as inhospitable as they come. There can be no reason at all for you to be here at this time of year. None. Save one.”
“You are so conceited,” she managed to say, fighting her voice’s urge toward a much-too-telling tremor.
“You’re a terrible actress,” he replied, far too easily.
He squatted down in front of her chair, still caging her between his strong arms, but now his muscled thighs spread open before her and his face, his mouth, were much too close to hers. She dared not move. He was so big, so male, and as dangerous as he was compelling. She wanted to leap out of this chair and run, screaming, from the room—the inn—the island. But more than that, she wanted to lean forward and touch him. Both propositions were terrifying.
“Why don’t you just admit what you came for?” His voice was mocking. Knowing. Insinuating.
Larissa sucked in a deep breath. And then, because she knew that he would never believe her, that he saw only what he wanted to see—only what she’d worked so hard to show to the world for so long, and never anything else, never anything beneath that mask—she told him the truth.
“I had no idea you’d be here,” she said quietly. Matter-of-factly. Because she found she needed to say it, and it was safe here, now, where she would never be believed. Perhaps not even heard. His expression was already shifting to one of total disbelief. “It never occurred to me that there would be an Endicott in residence on Endicott Island. Why would it, at this time of year? I just put my car on the ferry headed for the most remote place I could find, and here I am. There’s no plot. No grand scheme to prove something to my father. I’ve thought as little about him—and Whitney Media—as possible.”
His mouth flattened, as if she’d disappointed him—again. She was entirely too familiar with that particular expression. And she told herself she was an idiot if she expected anything different, even from him. Even for a second.
“Of course not,” he said sardonically. “Because you’ve suddenly been seized with your typical wanderlust, except for some reason you chose this island instead of, say, Rio. The Amalfi coast. Anywhere in the South Pacific.”
That he didn’t believe her was practically written across him, tattooed onto his smooth warm skin. Flashing before her like all the bright lights of New York City. And, therefore, it was safe for her to tell him truths she would never have dared mention if she’d had the slightest worry he might believe them.
This is who you are, a small voice pointed out inside of her, condemning her. This twisted thing, good for nothing but lies and truths hidden away like ciphers.
“Maybe I’m trying to reinvent myself,” she said, making sure she smirked as she said it, making sure he couldn’t give her words any weight, any resonance. “Maybe this is simply part of a period of reinterpretation.” She shrugged her shoulders. “A deserted island in the late fall rains. What better place for rediscovery?”
He shook his head, letting his hands move from the arms of the chair. He touched her, tracing a pattern along her curled-up legs from knees to ankles, making that fire rage and burn anew. Then, unexpectedly, he took her hands between his. Her heart jolted in her chest. So hard she stopped breathing.
“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he said, almost tenderly, which made the words feel that much more like knives. Sharp and brutal. “You make it into a kind of art. You should be proud of it, I think.”
She didn’t know why she should feel so heartbroken, so sick, as if he’d ripped her into tiny pieces by acting as she’d known he would—as she’d wanted him to act. What did she expect? That somehow, Jack Endicott Sutton would see through all her layers of defense and obfuscation to what lay beneath? She didn’t want that. She’d never wanted that. So why did it hurt so much that he didn’t do it anyway?
But she knew why. She’d always known. There was something between them—something that sang in her whenever he touched her, something in the way he looked at her, that made her imagine things could be different. That she could be different. She hadn’t been able to cope with the idea of that five years ago. And whatever he’d seen in her then, she’d ruined it. She knew she had, because that was what she did. That was who she was. She ruined whatever she touched.
Why should Jack be any different?
“I see,” she said. She looked down at their hands, linked now, the heat of that connection moving through her in ways she should not allow. But she didn’t move. She angled a look at him. “You are permitted to have a disreputable past, and then change when it suits you. But not me. Is that because you’re a man?”
“It’s because you’re Larissa Whitney,” he replied, and there was laughter in his gaze then. She wished it warmed her instead of chilling her to the bone. She wished she could drop this act, and make him really, truly believe her. She thought she could, if she dared enough. If she was brave enough.
But she had never been anything but weak. She doubted she ever would be. She took the easy road, because at least that way she could keep part of herself hidden. Safe. She had always tried too hard to keep something, somewhere, some kind of safe. Surely that counted for something.
And even if it didn’t, it was all she had.
“Fine, then,” she said, smiling back at him, even letting out her own little laugh in reply. Letting herself seem complicit—in on the joke. The very idea of her changing was hilarious, wasn’t it? Impossible! She should know. She was the one trying to do it.
“Come have dinner with me.” Jack’s voice was rich and dark, and made her yearn for things she couldn’t have, things she knew he’d never offer. Made her heart beat too fast, her blood pump too quickly through her limbs. He was seduction incarnate, and the worst part, she knew, was that he didn’t really want her. Not her. He wanted the projection. The act. He wanted who he thought she was. And still, even knowing that, she wanted him like this. Like she might die if she didn’t taste him again.
“Said the spider to the fly,” she replied, smiling over the crack in her voice, pretending she was trying to sound husky, alluring.
“I think we both know that the only one here weaving any webs is you,” Jack said. But he didn’t seem to care about that. There was a cool, assessing glint in his dark gaze, as if he was reading her too closely. He stood up then, pulling her to her feet in an easy, offhand demonstration of his effortless strength, his matter-of-fact physical prowess. It made her feel fluttery. “And who knows? Maybe you can convince me to be a part of your little plot after all. Why not try?”
He was so arrogant. So sure that he saw right through her, that he knew everything. All her games. All her plans. The whole of her shallow little self. She didn’t know if she wanted to punch him—or burst into tears. She wisely decided to do neither. She doubted he would react well to either extreme. And she doubted she would recover.
“Why should I?” she asked lightly, though it cost her to keep up the act. “You appear to already have your mind made up.”
“Convince me,” he said, in that low, stirring voice. His dark eyes were molten hot, so hungry and yet so shrewd, and they made her ache. They made her feel vulnerable, foolish. Lost. And then he smiled, and made everything that much worse. “I dare you.”
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