on Jackson that he was completely naked, too. He held on to the wall and willed away the pulsing agony in his noggin. “Let’s…talk.”
“So you can get sick again with…regret? No thank you.”
Regret? There was more to regret beyond the fact that he couldn’t remember shitola?
She jerked his front door open but didn’t storm away. With her back to him, her voice quavering, she said, “Don’t worry about it, Jackson. I’m naive, I know, but I’m not dumb. I understand what happened.”
“What?”
“I won’t say a word to anyone and since this will never happen again, you can just forget all about it.”
The slamming of the door almost took out his knees. Slowly, he sank down to the cool hardwood floor in his hallway. His eyes closed, but he could still see Alani naked.
He didn’t want to forget a damn thing.
He wanted to remember.
ALANI STAYED BUSY as long as she could. She’d shopped, cleaned her car, had a light breakfast, seen an early matinee…but no amount of distraction had helped. Her chest still hurt with the weight of thick emotion.
Humiliation vied with regret.
Why had she believed him?
Why had she allowed herself to be so easily swayed?
Fool!
What could have been the most amazing night of her life now felt like the most degrading. Not that she could blame Jackson for everything. She’d been so infatuated with him for so long, it had required very little from him to win her over. A few small words and…
The groan vibrated out, heartfelt, sad and angry.
She’d done things with Jackson that she’d never before considered. He’d encouraged her to speak her mind, to be totally open and honest about what she wanted, what she enjoyed—and he’d done the same. With him, she’d reveled in her sexuality.
And then, with the morning light, he’d taken one look at her and rushed off to be ill.
Her face flamed.
All along, from the very first day she’d met Jackson Savor, she’d known he was trouble. Over and over again she’d resisted him because an involvement with any man who worked with her brother, especially a man too much like her brother, seemed impossible.
Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the caller ID. Speak of the devil… Her brother had already called several times, but she wasn’t up to speaking with him.
She waited until the ringing stopped, then checked her voice mail. Trace said, “Where are you, Alani? I’ve called three times now. I want to talk to you. Call me back.”
She knew Trace fully expected her to do as told, but she couldn’t talk to him right now. If she tried to, she’d get emotional, maybe even weepy. God knew Trace had always been protective, but since her kidnapping more than a year ago, he’d been insane with caution. If he knew she was upset, he’d be on the warpath in minutes. She had no intention of telling him about her misguided—and obviously brief—liaison with Jackson, so there’d be no point in getting him caught up in her personal drama.
By necessity, given the responsibilities inherent in his work, Trace was autocratic by nature, occasionally over-bearing and always too confident.
Jackson was the same.
Actually, so was Trace’s friend, Dare, who had worked with Trace from the inception of the business.
They had typical personalities for lethally honed mercenaries—how else could they remain so successful in their efforts to help others?
Of course, Trace, Dare and Jackson were the only mercenaries she knew. And while each of them was different, they were also, in the most basic ways, the same.
They were men who smiled while squaring off with danger, men who didn’t flinch when put to the test, men who, without a single second of hesitation, would protect others with their own lives.
They were good men.
They were scary men.
Most people, even without knowing of her brother’s vocation, still feared him, and with good reason; Trace emanated danger and capability. To meet him was to be wary of him, and so dating had never been easy for her. Guys took one look at her brother and decided it was safer to keep their distance.
But…Jackson wasn’t like most guys. Because he was on a par with Trace, not much ever intimidated him. In fact, he felt at ease jesting with Trace, even taunting him on occasion with his good humor. Knowing Trace and Dare counted on him in the most dangerous situations, Jackson had promised her that his job security wouldn’t be affected by their involvement.
But then, he’d also sworn that it wouldn’t be awkward. Now she was on her own, and it was so excruciatingly awkward that her face continued to burn.
Unfortunately, Trace called yet again as she parked in the driveway. The phone rang four times and then went to voice mail. Alani just knew Trace would show up on her doorstep if she didn’t touch base.
Hating to fib, but feeling she had no choice, she sent back a text message saying only, “I’m at the movies. I’ll call you soon.”
Then she turned off the phone.
After gathering the clothing bags from her trunk, she started around the walkway that led from the driveway on the side of her small but perfect house to the front door.
She drew up short at the sight of Jackson sprawled out on her porch steps, a cowboy hat on his head, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes.
He didn’t move, and neither did she.
For half a minute she stood there frozen, unsure what to say, what to do.
He had an utterly relaxed look about him, but then, Jackson had perfected a deceptively indolent pose that hid razor-sharp reflexes and phenomenal speed. Last night, all night, he’d been far from indolent.
Breathing fast, Alani studied him. His continued stillness suggested sleep. Even when she shifted her bags and inched closer, he didn’t move.
The tall oak in her front yard offered plenty of shade, but Jackson hadn’t removed the hat or the sunglasses. He was now clean-shaven. A snowy white T-shirt pulled across his wide chest and shoulders and hung looser around his taut abs.
Age had worn out his faded jeans in select places, such as at the knees, the hems and where they cupped his sex.
Even now, so tranquil, he looked…impressive.
The bombardment of awareness stiffened her knees.
Memories of touching his body, tasting his hot flesh, sent a tide of sensation through her veins. She remembered wrapping her hand around his erection, how he’d groaned all deep and rough, the insanely sexual things he’d whispered to her as suggestions and encouragement, how he’d covered her hand with his
