My temper has been rising with my thoughts and I realize that I’ve pushed the car up to almost ninety, which is completely forbidden on airport property.
I press harder, edging the speedometer up even more. I’m not worried about safety—this part of the airport is primarily used for storage of planes and parts, and even during the week there are rarely people around. But even if it were bustling, I’d still floor it. Because right now, the rules are the last thing on my mind. My descent into anarchy is rewarded when I pass a cluster of planes anchored on the tarmac just past Hangar D. They are on my right, and just beyond them I see the black streak that is Jackson’s Porsche.
I’m even with him, maybe just a little bit ahead, and I floor it, barely even slowing when I reach Hangar C and make the sharp right turn to take me up the building’s north edge, which will put me perpendicular to him right about the time he’s about to pass the hangar.
I pound on the steering wheel, as if that will force the car to go faster, and Jackson’s black Porsche comes into view on my right the moment I’m clear of the hangar. I slam on the brakes, bringing me to a dead stop in his path, with just enough room for him to hit the brakes.
I cringe as his tires squeal, and too late I realize that the consequences will be very bad if he hits me. Not just injury to me, but damage to his Porsche.
And that really won’t sit well with Jackson.
But it’s not the Porsche I have to worry about. He’s brought it to a stop mere inches from the Mustang, and he’s out of it and at my door so quickly it makes me gasp. His palm slams down hard on the roof and I jump, then have to fight the urge to lock the door and stay safe inside.
But this isn’t about being safe.
This is about getting into that goddamn thick head of his.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demands as I burst out of the Mustang.
But I don’t answer him. Instead, I surprise us both by lashing out and slapping him hard across the cheek.
four
“What the fuck?”
“You need a fight?” I demand, my voice harsh. My skin feels hot and prickly. I’m walking on dangerous ground, and I know it, but I can’t go back now. “You need to hit something? To lash out? I told you once, Jackson, and I meant it. Whatever you need.”
“I need to be alone.”
“Bullshit,” I say, even as I raise my hand to hit him again.
He catches my wrist, then twists, so I have no choice but to move where he wants me to go. Now it’s his back that is against the car, and I’m standing with nothing to support me except Jackson’s hand holding me up.
He releases me, backs away. Then slowly walks toward me, stalking me. His eyes are feral. Wild. And his face is all hard lines and angles, dangerous and edgy. The hint of copper in his coal black hair flashes like fire, a sharp contrast to the cold, hard blue of his eyes.
I lick my lips, then swallow as I take a corresponding step back. Then another and another as he just keeps coming.
“What kind of game are you playing, Syl?” His voice is a tight coil.
“Yours.” I draw in a breath. “Dammit, Jackson. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you really believe I’d let you push me away? Tell me,” I demand. “Talk to me. Or if you won’t do that, then fuck me. Because we had a deal, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to go off on your own and beat the crap out of someone.”
“Don’t.” He lunges toward me, startling me, and I try to take another step back. But there’s nowhere to go. I’d parked the Mustang close to the hangar, and now we’ve reached the metal exterior.
He slams me back against it. The impact reverberates through my body and I’m thrumming with energy. With need. But this isn’t about sex—not yet. It’s about communication. About getting through to him. Because I am afraid—so terribly afraid—that I am losing the man who fought so hard to get me back.
We’ve walked through fire, he and I, and I can’t stand the thought that in the end it will be Robert Cabot Reed who destroys us.
I’m breathing hard, and so is he. His arms are around me, caging me in place. And just then I’m thinking that this moment could go anywhere and that maybe I’ve made a mistake, because Jackson has a temper and sometimes he really does need to beat the shit out of something, and right now I’m a little scared that something might end up being me.
I watch his face as he forces himself to breathe. As he grabs on to control like a lifeline. “Don’t push me, Syl. Not today. Not now.”
“Screw that, Jackson. We had a deal. You want to run off and fight? Want to kick the shit out of something? You don’t run to the ring, remember? You run to me.”
“Not today.” His jaw is tight, his voice equally so. He’s trying to hold it together, but I am determined to break it. To force the explosion. To make him break through and lash out and to finally—finally—work through all the shit that has been building up inside him.
“Why not, Jackson? Why not today?”
“Because, goddammit, I’m not running toward a fight. I’m running away from you.”
His words are like a knife, and they slice through me, cold and unexpected. My eyes sting, and I look away, blinking furiously, not wanting him to see that he has hurt me. Because Jackson Steele is the one person in all the world who would never, ever hurt me. He’s my warrior. My knight. My goddamn protector.
And that’s when the truth hits me, as hard as the slap I’d laid upon his cheek. I get it. That’s what this is about.
I turn my head so that I am looking at him, though he will not meet my eyes. I lift my hand and cup his cheek. A muscle twitches beneath my palm, and I feel the tightness of his jaw. He’s doing everything he can to hold it together even as I’m doing the only thing I can think of to make him let go.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” I say gently. “I made you leave me once before because I was trying to protect myself. I’m not letting you leave now because you think you’re doing the same thing.”
“I’m the idiot?” His voice is low, with a dangerous edge. “You’re wrapped up with a man who has a child. A man who might be going to jail. A man who is the reason the project you care most about in the world is going to fall apart, because you’re going to lose your architect to a goddamn prison.”
“You’re wrong. You’re what I care about most in the world.”
He winces, just a little, and I continue on.
“You’re scared,” I say. “Do you think I don’t get that? Hell, Jackson, I’m fucking terrified. I can’t bear the thought of losing you. And I hate the universe for even threatening to take you from me. And I sure as hell couldn’t survive you leaving.”
He looks at me now, his blue eyes boring straight into mine, and I can see everything, right to the heart of him. Frustration. Rage. Need. And, dammit, I can’t just stand there and wait for him to make his choice.
I lunge.
The kiss is wild and hard. A sensual battle that I am determined to win. Teasing him with my tongue. Tormenting him with my teeth. At first his lips are hard, resistant. But then everything shifts and he’s claiming, demanding. And the knowledge of this small victory spreads through me, lighting my body with a wild desire that I am determined to see satisfied.
I slide my hand to the back of his head, pulling him closer because I want the kiss deeper. Harder. I want him wild. I want to break him. To push him past this thing that has been keeping us apart. This cold barrier that I couldn’t get through.
But I’m getting through now, and that knowledge is the most potent of aphrodisiacs.
He pulls away, and I almost scream in protest. But then I see his face. The heat and power and ferocious need. There’s danger, too, and I welcome it.