Chapter 43 Scarlett
SCARLETT
“Other jobs? Really?” Jace slapped a file down on his desk with enough force to make his Montblanc pen roll across the polished mahogany.
He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his custom Tom Ford suit jacket pulling just enough across his broad shoulders to remind me why I should be looking at his face instead of the delicious curves to his muscles.
“How did you find out?” I kept my voice measured, professional, even as my pulse quickened under his scrutiny.
“Chicago is a very small city,” Jace said, his green eyes flickering with something dangerous while a muscle twitched in his jaw.
The way he looked at me—like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve—sent an unwelcome flash of heat down my spine.
The air-conditioning hummed quietly in the background, but it did nothing to cool the tension between us.
I didn’t appreciate being summoned like this just to get an attitude.
I had enough on my mind. Namely, Marcus’s vague-ass threat that he could hurt Jace.
“What did you expect after the conference-room showdown?” I challenged, adjusting the cuff of my blouse, acutely aware of how his gaze tracked the movement of my fingers. “A thank-you note and a fruit basket?”
“Tell me his name,” Jace said, his voice dropping to that quiet, menacing tone that somehow managed to be both threatening and inappropriately arousing, “and he’ll be gone within the hour.”
No, he won’t.
Because as far as I could tell, I had two scenarios in front of me.
Door number one: Jace would have to pick between me and a longtime friend.
And he would most likely pick his longtime friend every day of the week, making him vulnerable to the wolf in sheep’s clothing that Marcus was to Jace.
The guy was a trusted adviser and close friend, and I had to figure out how to do this in a way that wouldn’t put Jace in a precarious position.
Door number two: Marcus wasn’t bluffing, and he would pull the trigger on that dirt he claimed to have on Jace.
My plan, the one I’d told Tessa about, was the only one that would work. The only way Jace would be left with no doubt that Marcus was not only my harasser, but he was also a threat to Jace himself, was if I could capture Marcus saying it.
“If you have any other questions for me, I’ll be in my office.” I pivoted and started to walk away, wondering if his eyes followed the sway of my hips.
“You will have dinner with me tonight,” he declared in a firm, controlled tone, making me stop in my tracks. It wasn’t a request. Not even close.
I turned slowly, one eyebrow arched with precision. “That wasn’t a question, Mr. Lockwood. Perhaps we should revisit the corporate handbook section on workplace communication.”
“A work dinner,” he claimed, walking around his desk with the grace of someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.
His cologne drifted into my space as he approached, triggering memories of how that scent had clung to my skin after we’d sweated in that meadow, doing a very non-meadowy thing. “Strictly professional.”
“Anything you would like to discuss, we could do so here,” I countered, gesturing to the perfectly adequate conference table in his office.
Which was for sure not reminding me of the one he’d lain naked on, sucking on my sex until I shattered on his face.
I adjusted my legs, hoping he didn’t sense the flash of heat shooting through them. “Where there are witnesses.”
“Please.” His voice softened unexpectedly, and for a split second, I caught a glimpse of something vulnerable behind that billionaire armor. His fingers twitched at his side, as if fighting the urge to reach for me. “Have dinner with me. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“If this is about getting a name out of me …” I narrowed my eyes.
“No name.”
Jace held up his palms in surrender, the gesture drawing my attention to his hands. Hands I knew were equally skilled at closing business deals and unraveling my composure. Those fingers—my Lord, what they could do to my—
“It’s about something else, I promise.”
Then what? What could it be? And why did his eyes look … borderline sparkly? If it wasn’t about us (was there even an us?) and it wasn’t a new tactic to extract information from me, what else could possibly warrant this dinner routine? My curiosity was officially piqued.
Dammit.
“Seven o’clock. Le Bernardin.” He moved closer, close enough that I could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw despite his morning shave. Stubble that had left the inside of my thighs deliciously raw. “I promise to be on my best behavior.”
“Your best behavior probably makes the Wall Street Journal’s gossip column,” I pointed out, fighting the urge to step back—or worse, forward. “And I prefer establishments where the menu actually lists the prices.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, the same lips that had mapped every inch of my body. “Fine. You pick the place.”
“I pick the place; we split the bill,” I countered, chin raised, my breath catching slightly when his gaze dropped to my mouth.
“The bill will be paid for by the company,” he challenged. “It’s a work dinner. Splitting the bill implies it’s personal.”
Mental note: Next time, bring better arguments to a verbal sparring match with a man who negotiates billion-dollar deals before breakfast.
“But I admire your defiance all the same,” he added, having the nerve to smirk and look sexy as hell, doing it, the heat in his eyes making it clear he was remembering exactly how that defiance had played out between us in private.
“Seven thirty. Rosebud on Taylor.” I took a step back, reclaiming my personal space before I did something ill-advised, like remember how his mouth tasted. “And this had better be worth sacrificing my evening of true crime documentaries and takeout.”
“It will be.” The confidence in his voice was infuriating.
And it had me all sorts of curious …
I bit my lip, failing to tame a smile as I exited his office. Funny how just last night, I’d felt so heavy, and now I felt so light. Excited even to spend the evening with Jace.
Hopefully, I’d be armed with some damn evidence against Marcus by then.