“I want to know something,” he finally says.
“Of course.” I expect him to ask me about the budget. Or timing. Or the construction firms we routinely work with. Anything but the words that come out of his mouth.
“I want to know why you ended it.”
My chest tightens and I have to resist the urge to hug myself. I can feel the anxiety reaching for me even now, along with the nightmares and twisted memories that slink along, too. Slithering out of the night to fill my days. I shake my head, determined to keep it all banished, far and away. “It doesn’t matter.”
He turns from the window, his face a wild mixture of anger and hurt. “The hell it doesn’t.”
“My reasons are my own, Jackson.” I can hear the panic creeping into my voice, and I fear that he can as well. Deliberately, I take slow, even breaths. I want to calm myself. And, damn me, I want to soothe him.
I want to ease the hurt that I caused, but that’s impossible, because I can’t answer his question.
“Why?” he asks again, only now there’s a gentleness in his voice that unnerves me.
I stiffen in automatic defense, afraid I’ll melt in the face of any tenderness from this man.
“You didn’t want to end it,” Jackson continues. “Even now, you want it.”
“You have no idea what I want,” I say sharply, though that is a lie as well.
“Don’t I?” There is anger in his voice. Hurt, too. “I know you want the resort.”
I’ve been looking at the tabletop, and now I lift my head. “Yes.” The word is simple. It may be the first completely true thing I’ve said to him since Atlanta. “Will you take it? You and I both know it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Are you really going to let our past stand in the way of what can be a truly magnificent achievement?”
I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a breath. Then he turns away from me to look out the window once again. “I want the project, Sylvia.”
Relief sweeps over me, and I have to physically press my hands to the table to forestall the urge to leap to my feet and embrace him.
“But I want you, too.” He turns as he speaks, and when he faces me straight on, there is no denying the truth—or the longing—in his eyes.
I swallow as what feels like a swarm of electric butterflies dances over my skin, making the tiny hairs stand up. And making me aware of everything from the solidity of the floor beneath my feet to the breath of air from a vent across the room.
I force myself to remain seated. Because damn me, my instinct is to go to him and slide into his arms. “I—I don’t understand.” The lie lingers in the air, and I am proud of the way I kept my voice from shaking.
“Then let me be perfectly clear.” He closes the distance between us, then uses his forefinger to tilt my head up so that he is looking deep into my eyes. I shift, not only because the contact sends a jolt of electricity right through me, but because I’m afraid that if he looks too deeply into my eyes, he will see a truth I want to keep hidden.
“No,” he says. “Look at me, Sylvia. Because I’m not going to say this again. I told you once that I’m a man who goes after what he wants, and I want you in my bed. I want to feel you naked and hot beneath me. I want to hear you cry out when you come, and I want to know that I am the man who took you there.”
My eyes are burning, and I shake my head, as if by simply wishing it to be so, this will all go away.
“I want you, Sylvia. And I will have you.”
“Jackson, please.”
“And you want me, Sylvia. You can deny it, but we both know that you’d be lying.”
“I do want you,” I say, clinging tight to that fragment of truth as I try to turn this to my advantage. “But there is the man and there is the architect. I—I can’t be with the man. But I desperately need the architect.”
“Package deal, princess,” he says, the endearment making me cringe. “You want me on the project, I want you in my bed.”
“Dammit, Jackson,” I say as anxiety creeps through me, its cold fingers banishing the heat. For once, I do not try to force it back, because right now I can use it. “You’re being ridiculous. I mean, who does that?”
“Apparently, I do.” He is level and cool and just arrogant enough to piss me off. I’m grateful—I’d much rather be pissed than unsettled. Or, worse, aroused.
“Is this about revenge?” I demand. “Because it seems like it.”
His lips curve as if in consideration. “Maybe it is,” he says, the confession slicing through me as cleanly and coldly as a well-honed blade. “But if so, revenge never tasted so sweet.”