Page 13

Jack

The salt-tinged sea breeze blows against my skin as I sit back, swirling the golden amber in the crystal glass.

The crescent moon overhead casts shadows over the back yard.

Along the beachfront, a man crosses the perimeter.

It’s unfathomable there was a time I didn’t hire security.

Seeing the interloper, and knowing he’s one of ours, sets me at ease. Sophia is safe.

“Sir.” The deep tenor belongs to one of the security men, and with reluctance, I shift from facing the misty shoreline to face whichever employee found me.

Mansfield stands in the doorway. Like me, he’s former military.

He’s physically fit, alert, and trustworthy.

He shaves his head but wears a full dark beard.

As the only one in the security detail with a shiny scalp, he’s easy for me to remember.

If memory serves, he left the military after losing hearing in one ear from a nearby explosion.

I speak more loudly than I would for others as I raise my glass. “Care for a drink?”

He’s night shift. He’ll say no, but it feels inhospitable not to offer.

“No, thank you. Came to let you know I’ll be on shift for the night. It’s me and Evans.”

“Thank you.”

He gives a curt nod in response, then rotates to his side. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

I swivel the chair to see into the shadows. Sophia?

No. It’s Ava Amara. Her long bangs cascade over her eyebrows, and her full pouty lips gleam red.

In the moonlight, her pale skin nearly glows against that black mane.

Her skintight black tank top molds to her breasts and highlights a narrow waist. There’s a sliver of pale skin between the bottom of her tank and her weathered jeans.

I let out a sigh of exasperation. Everything the woman wears draws the eye. I should look away.

“Hi.” Her timid tone doesn’t fit with the heavy combat boots. Of course, she’s not wearing real combat boots. Hers are for fashion.

“Do you wear any colors?”

She doesn’t glance down. The corners of her full lips lift into a semblance of amusement.

“I like black.”

“Dark soul, huh?”

“Very.”

Ava Amara is a kindred spirit.

“Would you care for a drink?”

“Sure.”

I blink away surprise. I’m accustomed to offering drinks and being turned down.

“Sophia’s asleep. I hope you don’t mind. I was just kind of wandering around.”

She must think I’m a lunatic for having security roaming twenty-four-seven and demanding she stay here in the house.

It probably is overly protective. But given what’s going down, limiting the number of people entering and exiting the premises is smart.

Plus, Uncle Mark may trust her, but he trusted the same men I did. The men who burned us.

“What’s your poison?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Oban.” I hold it up, and the moonlight cuts through the amber liquid.

“Scotch from the Scottish Highlands.” The woman has unnaturally enormous eyes, and out here in the dark, they almost appear black.

Bewitching. “But of course, we have wine. Full bar. Anything you like.” I refrain from mentioning the fruity mixers.

She might be a woman, but I expect her tastes aren’t traditionally feminine.

“Do you have soda?” She’s not asking if I have a mixer.

“Right this way.”

We step back inside, and I refill my glass and she grabs a can of Diet Coke. I put ice in a glass and slide it to her.

“Are you an alcoholic?” I have a fully stocked bar on every floor in this house. Two on the main floor if you include the small bar near the dining room. There are also four different wine refrigerators in the back of the basement and a fully stocked cellar.

“No.” She pours the soda over the blocks of ice, taking care the fizz doesn’t cascade over the side. “But I don’t drink.”

“Ever?” A stiff drink is one of the few things I look forward to each day.

“No.” She answers with a soft expression, unafraid to meet my gaze.

“But you’re not an alcoholic?”

“Alcohol was never my poison.” She smiles a friendly enough smile as she replays my word choice back at me. “But that doesn’t mean it might not weaken my resolve or lead to bad choices. So, I stay away from it.”

I knock back another long swallow and relish the burn in my throat and the subtle heat in my limbs.

“How much have you had of that?”

The Oban bottle is about half empty. I might have opened it this evening. “Let’s go back outside.”

I like it outside. I breathe easier out here. The pool glitters in the moonlight, and the sound of crashing waves compliments the soft sound of trickling water from the hot tub overflowing into the pool.

I sit in one of the chairs, and she chooses the other one.

When I purchased outdoor furniture, my designer told me a lone chair feels lonely, so I ordered chairs in pairs.

On every deck, near the pool, there are only pairs.

Since it’s so damn hard to get my daughter to come sit with me, I sit in them alone. Until tonight.

I hold my scotch up to her in a silent toast. My gaze glides down her curves.

She pulls one leg up against herself and wraps her arms around it.

She might be cold. I could ask her. Go inside and dig up one of the outdoor throws Janet, the house manager, insists we keep on hand for guests.

Those doe-like eyes take me in. She leans against the arm of her chair, closer to me. Her thick, heavy bangs obscure the sides of her face, and a desire to brush the black locks away from her pale skin swells.

I need to get hold of myself. She’s here for Sophia. I swivel my chair to angle it toward the ocean.

“Thank you for coming here. I appreciate it.”

“I’m doing a favor for a friend. And…” She raises her hand in the air, palm side up, and shifts it around as if presenting evidence.

Silver bracelets shine in the light, emitting a light clink as charms and inches of silver slide against each other on her slim wrist. “Living here is hardly a hardship. Your fee is generous.” She sips her soda and sets it down on the small table between us.

“I would have agreed to live here for much less.”

My head hits the back of the chair, and I focus my gaze on the pool, away from her. Everything she wears shows off a voluptuous, tempting silhouette. Even her ripped jeans.

“Are you always so generous?”

She’s questioning my negotiation skills. As she should. Most people negotiate with the goal of spending as little money as possible. I negotiate to acquire my end goal as efficiently as possible.

“It all comes down to money.” If I needed money, I would be a better negotiator. If she didn’t need money, she couldn’t be bought as easily.

“Hmmm?” Either she didn’t hear me, or she doesn’t understand.

“I suspect that’s true about humanity. Every. Single. Person.” I lift my glass for emphasis and stare at her through the amber liquid, treating the crystal as a diffuser so I don’t stare at her chest. “Has a price.”

“Are you drunk?” There’s the amusement I heard earlier. Hell, maybe I have had too much to drink.

“It’s been one of those days.”

“I get that.” She pulls her other leg up onto the chair, so both legs squeeze against her, hiding her curves.

“Are you making any headway with Sophia?”

She shrugs.

The waves crashing nearby are the only sound.

“It’s only been a few days.”

I am adequately admonished. She did tell me it would take time. Her short black nails press against her shins just below her knees.

“You wear black nail polish.”

She holds out one hand, splaying her fingers, inspecting them as if she doesn’t know what color she wears.

“Do you like?”

I don’t, actually. I find it quite morbid.

But… I like it on her. I’m not a fan of silver jewelry, but I find hers appealing.

Everything about her is appealing, and I’m not sure why.

Heavy eyeliner, a mass of untamed hair, thick bangs, and earrings that claim all the space on her earlobes. “What other piercings do you have?”

“You’re a funny drunk.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She drops her boots and kicks the ground, spinning her chair in a circle like a child.

Only there’s nothing childlike about her. I want to explore her. I want to fuck her.

A dark shadow crosses the fence, and I follow the man with my eyes. It’s not Mansfield. His head doesn’t shine. I knock back the rest of my glass. Swallow. The burn flows down my esophagus and sears deep within.

“Ava Amara,” I say as she spins. “Do you have nipple piercings?”

“Now I know you’re drunk.” She stands, picks up her glass, wipes the table with her palm, and leaves me sitting alone in my chair.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why would I say that to her? Why do I want to fuck her? She’s not my type. She’s here to help my daughter. And Sophia seems to like her. I’ve ruined too much for Sophia. I won’t fuck this up too.

The sky spins. Shadowy gray clouds shift, obscuring the stars.

I want more scotch, but if I give in, I’ll pay for it in the morning.

So, when I head back inside, I bypass the scotch and head straight up the stairs to my shower.

Steaming hot water pours down on me, and I close my eyes and envision her doe-like eyes and rounded breasts.

She bends before me, and those full cherry lips wrap around my cock.

My grip tightens, and the vision shifts to the top of her head and my fingers intertwined with her hair, directing her.

In record time, my milky release flows down the drain.