The Sapphire Affair (Jewel #1)

“Is he here? On the Islands?”


That’s when what felt so strange hit her—she’d done most of the talking at lunch. He was asking most of the questions. She straightened her spine and sat up taller, ready to ask him questions. She didn’t want to be a conversational hog. She was digging his company and wanted to know more about him.




She was simply too good to be true. There was no way she was for real. The playful humor, the casual conversation, the gorgeous figure, the love of the outdoors—clearly, she’d been tailor-made as his kryptonite to try to trip him up on a job. He was willing to bet she was planning on setting him up, just like Rosalinda had done.

His blood burned. He wished she’d just confess. Tell him she was tailing him.

“What about you. Are you really a recovery specialist? That just doesn’t seem like you,” she said, eyeing him up and down from the other side of the table.

How could she ask questions so naturally? She seemed so sure, so at ease. He was good at reading people and seeing through their lies. But he wasn’t detecting any vibes that she was working the angles. Could she really not know who he was? Was there a chance she was simply the woman he kissed last night, and not out to trip him up on a job?

Before he knew the score, it was best to play it cool.

“Surprising, isn’t it?” he answered, keeping up the banter as he tried to figure her out. “That such a rugged specimen of man could have such a dull job,” he said, wondering briefly why he didn’t just flat-out lie about his job. He’d met other women before and had never felt inclined to serve up the full truth. He’d often keep it vague and broad, saying he worked in security. But he wasn’t giving her that line. He was coming as close as he could to the truth.

She laughed and pushed her sunglasses higher on her head. “See, Jake. I’d have pegged you as the archaeologist, like Indiana Jones. A rugged adventurer.”

She didn’t know the half of it.

“Hardly. But a man can dream,” he said, then his phone blasted its ringtone for a client. The Mission: Impossible theme. “Give me one second.”

“Of course.”

Grabbing his mobile from the table, he saw Andrew’s first name blasted across the screen. Shit. No way could he take this call now—not even to sneak out at the front of the restaurant. He couldn’t risk her hearing him. He hit “Ignore,” shrugging casually, like the call was not the damn one he’d been waiting for.

“Not your sister this time?”

“Just a client. I’ll talk to him later.” Coolly, he set his phone back down on the table.

“So, little sister gets Taylor Swift, and clients get Mission: Impossible? Cute,” she said.

“Why thank you.”

The phone buzzed, rattling on the wood. A text follow-up to the call. Jake stayed stoic. He wasn’t going to pick it up. He didn’t even glance at the phone.

“Sounds important,” she said, tipping her forehead toward the device.

He shook his head. “But then we become a society where the little screen is more important than the post–fish taco conversation, and I just can’t let that happen,” he said with a small smirk, crossing his arms.

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Well, aren’t you Mr. Manners.”

“I do my best.”

The phone shimmied once more, shaking in her direction. He remained impervious.

Steph laughed. “Just take it. It’s fine. I don’t mind,” she said, then her hand darted out and she picked up the phone to give it to him.

He took it.

But she must have spotted the screen, because she tilted her head to the side, her gaze fixing on the screen. “Why is your client sending you a photo of me?”

Fuck.

Time to improvise. He shrugged casually and flashed a lopsided grin as he tucked his phone into his pocket. “’Cause you’re—”

But she cut him off, and the word out of her mouth surprised him.





CHAPTER TWELVE


“Duke,” she hissed.

The name burned her tongue. She narrowed her eyes as she hunched away from the table. “Are you a friend of Duke’s?”

It was all she could imagine. That this was a sick new wrinkle in his smear campaign. That somehow he’d sent a friend to seduce her in some cruel fresh twist, then claim in a spate of horrid reviews that Ariel’s Island Eco-Adventure Tours was run by no Disney princess, but by some kind of slut.

OK, fine. Maybe that was a stretch. But why on earth would Jake, the man she met less than twenty-four hours ago, have a photo of her face on his phone? He hadn’t snapped any shots of her that she was aware of.

“Duke?” he asked as the waitress appeared.

“Sandy said dessert’s on her if you want it,” the waitress said, clasping her hands together as if this was the best news ever.