“And what is history but a memory, and usually a false one at that? What’s that saying? That history is written by the victor? Write your own history, Sylvia. And when you do, make yourself the hero.”
I don’t answer, because I’m not sure I want to talk about it, much less think about it.
Instead, I deflect by reaching up to trace my finger across the scar that runs from his brow to his hairline. I’d noticed it at the premiere, and had yet to ask him about it. Now that he’s mentioned his fights, I can’t help but wonder what flash of anger translated into this injury.
“When?” I say nothing more. I know he will understand my question.
“About twelve hours after you told me to walk away.”
I only nod, not trusting myself to speak as my fingers drift down to gently touch his cheek. “This one is new.”
“After I met your friend Louis,” he says, confirming what I already suspected.
“Does the other guy look worse?”
“I assure you, he does.”
I meet his eyes. “Maybe you need help, too. You can’t just go on beating people up.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I promise you I’m not accosting random tourists on the street. I belong to a gym. There’s a boxing club. And no, I’m not talking about the kind of gym that has a smoothie bar and twenty-eight elliptical machines. Heavy bags, speed bags, free weights.”
He strokes my cheek. “I’m doing just fine.”
I picture the kind of dirty, grimy gym you see in so many movies, where guys are getting their faces smashed in. It’s not a picture I like. I lift my hand to cover his so that I feel the warmth of his skin on my face. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Oh, baby. They can’t hurt me. Don’t you know that you’re the only one who’s ever managed to tear me to shreds?”
fifteen
I wake with a jolt, my heart pounding in defense against the lingering clutch of fear.
I reach out, groping for Jackson, and as I do, I realize that it is not the cold fingers of a nightmare that cling to me, but the fear that Jackson has left.
“Now there’s a lovely picture,” he says, and his voice sends unexpected waves of relief coursing through me.
He hasn’t left—and I didn’t have a nightmare.
Thank god, thank god, thank god.
I realize that I’ve been lying stretched across the bed, my hip and thigh uncovered. I sit up, pulling the sheet over my breasts for modesty, which is ridiculous considering how thoroughly he explored every inch of me. I lean against the headboard and sigh in pleasure as I watch him move toward me, barefoot and shirtless in only his jeans, the top button open to reveal just a hint of the hair that arrows down toward a very enticing bulge.
I’m enjoying the view so much that a full second passes before I realize that he’s holding out a cup of coffee. I take it gratefully, then smile when I realize there’s already cream in it. “You remembered.”
“I remember a lot of things.” He gestures for me to slide over, then gets in beside me when I do. “For one thing, I remember that we’re supposed to be at your boss’s house in two hours, and it’s a half-hour drive with no traffic. Which means that it’s always an hour drive.”
“We didn’t get much sleep.”
“And yet I feel surprisingly energized,” he says, then brushes his hand over my hair.
I sigh and lean against him, amazed at how quickly things have shifted between us. This feels like it did in Atlanta. It feels like we fit. And even though I’m still scared, this time I don’t want to run. Instead, I want to cling tighter.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he says.
“You came after me last night. When I took off for Mulholland, I mean. But you didn’t come after me in Atlanta.”
“That was different. You told me to leave, you didn’t run out. And you made me promise.”
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
“Did you want me to break my word?”
“No—I couldn’t have handled it.”
“But?”
I shake my head, both amazed and a little irritated at how easily he reads me.
“But you wish that I had anyway, just so that you would have known that I cared?” His words hang soft and fragile between us.
“It’s stupid, I know.” But I cannot deny that it’s true.
“I would have,” he says, moving away from me to stand up. He moves to the far wall and the window that now glows with the light of morning. “The truth is that back then I would have said fuck the promise and gone after you.” He turns to face me. “But you’d gone to him.”
“Dammit, Jackson. I was never with Damien that way. If you don’t believe me—”
“I do. You told me earlier, and I do. I believe you. But back then I thought otherwise.”
I consider what he says as I slide out of the bed and walk naked to him. “Was that why you said no? To the resort here and in the Bahamas? You thought I was Damien’s mistress or something?”
“Partly, but there was more to it than that.”
“The land deals.”
He cocks his head. “Let’s just say that outside of the context of the Cortez resort, Stark and I are at cross-purposes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know what? It doesn’t matter.” He lets his gaze drift slowly over me, so that the heat from his inspection seems to touch every part of my body, firing every molecule and making me forget just what the hell we were talking about, anyway. “I’m about to invite you into the shower with me. Which means that the last thing I want to be discussing is Damien Stark.”
“Oh,” I say, sliding into his arms. “You have a very good point.”
He’d turned on the shower before he made the coffee, and when we go into my bathroom, it’s already warm and cozy and steamy, just the way I like it.
Jackson strips off his jeans and I follow him in, then press close as his arms go around me, letting the sluice of water drench my hair and run over my face and body. I imagine it’s washing away the past, leaving open the way for a future with this man.
I tilt my head back and close my eyes, and that is when I feel his lips brush mine.
“No time, remember?”
“I’ll be fast,” he says, then captures my mouth with his even as one of his hands slides down to stroke my sex.
I’m wet and ready, and all I can manage is a simple word, “yes.”
His hands close over my breasts as he moves me back so that I am pressed against the tile. Then he lifts one of my legs so that my calf is over his hip, and I am open to him. I do not want to wait. I reach for him, then stroke my hand down the length of his erection, taking satisfaction in the way his expression goes hard, as if he’s on the edge of something spectacular. Because he is—and because I am the one who is taking him there.
“Now,” I say, urging him closer, demanding he fill me, then crying out in surprise and pleasure when he finds my core and thrusts inside me.
“Faster, Jackson. Harder.” I am crazed with need of him, and when he holds on to my ass so that he can thrust more deeply, I hook my other leg around him, then gasp again and again as with each thrust I am slammed up against the warm tile wall.
Until finally, I feel his body tighten and he explodes inside me, and it is my name that I hear on his lips.