Awaken to Pleasure (2 page)

A deep chuckle heated both her cheeks
and
her temper. “Next to me, you’re a baby.”

“Crap.” She was so furious that she could barely get the single word out.

“Crap?” He was laughing at her again, in that superior masculine way of his that made her want to scream.

“Age makes no difference to the person you become once you’re an adult.” She needed him to accept her as a woman, though she shied away from the implications of that need.

“Of course it does.” His response was infuriatingly calm. “More experience, more life lived.”

“More years doesn’t necessarily mean more experience!”

His sardonic look dared her to prove it.

She did, goaded beyond endurance. “I’m bringing up a child. Can you say the same?”

“No.” His response was so cold that the inside of the car suddenly felt like a freezer.

It was clear that she’d offended him deeply with her careless words. Not for the first time, she wondered if his childless marriage had been his choice. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s true.” An emotionless response.

She bit her lip, debating whether to continue. “Yes. But so soon after Bonnie’s death…I shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t thinking.”

It was her own emotional anguish over the possibility of losing custody of Nick to her stepfather, Lance, that had made her so reckless. Even tonight’s desperate attempt to forget her fears for a few hours had ended in a nightmare. Except for being picked up by Jackson, her day had been sheer
hell. And now, she’d made him angry. Somehow, that was the worst feeling of all.

“It’s been twelve months since Bonnie overdosed.” Jackson knew his voice was hard, but so had been surviving the losses a year ago. “You know our marriage was finished long before then. Hell, the whole world knew.”

They’d been married, but not to each other. He’d had his work and for a brief glittering moment of pure happiness, Taylor’s smile. Bonnie had had drugs. They hadn’t even slept together for over two years, except for that one fateful time four months before her death.

She’d been so lovely that day, a shimmering memory of the girl he’d wed, before news of her father’s death had stolen her joy. He’d long since learned that that girl had been a mirage, but when she’d turned to him for comfort, he hadn’t been able to deny her. Not when grief had ripped apart the mask of sophistication that had become her face.

And they’d created a child.

Whom Bonnie had murdered when she’d taken her life with a cocktail of drugs. If she hadn’t, he might have been a parent, too, able to refute Taylor’s claim. He could still feel the knives that had sliced through his soul when the autopsy had revealed her to be pregnant. Further tests had proven that the child had been his flesh and blood.

But, even that incredible grief hadn’t compared to his rage at discovering that Bonnie had known of the tiny life growing inside of her. She’d known that his child was in her womb when she’d taken her final lover, and she’d known that his child was in her womb when she’d ingested the fatal drug cocktail.

At that moment of understanding, hate had spread through his body like a virus, decimating his ability to feel tender emotions.

“S
he could be nice sometimes,” Taylor said, betraying the soft heart behind that tough exterior.

“When she wasn’t drugged to the gills.” He knew too much about the kind of pain “nice” Bonnie could inflict.

“I wonder why she did all those things.”

He knew she was talking about the drugs and that final affair, unearthed by the press and gleefully announced to the world. What would she say if he told her that Bonnie’s famous lover had been the last in a string of men?

He’d stopped touching Bonnie as soon as he’d discovered the infidelities. His love for her had died long before. After a lonely, barren childhood, her joyful charm had drawn him, only to teach him an even deeper sense of isolation. They hadn’t shared a bed again, except for that day four months before her death. After hours spent at work in Taylor’s company, aching for things he had no right to demand, his defenses had been at an all-time low. Seeing Bonnie smile after
weeks of depression, he’d desperately wanted to believe that they could salvage their marriage.

As the forgotten child of an impulsive celebrity union, he’d promised himself that he would not repeat the cycle of divorce and remarriage that characterized his parents, and which had already spread to his three younger half siblings. Even the youngest, Valetta, had a broken marriage under her belt.

Driven by that promise, he’d kept trying to glue together his and Bonnie’s shattered relationship. He’d even let Taylor go without a single touch, stifling the hungry need her presence always aroused.

But even his most precious vows had a breaking point—he hated Bonnie for teaching him that lesson. The final straw had come the day she’d flaunted her faithlessness, meeting her newest lover in a place haunted by the paparazzi. That humiliating betrayal had forever severed any remaining loyalty he’d had toward the girl he’d married, and he’d immediately filed for divorce.

He still remembered her reaction.

“Oh please,” she’d mocked, cocktail in hand. It had been barely 10:00 a.m. “As if you’ve been faithful.”

The tragedy was, he had. The only infidelity he could be accused of was of the mind. In his bleakest moments, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Taylor, but he would’ve never touched her while a wedding band encircled his finger.
Never.
She deserved better than that.

After he’d walked out on Bonnie, a cautious hope had taken root in his heart. Once the divorce was final, he’d intended to seek out Taylor and see if someone so young and untouched could find something to love in him.

Then all of his dreams had crumbled to dust. Bonnie’s death hadn’t shocked him; she’d been trying to kill herself for years. It was discovering the murder of his child that had
destroyed his hope. He’d been bleeding too badly to do anything but merely function.

Taylor’s voice broke into the nightmarish memories. “I mean, Bonnie had beauty, talent, wealth and you. What was missing in her life?”

Jackson’s heart slammed hard into his rib cage at her befuddled tone. “Maybe I’m not such a prize.”

“I know you’re incredibly loyal and generous. Your protectiveness might annoy your wife but she’d know it sprang from deep caring. That would make it bearable.”

Her naive belief in his goodness rocked him to the deepest recesses of his misbegotten soul. “I wish you were a reporter.” They’d savaged him after Bonnie’s last affair, taken his humiliation and broadcast it to the world. Jackson Santorini’s private pain sold a lot of papers.

When Bonnie had overdosed, they’d turned on him again, like a pack of wild dogs, vicious and unfeeling. But, they’d done such a good job the first time around, he couldn’t give them any more rage or any more anguish.

“Plus, you’re gorgeous.” Taylor wondered what she was doing. Her words were true. What was also true was that she could never deliver on the promise implied in the flirtatious tone. And even if she could have, she was nowhere near Jackson’s league. The man was linked with superstar actresses whose beauty shone from the silver screen and glittered on red carpets.

Just last week, she’d read an article where a titian-haired actress had stated that the reclusive head of Santorini Studios was her dream man. Though the megastar couldn’t understand why such an important man chose to live in so small a country, it made him all the more interesting to her. All the more desirable.

“I don’t think anyone would describe me as gorgeous.” Jackson’s response was dry. “But thank you.”

She scowled. “You’re not pretty, not like the actors. There’s nothing soft about you. Your face is strong, interesting…gorgeous.” She wasn’t going to back down. Just like the world-famous actress, dark-eyed, dark-haired Jackson Santorini was her dream man.

Some people might say that he was a little too muscular, but on Jackson, the bulk looked good. Very,
very
good. She wanted to reach over and squeeze one of those taut arm muscles to see if there was any give at all. Then she wanted to bite down on that firm, golden flesh.

And therein lay her problem.

Jackson had been the best employer she’d ever had. The most demanding but also the most appreciative. A permanent job with him would’ve been perfect…if she hadn’t stupidly gone and fallen in lust with her married boss.

Until she’d met him, she’d thought of lust as something frightening and dirty. Given her childhood, she knew that was understandable. But, the moment she’d seen Jackson Santorini in the flesh, it had hit her like a thunderbolt. She’d been flabbergasted, having no idea what to do about the heat that pooled in her stomach like high-octane fuel whenever he so much as glanced at her.

Even more disturbing were the other emotions that had crept in while she wasn’t guarding her back. Dangerous emotions like trust. And hope.

Not that she’d ever followed up on the attraction. Touching another woman’s husband was an unbreakable taboo. Even if her morals hadn’t stopped her, practicality would have—she’d seen firsthand what happened to discarded mistresses. But she hadn’t been able to stop fantasizing about her sexy Italian boss, even as she adamantly refused to open the door to any other feeling.

When the media storm had broken over Bonnie’s lover, she’d wanted to slap the other woman for throwing away a
man of Jackson’s worth. Though she’d had no right, she’d ached to go to him, and try and soothe his unbearable pain. How
dare
that woman hurt Jackson where he was most vulnerable—in that proud heart of his?

It had been over a year since their last meeting but her feelings hadn’t changed. Even her upsetting experience at Donald’s hands couldn’t alter that, because she trusted Jackson on a gut level. She’d never felt safe with a man until he’d started bullying her with his protectiveness, walking her to her car and more than once following her home late at night to ensure that she arrived safely. And he’d
never
made any demands in return.

The truth was, her sexy ex-boss still made her burn.

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 Direc
tor 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.