I look up, ignoring the sudden tightness in my chest, and search the surrounding faces for him. Except he’s not there, and now my chest tightens even more, this time with disappointment.
I take another step as I slide my phone back into my tiny red purse.
And that’s when I see him.
He’s descending the stairs, his attention focused on the distinguished-looking man beside him. He is clean-shaven and elegant in a collarless black jacket over a white cotton pullover. I had expected a tux, but can’t deny that this is a much better choice. He looks dark and sexy and unpredictable. More, he looks important. The kind of man who can say “fuck you” to convention, and have everyone scrambling to keep up with him.
This is the man who lives in my memories. Those crystalline blue eyes. That wide, gorgeous mouth. The thick brows and sculpted features.
He descends two more steps, then turns slightly away from his companion. As he does, I realize that he isn’t entirely as I remember him. Now there is a scar that intersects his left eyebrow, then arcs across his forehead to his hairline. It wasn’t there in Atlanta, but it’s well-healed, and must be several years old.
The scar does nothing to mar the sensuality of this man who so undeniably commands the room. Instead, that single flaw adds to his mystique, giving him a dangerous and mysterious edge. Even so, I know that there must be pain beneath it, and my fingers itch to touch it, to trace the path of it. To hold and soothe and comfort against whatever evil had the gumption to scar that incredible face.
But that is no longer my right, and that reality is pounded home as I glance around and realize that every woman in the vicinity is looking at him, just as I am. I close my hand into a fist, feeling suddenly proprietary, even though I have no claim on this man anymore. I gave that up. Sacrificed him to save myself.
A wave of melancholy crashes over me, and I tell myself to stop it, stop it, stop it.
I did the right thing, I am certain of it. And it doesn’t matter anyway. The past is over, goddammit. I need to just suck it up and move on, just like I’ve been doing for my whole screwed-up life.
I take a deep breath, then another, as I force myself to get my shit together. I’m a businesswoman with a lucrative proposition. I’m not a starry-eyed girl getting weak-kneed around the ultra-sexy man of the hour.
I can do this. I can approach him, greet him, tell him that I’m not going to accept a brush-off. That it’s been five years, we’re both grown-ups, and he’s just going to have to listen to me.
Straightforward. Direct. To the point.
Right. I can manage. No problem at all.
I take a step toward him, then another.
I straighten my shoulders and put on the professional smile that I have honed over five years of working for the CEO of Stark International.
I keep my eyes on Jackson as I move toward the staircase, taking a path designed to intercept him as he reaches the ballroom floor.
He doesn’t see me—he is completely focused on the man beside him. I cannot hear their conversation, but Jackson’s hands move as he talks, and I know that they are discussing architecture. I smile with affection, remembering the way he would outline a skyscraper in the air and the way his fingers would dance as he considered facades and footprints, purpose and plan.
His companion says something, and Jackson laughs, his wide, sensual mouth curving into a smile that freezes in place as he casually scans the crowd—and then finds me.
A wild heat burns across his expression, but is banked so quickly that I almost think I imagined it. Now when I look, I see only a blank stoicism. And yet there remains an intensity to him, the illusion of motion even though he has stopped dead still on the staircase.
His eyes are locked on mine, and I stand motionless as well, unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.
“Jackson,” I say, but I am not sure if I have spoken aloud or if his name has simply filled me, as essential as oxygen.
We hold like that, time ticking by, the world around us frozen. Neither of us move, and yet I feel as though I am spinning through space and hurtling toward him. The illusion terrifies me, because right then I know two things—I want desperately to be in his arms again, and I am absolutely terrified of the collision.
And then, suddenly, the world clicks back into motion. His eyes hold mine for a split second longer, and in those few brief moments before he turns away, I see the flash of cold, hard anger. But there’s something else, too. Something that looks like regret thawing under the ice.
I realize that my limbs will function again, and take a step toward him, knowing that this is my chance. For the project—and for something deeper that I do not want to think about because opening that door scares me too much.
But it doesn’t matter. Not my fear, not the project.
Because Jackson doesn’t look at me again.
Instead, he strides right by me, never looking back, never even slowing. And I am left to watch him pass, as anonymous as all the other women who stand there and look after him with longing.
three
What the hell had I been thinking?
The man had flatly declined a meeting with me. Had I really believed that once he saw me in person everything would change? That he would rush over, take my hands, and ask me how he could help?
I didn’t believe that, no. But damn me, I’d hoped it.
It had seemed so simple in theory. Not easy—nothing about seeing Jackson again is going to be easy—but by the numbers. I could do it, especially because I had to do it.
But I’d choked.
Instead of taking the straightforward approach—find him, talk to him—I’d frozen. Instead of moving in, I’d let him pass me by.
Shit.
I’d miscalculated everything, and whatever slim confidence I’ve been clinging to has been thoroughly and dramatically shattered.
I see Cass across the room laughing with a woman in a short, tight dress and sun-streaked blond hair. She glances my way, and I see her brows lift slightly in question. Need me?
I shake my head and smile. Cass broke up with her longtime girlfriend five months ago, and has been pretty much off the market since. If she’s connecting with this woman, no way am I going to mess up her rhythm.
Besides, it’s time to bite the bullet. I came here to pitch a project, and I’m damned if I will leave without giving it a shot.
Jazzed from my mental pep talk, I start off in the direction in which he’d disappeared, only to be waylaid by the announcement that the film will begin in fifteen minutes, and guests should start making their way toward the theater.
The announcement pretty much destroys any chance of getting a spare moment with Jackson. For one thing, I’m certain he must have some sort of man-of-the-hour thing to do onstage before the film starts. For another, the crowd has become so thick that I have no choice but to be swept along with the throng.