Jack (The Family Simon Book 2) (5 page)

She’d ridden the fame train all the way to the top, and there had been no room in her life for a relationship. Not even with a guy like Jack who would have given her everything.

So why the hell was he thinking about her in ways that would only bring him trouble?

He’d like to think it was because he hadn’t been laid in months and those long hot showers weren’t cutting it anymore, but truthfully he wasn’t so sure. Something was still awake between them, and he knew that she’d felt it. He’d seen the way her eyes widened and then got dark. Heard her breath hitch. Hell, he’d done the same. The chemistry between them was as hot as it was back in the day.

And now he was stuck here with her. Pretty fucking inconvenient.

“Damn,” he muttered leaning his hip against the railing, eyes now fixed on the French doors that opened onto the porch. He stared at them for so long that they blurred and as the rain continued to fall, he closed his eyes.

It had been raining the first night he’d ever laid eyes on Donovan.

In Nashville with his brother Teague who was home from assignment in Afghanistan, the two men planned on catching up and watching their cousin Maverick perform at a place just off the strip. Rick, as they called him, was a talented musician, and it would be good night.

They’d headed out around eight and by nine, the rain had started. Jack inhaled deeply, his mind wandering.

“Man, they grow them nice in this neck of the woods,” Teague said, eyeing the blonde who’d just walked into Bobby’s Idle Hour Tavern.

Jack turned to follow his cousin’s gaze, ‘cause hell, Teague rarely commented on women. Wasn’t his style. He was the quiet, observant twin to the more outgoing Tucker. But as Jack’s eyes locked onto the blonde in question, he wasn’t surprised.

She was something else, all right.

She was talking to a girlfriend, so he couldn’t get a handle on her face, but the packaging was mighty fine. She wore a plain, white cotton dress that was cut a little low on top and—Jack stood a bit taller—cut a little short on the bottom.

Nice.

The brunette standing next to him at the bar snorted. “Are you kidding me? She’s like some hick from Arkansas who thinks she can sing. Truth is, the only reason she’s allowed on stage is because she’s banging the guy who books the talent.”

Irritated, Jack ignored the woman’s comment. Why did some women feel the need to knock others down? Did they think guys thought it was an attractive trait?

Just then the blonde’s eyes met his, and Jack felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He was hot and then cold and everything seemed so much louder, more intense…alive. With just one look he got all of that.

She was young, fresh, and—a slow gentle smile curved her generous mouth—she wasn’t looking away.

Jack set his beer on the bar and slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Sorry, Teague. This one’s mine.”

“Yeah,” Teague said with a grin. “I see that.”

The brunette, Pam or Patti or something like that, grabbed Jack’s arm and gave it a tug. “What is that girl’s appeal? I don’t get it. Every guy in here becomes a puddle of goop when she’s around. Give her another few years in the business, and she’ll look no different than the rest of them.”

Jack looked at the woman. How in hell had he spent the last half an hour entertaining the thought of getting her back to his hotel?

He pushed away from the bar without another word, shoving his way through the thick crowd, eyes back on the mystery girl. Liking the fact that her eyes were still on him.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of her that he noticed a beat up guitar case in her hand. A host of stickers covered the thing, and if he was to believe the case, it looked as if she’d been all over the United States.

Her friend whispered something into her ear and slipped away, leaving Jack staring at the hottest woman he’d ever had the occasion to look at. She was sex and cotton candy all rolled into one delectable treat, and he swallowed hard.

His physical reaction was immediate.

“Do I get to hear you play?” he managed to say without sounding like a complete idiot.

She was silent for a few moments, and he noticed raindrops clinging to her hair. He inhaled sharply, liking the fresh smell of a hot, humid, Tennessee evening.

“That depends,” she said softly.

Shit. Her voice was low and husky, full of smoke and whiskey. And Christ, the mole beside her mouth was sexy as hell.

“On what?”

“On how long you’re staying.”

He leaned in closer. “I’m here all night.”

Freckles danced across her nose, and Jack fought the urge to bend even lower and swipe his tongue along the bridge. Just thinking about that got him to thinking about other things, other small and dark places he’d love to touch and smell and taste.

He had to take a moment, because his jeans were gonna get mighty uncomfortable unless he got his shit together.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Jack.”

“Just Jack?”

He hesitated, knowing that a lot of folks would put two and two together and realize exactly who he was. “Simon,” he said roughly.

Her finely shaped eyebrows furrowed, and her face broke wide open in a grin that left him feeling even more enamored than he already was.

“You’re related to Maverick?”

Busted. “Cousin.”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about you Simon boys.”

“Huh,” he murmured, watching a slow blush creep up her cheeks. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“You should be,” she said slowly, as if savoring every word. “Cause none of it was good.” She glanced behind him and waved at someone. “Nice to meet you Jack, but I have to go.”

Before he could ask her what her name was, she was sliding by him, her hand lingering a few seconds on his arm. That piece of skin felt as if she’d branded him, and it took another five minutes before she took the stage with his cousin for him to learn her name.

Donovan James.

It was insane. But in his mind, she was already Donnie.

And she was already his.

Jack shook off the memories, his T-shirt totally soaked, his hair plastered to his head. Thunder rolled across the sky now accompanied by lightening. Looked like the storm wasn’t letting up anytime soon.

He eyed the door once more.

With a sigh, he scooped up his gear and went inside, expecting a flood of angry words thrown his way. Instead, he was greeted by a backside he knew better than his own, barely covered by a lime green bikini.

Donovan was bent over, her foot propped up on a chair, and she hissed in pain as she tried to clean the bottom of her foot.

“What are you staring at?” she muttered, inhaling a big gulp of air as she twisted to the side, angling for a better way to get the job done.

“Your ass.”

“Wow. Some things never change.”

“Just being honest.”

“Well stop staring at my ass, Mister I’m-going-to-be-a-senator. Not real appropriate for someone in your position.”

“What? Senators can’t enjoy looking at a nice piece of ass?”

“Not mine,” she replied.

“Not yet.”

“What?”

Jake tossed his bag and moved toward her, slicking wet hair from his eyes. “I’m not a senator until November.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“I’m a Simon. Comes with the territory.”

She snorted and muttered, “Yeah.” And then whimpered. “Ouch.”

“Can I help?” He wasn’t expecting a resounding
hell yes
, but it was pretty obvious the cut was bad, and she doing a poor job of cleaning it.

“Nope. You’ve done enough.”

“What the hell did I do?” he asked, irritated with her attitude.

“I wouldn’t have cut my foot if you hadn’t shown up.”

“I’d like to know how you came to that conclusion.”

She whipped her head back but never got a chance to ream him out, because her good foot slipped along the floor and the chair she was leaning over began to topple.

Jack grabbed her before that round butt of hers landed on the floor, and he righted the chair before that followed her down. For a few moments her soft curves were flush against his body, and Jack took his time before he set her down, butt on the chair.

She covered her breasts even though her top covered what needed to be covered (barely), and Jack’s mouth thinned. “I’ve seen them darlin’. Trust me, I’m not interested.”

Lies. They seemed to be coming easier these days. Christ, he’d make the perfect politician after all.

He was off kilter and didn’t like it one bit. “Give me your damn foot,” he said gruffly.

“I can do it. You don’t—”

But Jack was done playing games. Done with the back and forth.

“Give me your damn foot so I can finish cleaning it and get it bandaged. Okay? Enough of the attitude. I’m tired, and I need a beer. But before I can help myself to a nice cold one, I’m going to clean and bandage your foot because if I don’t, it will get infected. And I sure as hell don’t want to play nursemaid for the next three days.”

He thought she was going to argue with him, and on some level maybe he was looking forward to that, but a few seconds ticked by and then she lifted her foot.

“Fine,” she said, voice low. “It’s the least you can do.”

“How’s that?” he said, eyebrow raised as he reached for her.

“Like I said earlier. It’s all your fault anyway.”

Jack reached for the antiseptic. “That’s something that hasn’t changed.”

“What’s that exactly?” Her voice was all sugar, and he gritted his teeth, ignoring the hiss of pain when he applied the burning liquid. He glanced up, noting how dark her eyes had gotten. “You still like to get the last word in.”

A heartbeat passed.

“I’d have to agree with you on that point.”

He concentrated on getting her foot cleaned and bandaged but had to wonder about all the other things that were still the same. And maybe a few that had changed.

And then his mood darkened, because really, what was the point in wondering about something he would never know?

If Donovan was an actress, she’d be up for an Oscar because she’d just given the performance of a lifetime. Hell, Julia Roberts had nothing on her.

She’d let Jack put his hands on her. PUT HIS HANDS ON HER. And she hadn’t given anything away.

Like the fact that inside her body was screaming. Inside, she was a massive ball of goo, all limp and hot and needy. Inside, the ache that had been dormant for so long was now a raging fire, inching across her skin leaving goose bumps in its wake.

She’d kept her eyes glued to the floor as his large hand enveloped her foot and was proud of the fact that she didn’t tremble and the whimper caught in her throat, stayed there, hidden like a secret.

Jack held her gently, cleaning the bottom of her heel and arch with precision and then bandaging it up like a pro. When he was done, he’d leaned back on his haunches, his dark eyes trained on her for a few seconds as if waiting for her to say something.

But there was nothing. Her throat was still tight, and she needed more time.

Carefully he got to his feet, standing above her, and as always, she felt small and vulnerable.

“Thanks,” she managed to say.

“No problem.”

He moved away from her, and she couldn’t help it, with his focus on the house, she drank him in like a tall glass of cold water. His hair, still wet from the rain, curled in the humidity, giving a boyish look to features that were wholly masculine. He hadn’t shaved in a few days—what was it about that look that drove her crazy? And with a dry mouth, she wandered lower.

His T-shirt was wet and clung to a body that looked like it belonged to an athlete, not a politician. Jack had grown up on the water, was an active boater, water skier, and as with all the Simon boys, he enjoyed sports to the extreme. She knew he was a hell of a football player, dabbled in hockey, and that he probably could have pursued baseball like his brother Beau.

His cargoes were slung low, weighed down from the rain and when he ran his hands across his head, she caught a glimpse of flat, golden skin and a dusting of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband.

His long legs were runner’s legs, muscular without being overly bulky, and they were as delicious as the rest of him.

“I’m gonna grab that beer now,” he said turning to her just as she dropped her eyes to the floor once more. There was a finality to his voice. An acceptance of the way it was going to be.

For a moment, Donovan didn’t know what to say. Three days with Jack Simon? Was it even possible for her to survive that? Did she have a choice?

“Okay,” she finally said. “You can take the bedroom on the left and if we both ignore each other, I’m sure we can get through this.”

That had been nearly twelve hours ago, and she hadn’t seen him since she’d hobbled past him and disappeared into her own room. The one right across the hall from Jack.

Donovan pushed her large Gucci sunglasses up a bit and grabbed the book she’d brought down to the beach. It was another gorgeous day and the breeze across the sea lifted little white caps on the turquoise water. Seagulls flew overhead, and the wind in the palm trees that lined the beach was like a whisper in her ear. It was a little slice of heaven, even though at the moment, it felt more like hell.

Donovan wished she was anywhere but here.

She was grumpy because she’d hardly slept and though she’d like to blame that on the state of her foot, she knew it was a lie. Hello. Jack was right across the goddamn hall!

And dammit, she was hungry. Up early, she was about to forage for chocolate and chips (considering the circumstance, was it any wonder it was all she wanted?) but when she heard movement from Jack’s room, Donovan grabbed her book, towel and sunscreen and left the guest house in under ten seconds.