There was no lock on the bedroom door but she didn’t worry. Jackson would never assault her. That didn’t mean he didn’t want her. In the past, when life had threatened to become too bleak or lonely, she’d hugged the awareness of his desire to her, safe in the knowledge that nothing would ever come of it. She wasn’t that kind of woman.
And Jackson wasn’t that kind of man. His personal code was stronger than lust or passion. He wouldn’t have broken his wedding vows no matter what Bonnie had done. But now his wife was gone and he’d acknowledged the smoldering fire between them, if only with his dark eyes.
Confused by her warring emotions, Taylor started to get ready for bed and then realized she had nothing to sleep in. About to search the closet in the room, she heard a heavy tread outside her door. A curt knock followed.
Opening the door, she found Jackson holding out a white shirt. “Thought you might need this.” His voice was low and that banked fire in his gaze wasn’t apparent.
Her heart turned over. “Thanks.” Just as she took the shirt, her cell phone, which she’d dropped into the pocket of her robe, rang. Immediately, worry shot through her. “That might be Nick. Hold on.”
Unfortunately, it was her stepfather, Lance Hegerty, on the line. “Where are you, Taylor? No one’s answering at your place. Where’s my son?”
She knew he’d said the last deliberately—a cruel reminder that Nick was only her half brother. No matter that she’d raised him, in the eyes of the law she had less of a right to Nick than Lance, his biological father.
“Why are you calling? It’s late.” Her voice threatened to tremble. She crushed the shirt in her hand.
“You haven’t responded yet.”
She knew her face was losing its color. Turning her back to Jackson, she said, “I have two more weeks.” A bare fourteen days before time expired to file legal papers in opposition to his claim for sole custody.
His laugh was cruel. “We can do it easy or we can do it hard but I’ll win. Remember that and don’t forget your place, brat—you’re nothing but a rich man’s castoff. My son deserves better than a life with you.”
She hung up, hand shaking. Lance could reduce her to tears with a few well-chosen barbs, but she prided herself on never breaking down where he could see or hear her.
“Who was that?” Jackson demanded.
She could almost feel the heat of his big body against her back. The urge to tell him was overwhelming, but remnants of the fear generated by the call held her back. Jackson was a rich and powerful man, too. He might take Lance’s side. Bewildered and a little lost, she could barely think. All she knew was that she couldn’t let that monster take Nick. Suddenly, panic hit her. What if Lance took him by force? She had to call the camp and warn them!
When she turned to face Jackson, the clean, male scent of him taunted her with promises of safety. “Someone I don’t want to talk to,” she admitted, trying not to let him see the panic riding her.
“Do you want me to deal with it?”
She shook her head. “No. I think I’d like to go to sleep.” Her words were blunt, her inner resources depleted by the force of her apprehension.
Though his dark eyes narrowed, he left, his shoulders almost filling the doorway. Despite the horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, the urge to touch those shoulders made her throat dry. Big, strong Jackson seemed like the safest port in the storm of her life.
Trembling, she closed her door and immediately called Nick’s camp counselor. After waking her from a deep sleep, she made the poor woman do a bed check on her brother and then swear that she’d ensure that no one but Taylor was allowed to pick him up, during or after camp. She wanted to go get him right now, but Nick had been so excited about the camp, she couldn’t bear to cut it short.
Calmer now that she knew he was safe, she got out of the robe and into the shirt. It came almost to her knees and she had to fold back the cuffs several times before her hands poked through the sleeves. But, for some reason she didn’t want to face, it comforted her to be wearing Jackson’s shirt. She crawled into bed, craving sleep.
Instead, fear hammered at her temples, creating an excruciating headache. Whimpering in pain, she sat up, aware that her suffering was stress induced. She needed to release some of the pressure by asking for help—by asking Jackson? Out of the grip of the illogical terror that had bewildered her after the call, she knew that her fears that he’d take Lance’s side were groundless. Jackson Santorini might be dictatorial and dominating, but unlike her tormentor, he had honor.
Life had forced her to be strong, but this time there were so many burdens on her that she felt as if she would collapse. Despite that, her heart rebelled against asking Jackson. She remembered how his family ignored him, except when they needed his help. Becoming another burden chafed, but she’d do anything to protect Nick. Including asking the help of a man who made her wish for impossible things.
Afraid that her courage would desert her if she delayed, she jumped out of bed. It was only when she was standing before Jackson’s bedroom door that she remembered her only clothing was his shirt. Her knuckles had hit the wood by then and it was too late. The door swung open before she could retreat. Jackson stood in front of her, wearing a pair of white boxer shorts.
Captivated by the view, she lost her train of thought. His thickly muscled wall of a chest, covered with a sprinkling of black hair, was only the start. Ropes of muscle ran across his shoulders and arms, and his abdomen was ridged in a way that told her he carried no excess flesh. His thighs looked like tree trunks. She’d been right—the man was muscled everywhere.
He shifted and she jerked her head up, aware that she’d been staring. But, how could any red-blooded woman resist indulging herself with such a prime example of masculinity? Especially a woman who’d been shown time and time again that this masculine power would never be turned against her. She expected to see amusement in those dark eyes, but something else awaited her.
Desire.
Hot, rippling desire.
Scorching desire.
She was familiar with desire—Jackson inspired dreams of such erotic power they left her drenched in sweat. But she was even more familiar with desire in men’s eyes. After she’d turned fourteen, her mother’s boyfriends had looked at her with eyes hot with wanting. Then there had been that…she didn’t like to think about that much. It still made her feel dirty and used.
“Cara.” Jackson’s husky whisper sent shivers racing through her, but she couldn’t move away.
He tipped up her face with a finger under her chin and then bent down to press his lips gently against hers. Instinctive defense mechanisms kicked into place and she stood still, not fighting but not responding either. Frustration gnawed at her stomach as she realized that despite her age and knowledge of Jackson, childhood terrors still had a stranglehold over her.
He broke the kiss. “My apologies. I did not realize that you did not accept my kiss.”
So formal, she thought, so icy, when his lips had been warm and soft. She felt suddenly bereft but knew it was her own fault—the fruit of cowardice. “I accepted.”
He braced his right hand on the doorjamb, his face expressionless in a way she hated. “Like a statue. I won’t touch you again if that is what you prefer.”
That option didn’t sound good to her. Nibbling on her lower lip, she looked down at the lush grey carpet and then back up. “I don’t deal well with men wanting me.” While she didn’t trust Jackson’s desire, she trusted his intellect. He would never judge her for her fear, not when he’d been hurt so much by others. “I…had some bad experiences when I was younger.” She hadn’t meant to admit