing out the window, she hurried her arms into the robe and tied it around her waist. Snatching her clothes off the floor, she headed toward the bathroom.
Her shower was quick and efficient. If circumstances were different, she would have luxuriated in the giant-sized marble enclosure with three directional faucets and lingered under the waterfall-like spray. She would have lathered herself with smooth-as-silk body wash and then treated her limbs to a citrus lotion massage. But Jackson was waiting and they had some serious talking to do.
She dressed in the clothes she’d worn to the convention yesterday, a little rumpled now from their night on the floor. With fingers gingerly moving through her hair, the thick, short layers fell back into place without much fuss. There was something to be said about good-hair days even when all else seemed to be going downhill.
She padded out of the bathroom in bare feet and noted Jackson was still standing by the window, but this time with a coffee cup in his hand. Sometime during her shower, room service had arrived. It always amazed her how magic seemed to happen to wealthy people and how much they took it for granted. With a snap of fingers, their every wish was granted.
Perhaps it was a good thing that Jackson was wealthy though, because he, unlike so many others that had refused her, had entered into a business arrangement with her. They were partners now, and Sammie had no illusions about his reasons. Normally, a cattle baron with investments in major real estate developments and the stock market wouldn’t give a small-time boot seller the time of day, but Jackson was doing Callie a favor by backing Sammie’s boutique. It made Sammie even more determined to make her business a success. She didn’t want to disappoint Callie or have the Worth family look upon her as a charity case.
The dining table was set for two with white linens and a cheery vase of flowers. A vast assortment of breakfast foods covered the surface from end to end. Her appetite had waned the second she’d woken up next to Jackson, but now, after a good cleansing had given her a slightly better outlook on life, she heeded her stomach’s grumble for nourishment. Those white-chocolate raspberry muffins were calling to her.
Jackson turned from the window to meet her eyes. His gaze slid up and down her body, then his lips came together in a smile he couldn’t hide. He quickly took a sip of his coffee.
“What?” she asked.
He gave his head a quick shake. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do,” she blurted.
His eyes raked over her one more time, then he shrugged, as if giving her the answer wouldn’t be the end of the world. “You look cute.”
“Cute?” She glanced down at the cream-and-brown plaid pleated skirt and narrow tailored ivory blouse she’d tucked into it. The whole ensemble was designed to be worn with a solid cream blazer and her classic brown zippered knee-high boots, which tied the entire outfit together. She’d dressed for the convention to show how an entire look can be created and changed simply by wearing the right boots. It all came down to the power of the boot.
She wiggled her bare toes. Her boots were on Jackson’s side of the bed. Her blazer was slung across a wing chair in the far corner of the room. No boots, no power. What was left was cute?
“You hungry?” he asked, glancing away from her toward the dining area.
“Yes. I could eat.”
He gestured for her to go first. She moved across the room and took a seat at one end of the table. Jackson, still in his plush robe, sat down adjacent to her. He poured her coffee and waited for her to sip it. Once. Twice. The French roast was pure heaven, warming her throat and giving her the fortification she needed to get through this conversation.
His eyes stayed on her with interest and a surge of uneasiness gripped her. “What’s up?” she said.
Jackson smiled again, that killer I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile. “You really don’t want to know.”
She swallowed coffee so fast it burned her throat. Her traitorous eyes dipped below his waist, not that she’d see anything beyond the table’s edge, but the intent was there and Jackson noticed.
“Oh.”
“Listen,” he began, shifting in his seat to face her fully. “I’m
