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I release my fake husband, who takes my hand, leading me to the dance floor. “My dancing skills will test your acting mettle,” Jackson warns as he drapes my hand over his shoulder and takes my waist.
I lift onto my toes long enough to say, “If you slip up, I’ll pretend I stepped on your foot.”
The music is soft and romantic, and I try to focus on anything except the feel of Jackson’s hard body. He’s warm and sure, and I fit perfectly in his arms. Jackson’s rich smoke scent only adds to his allure. If I weren’t careful, I could get lost here. The man is more than intoxicating.
We’re barely a minute into the dance when Jackson murmurs against my temple, “I’ve just spotted Harding.”
His voice snaps me out of my reverie and reminds me not to get caught up in the moment. I clear my throat and glance toward the top donor display. “Let’s make our donation and put eyes on the admiral.”
Minutes later, we’re heading toward the bar as applause erupts around the room. The leaderboard just changed and now displays Jackson and Chelsea Bennett on top by fifteen thousand dollars.
We pass Admiral Jameson on our way, who grins and nods. He seems to recognize the impromptu signal and begins stage two of our plan.
Jackson orders the drinks we favored at our usual bar, and we chat up a couple we saw talking to Harding. The admiral joins us a few minutes later. “Lieutenant, good to see you again. Is this your lovely bride I’ve been waiting to meet?”
Jackson introduces me and even includes the couple we’d been speaking to. When Jameson looks my way, he winks. He was successful in laying out the trap. Now, we set the bait.
Dinner is announced at seven-thirty, and Jackson and I follow directions to our assigned table. The place is packed. How the admiral managed to secure a spot for us, I have no idea. We don’t know a soul here, but my people-pleasing persona will hopefully serve me well in my role.
Jackson looks completely at home as himself. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous. How nice it must be to be comfortable in one’s skin.
While I make small talk with the women at the table, Jackson endeavors to make them jealous_a late addition to our plan. It’s the women who will remember and be talking about us in their social circles. Jackson chats up the men but never without his hand on me somewhere.
His arm, at times, is draped across my chair with his fingers caressing my bare arm. Occasionally, he’ll walk his hand up and circle my neck with his thumb over my pulse point or play with escaped tendrils of hair.
After the main course, Jackson slips his hand from the table to rest it on my thigh. My legs are crossed, meaning his arm stretches across my body. The possessive gesture is incredibly intimate. The men don’t notice, but the women drool over the flex of Jackson’s muscular arm as he massages my leg.
My face reddens for all the attention we’re getting. If Jackson asks about it later, that’s the story I’m sticking to. The fact that my heart rate has kicked up and my breaths are coming faster has nothing to do with thinking about the things this man could do to my body.
What Jackson’s doing right now is for show, but only my brain seems to understand that. My skin only knows an intense craving for more. I fight my body’s response, but my fragile control shatters when Jackson shifts to the other leg. He finds the slit in my dress, taking advantage of the access to tuck his fingers between my thighs.
At my sharp inhale, Jackson turns, and his jaw clenches. His eyes drop to my lips, which are suddenly parched. My tongue darts out to wet them, and Jackson’s eyes go savage.
The clanking silverware and murmuring voices fade until the rest of the room disappears. I become lost in the man’s gaze. The blatant desire I see there weakens my resolve. I ache to taste his lips, but the emcee saves me from myself by announcing the official start of casino night. Our tablemates rise from their chairs, and Jackson lifts his hand from my leg with a smirk.
That bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to me. I glare at my prick of a partner through narrowed eyes. All I get for my tantrum is another wink. Bastard.
I plaster on my fakest smile and let Jackson pull me from my seat. To get a needed point across, as well as a bit of revenge, I lean close to whisper in his ear. “We want them to notice us, yes, and maybe even be jealous but not enough to research us.” And then I lick his ear.
Jackson freezes and swallows audibly. He answers quietly like he’s straining to get the words out. “You’re right. I’ll take it down a notch.”
My mind may be relieved, but the rest of me is not. “Let’s finish this show and get out of here.”
Jackson
The warmth of Chelsea’s skin sears my fingers as I guide her to the casino area. Her dress dips low in the back where my hand rests, and self-control is a struggle when my fingers burn to dip inside.
Shouts and groans fill the air from the night’s winners and losers. Chelsea and I walk a lap around the room and stop a table away from where Harding watches a spinning roulette wheel.
We’ve landed at a craps table, and I trade in some of our play money for five thousand in chips. I bet, and Chelsea watches, though she doesn’t follow the game too closely. A few minutes in, a tap on my shoulder has me turning around. Admiral Jameson stands behind me, wearing the smile of a casual acquaintance. Right behind him, staring at us, is Congressman Harding.
The Admiral bows slightly. “Lieutenant, if you don’t mind, I’d like to dance with your lovely wife. I promise not to make any moves on her.”
Jameson’s back is to Harding, and his expression clearly communicates the move is calculated. I play along, grinning widely. “Of course, sir.” With a wink for Chelsea, I add, “And I’m not worried. She knows who she belongs to.”
I may be pressing my luck with my pretend wife, but the risk proves worth it when Chelsea fails to mask the fleeting appearance of desire in her wide eyes at the comment, much more than the light touches I’ve employed all night. Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe Caleb was right.
“Sir? Sir, it’s your turn to shoot.”