Best Laid Plans (9 page)

No, I can’t see him in a
trendy restaurant. I’m sure he can pronounce every word on a sushi menu, and tell
the difference between antipasto and charcuterie, but I bet he’s most at home
with a well-prepared steak. Despite a line of people waiting to be seated, we
are shown to a private corner table immediately.

With Bryan’s appeal still
ringing in my ear, I get right to business. “So, what’s your offer?”

“What do you want?”

The first one to blink loses.
“Six-month non-exclusive contract, $10,000 a month retainer, plus ten percent
of all event billables.”

“No.”

I didn’t expect him to say
yes, and now it’s his turn to blink.

“I hire you as an employee. You’re
paid a salary, and will earn bonuses depending on how quickly you can make the
club profitable.”

I can see this negotiation is
going to be harder than I thought. “I can’t just shut down my business.”

“You have any contracted jobs
this year?” My face is all the answer he needs. “Jillian, you are a terrible
businesswoman. The only presence you have on social media is what your clients
create, I don’t see any marketing plan, and you didn’t even know who I was the
first time we met.”

I am about to respond sarcastically,
when the waiter approaches. Jackson dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

I take a breath and calm
myself. “Why do I need to know who
you
are to be a good businesswoman?”

“I am constantly in the
social pages. My face is plastered on every magazine and local Internet site. I
run one of the biggest corporations in San Francisco. Any serious event planner
knows who’s who in their market. They don’t wait until I take them to dinner to
Google all the dirty little facts about my past.”

“Well, I must be even worse
than you thought because I still haven’t Googled you.”

The waiter returns with water
and a basket of bread. Dinner with Jackson—bread and water. Just like in prison,
and the uniform is a little black dress. My mind pictures him dressed as a
guard with a big nightstick and…I need to stop daydreaming. I look from the
bread back to Jackson and his expression is less prison guard and more
executioner.

“You truly haven’t done any
research on me?”

“Sadly, no. Are you going to
scold me for that, too?”

“I should.” He breaks off a
piece of bread, and butters it. “But I can’t remember the last date I had where
I was still a mystery to someone.”

He’s doing that thing with
his voice. Where it starts in my ears and somehow moves down my body and makes
everything tingle. I’m sure the serpent in the Garden of Eden had the same
sensual purr.

But the sting of his
criticism helps me ward off his charm. “This isn’t a date. It’s a business
meeting, as I remember. And I’m sure you’re a mystery to a lot of people. The
mystery to me is why you want to hire a terrible businesswoman.”

He offers me the buttered
bread slice. “Eat this.” He’s pulling that Christian Grey crap on me, and I
shake my head. He looks me in the eyes. “You’re getting a little cranky.”

“And you think it’s my blood
sugar?”

“So eat the bread and prove
me wrong.”

“You answer my question, and
I’ll eat that butter-soaked bread.”

“All right. I said you were a
terrible businesswoman, but I think you’re a remarkable event planner. I still
can’t believe what you pulled off in only one week. Especially after I saw the
church in the daylight. I almost overbid for it. You take this job and you’ll
be able to do what you love and delegate the business end to my team. You’ll
have a steady income, you’ll have benefits, and you’ll have security.”

I take a bite from the bread.
Chewing it will give me a chance to think. He’s a better salesman than his
brother, or maybe he just knows me better. He got me to eat the bread, and he’ll
get me to join his team. And maybe join him in bed. Or maybe not, if he’s
offering me a job.

I swallow the bread. “I’ve
got an employee.”

“Robert? I’ll hire him.”

Maybe I
am
cranky, but
I can’t resist poking the bear. “You do remember he called you an asshole?”

“Most people have called me
that at some time.”

He signals the waiter, so I
hurriedly scan the menu. I consider ordering the fish but—when in Rome—I order
the prime rib. I’m about to ask him how he expects this plan to work, when our
waiter returns and dresses our salad at our table with theatrical flourish.

Jackson picks up his salad
fork. “So, are you ready to become an employee?” He stabs at the lettuce with
the force of a jackhammer.

“We haven’t discussed salary,”
I say before I take a bite of the salad. I’m going to have to remember to do
dinner meetings with this man. I can buy a lot of time to think by chewing slowly.

“I’ll meet your $10,000 a
month. And I want a two-year contract.” His fork pile drives into the salad
again. I know these salad plates. This line is popular with restaurants because
they’re sturdy. I just don’t know if they’ve been tested against Jackson.

I pop a cucumber slice in my
mouth while I think. Two years isn’t unreasonable, but a contract won’t let me
quit if we can’t work together. “I’ll give you six months.”

“I’m afraid I have to be firm
on the two years.” Once more, his fork rams into the salad. His table manners help
me understand why he has to pay women to date him.

“That’s too long. Just today,
one of the leading CEOs in San Francisco told me that I’m a remarkable event
planner. You don’t want to lose me because your ego got in the way of
negotiation, do you? I’ll give you nine months.”

He sets his fork down, and I
check to see whether it’s bent. He reaches for his phone.

“Now who’s manipulating? You’ll
give me a year, I’ll hire Robert, and I’m texting Bryan that you said…” He
leaves the sentence open, for me to fill in the blank.

I sigh. It’s been a long day,
and I hadn’t expected to be negotiating a job offer. I’m sure it will be
exciting, and after the last year of scraping by I’ll be happy for a steady
paycheck. If I was smart, I’d hold out for a sign-on bonus, but I just spent
$150,000 of his money already this weekend. “Okay. Yes. He’s probably been
checking his phone every five seconds. Put him out of his misery, and maybe we
all can enjoy the rest of this evening.”

Jackson sends the text and
then puts the phone away. When he picks up his salad fork, I tense. To my
surprise, he doesn’t use it like a power tool, and we finish our salads in
silence. The carver arrives and serves our entrée along with baked potatoes,
creamed spinach, and corn bread. Jackson orders us a split of red wine, and I
unwind over the lovely meal.

He asks about my start as an
event planner. It’s not that exciting a story. How he became a billionaire is
probably more interesting, but I tell him how I got into the business. He
listens thoughtfully, and when I finish, he looks me in the eye.

“That’s very interesting but
I didn’t ask
how
you became an event planner. I asked
why
.”

Why? How do you answer that? “I
just seem to have a talent for finding out what people want.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I get a sense.
Like your brother. Remember his face at dinner and then at the party? The party
was what he wanted.”

“And you thought the dinner
is what I wanted?”

No, I thought embarrassing me
was what you wanted. Now I’m not so sure. “I didn’t know. You were out of town
and all I had was a guest list and dinner menu from the party you were going to
give him. I tried to give you both what you wanted. It just took two parties to
do it.”

My plate is empty and I don’t
even remember eating. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else when Jackson is
around. My new boss. Is this a huge mistake? He’s right when he says the job
will give me security. Financial security. It’s the most money I’ve ever made. It’s
emotional security that I’m not so sure about. Something happens to me when I’m
with this man. Everything gets magnified. I’m either very angry, very embarrassed,
or very turned on. And right now, I’m not angry or embarrassed.

The waiter clears our table
and brings two glasses of champagne.

“I thought we’d toast our new
partnership.” He holds out one of the champagne flutes to me. I take the other one,
and bat my eyes. “A girl can’t be too careful.” He laughs loud enough to make
the tables next to us turn.

He raises his glass. “To a
woman who knows what I want.”

I hesitate. I wish I knew
what he wanted. There are some people I can’t predict. Like my husband and my
mother. “I’m not sure I have that skill set. You’re a mystery to me.”

He looks disappointed, but
smiles. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Around you, I’m a mystery to myself.”

He taps his glass against
mine and we drink, his eyes never leaving me. He sets his glass down, places
the napkin on the table, and holds out his hand.

“Now, let’s get you to bed.”

Jackson doesn’t speak the entire ride back to my apartment.
He might be staring at me, but in the dark I only can see his face when we pass
under a streetlight. I’m not going to stare at his face to see whether he’s
staring at me because then he’ll think
I’m
the one staring and…I’m
overthinking this.

I could break the silence, but what would I say? I don’t
even know whether I want to invite him up or not. Now that he’s my boss, the
fantasy of a one-night stand is shot to hell. I’m so lost in thought, trying to
anticipate every scenario, I don’t notice we’ve arrived at my building until he
opens the door and
I hear the low rumble of his
laugh.

“I can hear the gears
turning, Jillian. I left something in your apartment, so you’re going to have
to invite me up.”

He unlocks the front door
with his key (I’m sure he did it on purpose to remind me he owns the building).
In the elevator, I sneak a peek at his face, and he turns his head toward me. His
expression seems to promise sensual delights, and I can’t look away. He’s so
damn handsome, and he holds my gaze. I tremble.

“Cold?”

“Nervous.” Oh, not the right
thing to say. “I mean, uh…”

He puts a hand against my
face. “You are the most honest person I’ve met.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint
you, but remember that quail?”

He puts his finger over my
lips. “I don’t mean your words. It’s your face. You don’t have a poker face. Everything
you’re feeling is written all over it.”

The elevator shudders to a
stop at my floor, and I reach for my keys. He takes them from my hand and opens
the door. That’s the second time he’s taken keys out of my hand. He might think
it’s gallant, but I find it annoying.

I walk past him through the
door and turn on the light. “What did you leave here?”

Jackson is still standing in
the hallway. “I left a frightened, panicking female.”

It’s still embarrassing to
think of, and my irritation evaporates. I push the shame out of my mind. “I
hope my landlord doesn’t find out about you leaving women in my apartment.” I
look around. “I think she’s gone.”

“Then you should invite me
in.”

When did he become so formal?
“Are you a vampire?” Isn’t that what Minerva called him—
an emotional vampire?
“You can’t cross a threshold without an invitation?”

“What was it you said earlier?
‘If I open this door, we are really going to do this.’ I need you to decide. Either
invite me in or say good-night. It’s your choice, Jillian.”

Part of me wishes he would
just come in and kiss me senseless and then ravish me. That’s not his style. Still,
I need to know a little more. “If I invite you in, what will happen?”

He raises his eyebrows and
laughs, almost like a villain in an old James Bond film. “You want me to
sell
you on the idea of inviting me in?”

His lips curl into a sensual
smile as he crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. The pose suits
him—he looks like an ad for sex. “The first thing I’ll do is close the door. And
lock
it. There is a frightened, panicked female lose in the building,
and I don’t want her coming back into this apartment.”

“Unpredictable people can be
scary, but so are experienced people to the beginner.”

He tilts his head back. “I
understand now. What I want to do is explore. I want to explore your body, I
want to explore what turns you on, and I want to explore what makes your eyes
roll back in your head. I want to know what makes you whimper, what makes you
moan, and what makes you shout my name. I’m not a rapist. You can say no to me.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to turn it into an ‘oh no,’ which means
something else entirely.”

“You’re very persuasive.”

“I must be. I’ve turned
myself on. Invite me in.”

Despite every nagging doubt
and fear, I hold out my hand. “Won’t you come in, Jackson?”

He slowly enters the
apartment, shuts the door, and locks it. He is a man of his word, but I wish he
would hurry. He grabs my arms and pulls me into his embrace.

“I want you. All of you. But
I know that is going to involve trust. So let me be very clear. There is no one
else. And for as long as we are together, there will be no one else. For either
of us. Do you understand?”

I nod my head. There is an
intensity in his eyes that almost distracts me from the hands working the
zipper on the back of my dress.

He brushes his lips against
my cheek. “I’m not interested in casual sex. There is nothing casual about what
is going to happen tonight. We are going to get to know each other very well.”

His mouth is on mine and I
respond with all the pent-up passion he has been awakening in me. I need to
feel him. I can’t stop myself from leaning into his kiss, into his arms, into
his seduction. His hands pull on my dress, and then suddenly stop.

He steps back and holds his
hand out. “Take me to your bedroom.”

He wants me to be sure. He
wants me to lead him. My choice. I’m so conflicted about this moment. Saying
yes may be a regret. But I know not saying it
will
be a regret. I take
his hand and the look in his eyes…is it relief? Is he as unsure of how I will
react as I am?

I lead him to the bedroom. This
is the awkward part, but it’s best to get it over with. I reach into my
nightstand and pull out a box.

“I don’t know if you came prepared…but
I do have some—”

“A
box
of condoms? No
wonder you wanted to get to bed early.”

“There’s only six in there.”

“
Only
six? I’m feeling
pressured.” He then laughs out loud. “But they did expire three years ago.”

“Condoms expire?”

That only makes him laugh
harder.

“I thought you were a
passionate woman, and now I know why. You are
starving
and I find that
an incredible turn-on.”

He pounces like an animal,
kissing me, touching me, his hands pulling at the back of my dress. “I was
going to have you strip for me. I was going to make you take off each piece of
clothing and fold it carefully.” He pulls the dress over my head. “But I need
you naked
now.
”

He unhooks my bra and stares.
“So beautiful.” Instead of touching me, he turns to the bed, pulls the
comforter off and tosses it on the floor. “On the bed, face up.”

I feel his urgency. I lie on
the bed. He spreads my legs open and kneels between them. He unbuttons his
shirt. “There are things I want to do to that beautiful body of yours. Things
that your mind says good girls don’t do.”

He takes his shirt off. His
chest is the perfect blend of muscle and hair. I know I should be listening to
what he is saying. I know it’s important, but he’s so damn handsome. His broad
shoulders and chest taper down to a muscular waist. There is a thin line of
hair below his navel that slips down behind the zipper of his pants.

“Do you have a safe word?”

His words bring my attention
back to his face. “Do I need one?”

“I like them for role play. Maybe
you’d like me to be a dangerous man who’s doing terrible, wonderful things to you.
Then you’ll have the freedom to beg me to stop…and not have to worry I will. The
poor little victim who’s trapped in the clutches of a man determined to have her.”

I hate the word victim. I
have fought all my life against being one. So why does it sound so intriguing
when he says it?

“So, what shall we use for
our safe word?” he whispers.

“The only ones I know are
yellow and red.”

“Little Jillian Whitkins. Everything
she knows about kinky sex she read in a book. No one ever stops to think how
you use a safe word when there’s a gag in your mouth.”

My eyes must have flashed a
panicked look, because the sexual smirk crosses his face. “No, Jillian. No gags
tonight. I’m not going to gag you, or bind you, or blindfold you. Tonight, we’re
just going to play with our bodies, and our dirty little minds. But if we’re
going with the traffic light example, let’s add green. Anytime I’m doing
something you like and you want more of—say green.” In a flash, I hear a rip
and my panties are yanked off me. I’m exposed, possessed, and turned on.

“I like ripping clothing. And
the color in your cheeks tells me you don’t mind when I do it.”

“That’s why you have all
those little black dresses.”

“Some women are very particular
about their wardrobe. I’ll replace anything I ruin, but I suggest you wear things
around me you won’t mind losing.”

I think about my closet and
imagine him ripping through it, until he slaps me on my thigh.

“I can always tell when you
start thinking. It’s like you’re somewhere else. Are you trying to figure me
out in that busy little mind of yours? I’m giving you all my attention right
now, and I need all of yours. That will be your first lesson.”

“Lesson?”

He slips off the bed, and I
sit up. “I didn’t tell you to move. Lie down!” I lie back down, and he moves
his body out of my eyeline. I hear his zipper open and then the sound of his
pants hitting the floor.

“When we are having a scene,
thinking is bad and feeling is good.” The overhead light blazes to life and
blinds me. I hear him move furniture around.

“Look to your left.”

I turn my head and see his
handiwork. He has taken the full-length mirror off the back of the door and
placed it horizontally on a chair near the bed. I see my naked reflection for a
second before his hands land above my shoulders. He hovers over me on all fours,
his knees between my legs, keeping them spread. I turn my head to look at his
face.

“I usually like my mirrors on
the ceiling, but something about this is turning me on. Look in the mirror. Look
at my eyes—in the mirror.”

I turn back to the mirror. His
gaze is locked on me. I look down the mirror to take in his body.

“My eyes. Keep your focus on
my eyes in the mirror.”

His gaze is so intense. It’s
almost like another person. A person who only exists in the mirror.

“This is how we’re going to
play. I want you to take your arms and raise them over your head. Grab hold of
the rods in the headboard.” I do as he says. “Good girl. Now keep them there. You
will not let go. You will not close your legs. You will not close your eyes or
look away from the mirror. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Is that the right
answer?

“You’re thinking. Thinking is
bad. What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know if I’m supposed
to say ‘yes, sir.’”

“I’ll tell you what I want. You
don’t have to think—you just have to be honest. There is no punishment here. There
is only the first lesson. And now, one more thing—I don’t want you making any
noise. You may answer if I ask you a question, but no other sounds. If you make
a sound, I stop—and you won’t want me to stop.”

He nibbles on my ear. He’s so
close, hovering over me. I can feel the heat radiate off his body, but I can’t
touch him. He trails his tongue down my neck and I shiver. I never knew that
was an erogenous zone, and I enjoy the sensation.

“Open your eyes, Jillian.”

My eyes fly open. When did I
close them?

“What did I tell you?”

“Keep my eyes open.”

“And?”

“Don’t look away from the
mirror.”

“And?”

“Don’t let go of the
headboard. And keep my legs open. And don’t make a sound.” My mind races. What
else? “Don’t think.”

“And?”

What else did he tell me? Isn’t
that everything?

“I want you to always be
honest,” he gently reminds me.

Well, if I was honest, I’d
tell him this is a lot harder than it looks.

His mouth descends on my left
nipple. He suckles it, and I want to close my eyes and moan, but I clamp those
reactions down tight. I look at my face in the mirror and almost burst out
laughing—I look like one of those roller coaster photographs where they catch
you in mid-scream. At that moment, his teeth capture my nipple and I make a
sound I couldn’t repeat if my life depended on it. Jackson stops and turns his
head toward the mirror.

“Why did I stop?”

“Because I made a sound,” I
manage in a strangled voice.

“And haven’t we discussed
this, Jillian? What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Answer the
question. What were you thinking? Be honest.”

“I wasn’t making any sounds
and I wasn’t moving anything and I was looking in the mirror and it felt
wonderful but my face was so tense I thought it looked funny and I was about to
laugh when you bit down on my nipple and I lost control.”

“You didn’t lose control. You
let go of it. You have it back now, don’t you?”