Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
And Frankie is the worst kind of woman. She’s messing with his mind and pulling invisible strings. He has a job to do. And it would be much easier to do without daily visits from her perky little nipples. It would be easier if she’d stop stroking his piano keys before leaving her feminine scent in his space.
It’s been ages since he’s felt so uneasy about a woman. It’s been forgettably long since he’s needed to drink himself into a stupor or beat the shit out of something or someone to suppress the urge to fuck.
And if all that isn’t enough, Jackson can’t rid his mind of the predatory way Archer Sanford looked at her.
Did he touch her tonight?
Did she let him?
Does it matter?
That’s the real question. Why should he care? Since Jackson’s been tracking his target, he’s seen him with numerous women. He’s seen Archer parade them in and out of hotels. And he’s never thought twice about the women other than they deserved to be fucked and forgotten. After all, it’s no secret Archer’s married. Fairy tales rarely start with infidelity.
When Archer dies (soon), and no one can find him (his lifeless body), there will be a long list of suspects with fake tits and lace panties on security footage of local restaurants and hotels—a crime of jealousy and passion.
Frankie doesn’t move despite Jackson’s gratitude for the pie wrapped in a not-so-subtle hint that he wants her to leave. She stares at him with sympathy. It used to bother him. Saying Ryn’s name, even “her,” was unbearable. But time has forced him into acceptance.
“Your wife died,” Frankie says with reverence.
He nods.
“You started this song while she was alive, but now she’s gone, and you can’t finish it.”
Another nod.
She stands and hands him the utensil. “Do I look like your wife?”
He narrows his eyes before whispering, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jackson slowly shakes his head. “Don’t be. She was beautiful.”
Frankie finds a sad smile in return for Jackson’s attempt to compliment her.
“Whatever you’re doing … don’t. Just go home,” he says.
“I can’t because I need to make things right.”
It makes no sense. Jackson can’t figure out how messing around with a married man makes anything right.
“Your family died. Nothing will ever be right,” he says.
“My brother wouldn’t have wanted me to walk away.”
“Then he wasn’t a good brother.”
Frankie winces. “You know nothing about my brother.”
“I do. You just said he was the kind of guy who would want his sister to engage in a dangerous game for … what? If it’s not to save a life, it’s not worth it.”
Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she averts her gaze. “Get rid of the D minor chords. They're too melancholy. Stop lamenting. And maybe you’re the one who needs to go home.” Her gaze returns to his. She’s unapologetically crass. And standoffish. She’s goading him with words and tempting him with her physical presence—her physical existence.
If he touched her, what would she do? His next thought goes to his reaction—his level of control. If he touched her, could he stop? Would he want to?
“I need you to leave,” he steps toward her, and she retreats, “before something bad happens.”
Another step forward.
Another step backward.
She swallows hard when her back hits the door, staring at his chest. “If you try anything, I will hurt you. I’ve had self-defense classes. Please don’t make me hurt you.” She glances up at him.
Jackson hasn’t had an erection this hard in a long time. He stares at the outline of her nipples while her chest heaves.
He’d fucking love it if she tried to hurt him. Throw a punch, a jab … make him bleed. Make him feel again.
Frankie balls her hands at her sides and raises her chin slightly. Jackson can’t help but grin.
“What are you smiling at? Think you can back me into a corner and intimidate me with your wolfish expression?”
He scrapes his teeth across his lower lip. “You’re not in a corner, but I could find one and back you into it. I’d love to watch you squirm your way out of it.”
“Three years.” She swallows hard again. “I took classes for three years. I’ll have you flat on your back in no time.”
It’s like she’s trying to awaken his dick with her tongue; every word is a methodic stroke.
“As tempting as that sounds,” he rests a hand on the door next to her head, “I have some work to do. Can I take a rain check?”
“Do you want me to be scared of you?” she whispers.
“If it makes you pack your bags and go home, then yes. I want you to be fucking terrified of me,” he replies in a low, unwavering tone.
She lifts onto her toes as if hoping to press her lips to his. Will he let her? Absolutely not. Does he enjoy the torture of her proximity? Unfortunately.