The Millionaire's Club: Jacob, Logan and Marc: Black-Tie Seduction / Less-than-Innocent Invitation / Strictly Confidential Attraction

“I would have, but I had a meeting I simply couldn’t miss. Okay. I’ll triple what you paid for it,” Gretchen said, pouncing on him in such a demanding voice, other diners turned to see what was going on.

“Sorry,” Jake said, puzzled by Gretchen’s almost desperate bid for the box. Even more puzzled about why she was so determined to have Jess Golden’s things—if they even were indeed the outlaw’s things. “It’s not about money.”

“Then what would I have to do to get you to part with it?”

He imagined that Gretchen perceived her smile as seductive. He perceived it as predatory. And when she leaned toward him, blatantly inviting him to a view of her cleavage and in effect putting the moves on him without any regard for the fact that his date was watching, he’d had enough. “Give it up, Gretchen. This conversation,” he cautioned when he sensed she was about to push a little harder, “is history.”

He sat, dismissing her. Gretchen’s gray eyes heated in anger, then cooled by slow degrees as she visibly got control of herself. She smiled. Calculated. Tight. And patted her perfectly coiffed hair. Clearly she was not happy that both of her offers had been rejected, but she was determined not to let her anger show.

“Speaking of history,” she said, attempting to save face by changing the subject, “I plan to make a little myself. I’ve officially announced that I’m running for mayor of Royal. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Very,” Jake said, then covered his obvious lack of excitement with a question. “Who are you running against?”

“At the moment? No one. The incumbent, Maynard Willis, isn’t going to run again. Isn’t that marvelous?”

Jake shrugged. “Depends on your platform.”

“Why, tax reform, of course.”

“Tax reform?”

“Specifically as it applies to the oil fields. We’ve been far too lax in that area—with other local businesses, as well. As a result, we’ve missed considerable revenue for the city.”

The woman was too much. “From where I stand, the local businesses—oil companies included—already are digging pretty deep into their pockets. You get too heavy-handed, they may just decide to relocate to a lower tax base.”

“Jacob,” she said, as if addressing a rowdy child, “you might want to leave politics to the politicians. All you need to be concerned about,” she added with a cheeky smile as she slipped him a business card, “is that a vote for Halifax is a vote for progress.”

“Progress my ass,” Jake muttered under his breath when she finally walked away.

Christine had listened to—and watched—the exchange between Jacob and Gretchen with interest. Not just because it was a welcome respite from the ridiculous conversation that Jacob—Jake—had insisted on pushing past the limit, but because Gretchen had been so interested in Jess Golden’s things. Christine supposed there would be some natural curiosity over items belonging to a woman who had allegedly killed one of her ancestors, but Gretchen had gone a little over the top with her insistence that Jake sell them to her.

Speaking of over the top, could Gretchen have been more obvious making a play for Jake?

The penetrating looks, the subtle brush against him when she’d handed him her card. Christine had seen enough women in action to recognize a come-on when she saw one, even if Gretchen’s had been veiled by talk of politics.

Even more amazing than Gretchen making a pass at a guy when he was on a date with another woman was that it hadn’t even fazed Jake. He hadn’t seemed to care that Gretchen, for all her brassy, fake sincerity and sharp features, was still a very attractive and powerful woman.

“I’m sorry about that,” Jake said.

Christine set her salad plate aside. And the words were out before she was aware she’d been thinking them. “Sorry that she was flirting with you?”

He grunted. “Ballsy, huh?”

Took the words right out of her mouth.

“In any event, don’t let it bother you. Gretchen flirts with everyone.” He scowled at the business card, then tossed it on the table. “As a matter of fact, it’s one of the things she does best. Too bad she’s not as capable as a city leader.”

“So, you wouldn’t support her bid for mayor?”

“Hell no. If she gets in, there’s no telling what kind of chaos she’ll create.”

“Because she’s a woman?”

“Because she’s Gretchen. Whatever gave you the idea that I’m gender biased?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Could be the ridiculous conversation we were having earlier.”

“Darlin’, that wasn’t about gender bias. That was about gender equity. I want you to experience some of the fun I have.” He waggled his brows. “Show you what it’s like to take a little walk on the wild side.”

He was incorrigible. And, drat it, he had her smiling again with his silly words. And, yeah, part of the reason she was smiling was because he so clearly was not fazed by Gretchen Halifax’s cool sexuality.

Until Gretchen had arrived at the table, Christine had actually started to feel a little less…what? Tense? Self-conscious? Less defensive maybe, despite Jake’s questions about her history. She’d even enjoyed his silliness. That had come as a big surprise. Much of this evening had been a surprise—starting with his reaction to seeing her when she’d opened the door. The way he’d looked at her made her feel warm all over, aware, aroused even. And that was the biggest surprise of all.

Their entrées arrived and for a little while they ate in silence. Christine contemplated the way Gretchen had tried to put the moves on Jake. Witnessing Gretchen in action—smooth, sophisticated, worldly—had reminded Christine of one unalterable fact.

While she could enjoy tonight for what it was—one single night—the truth was she wasn’t only way out of her element but also was way out of her league. Fancy French restaurants were not on her usual flight path. Men like Jake Thorne moved in privileged circles; she moved in stagnant squares.

She felt let down suddenly. Evidently the power surge sparked by her outfit was officially over. But she decided she was going to make the most of the evening since she’d probably never enjoy the pleasure of Claire’s again. With a blissful sigh, she enjoyed a bite of her fish. The wine sauce smothering the whitefish was absolutely decadent.

“Now that’s a look you ought to have on your face more often.”

She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes while savoring the rich explosion of flavor saturating her taste buds. “This is delicious.”

“And a very sensual experience from where I’m sitting.”

She blinked at him, saw the hot appreciation in his gaze and felt herself blush. Again. “How’s your steak?”

“Exceptional. And rare. Just the way I like it.”

And just the way he liked his women, she figured. There was nothing rare about her. And yet she couldn’t quite stall a little shiver of awareness as his gaze swept from her face to her neck, then dropped ever so subtly to the swell of her breasts before he smiled into her eyes.

“Have another bite of your fish. I want to watch you indulge some more.”

He’d done it again. Managed to make her face burn with a fire that wasn’t fueled as much by irritation as it should have been. Awareness…of him as a man…of herself as a woman, played a bigger part. And it was time to get on top of the situation.

“I think I’ve waited long enough. It’s time to talk about your other condition for turning over Jess Golden’s things.”

“You haven’t been paying attention,” he said, that maddeningly amused grin tipping up one corner of his mouth. “I already named it. The condition is we strike a deal. I’ll agree to do something you deem as adult and you’ll agree to do something I deem as juvenile.”

He insisted on pushing. Okay fine. She’d push back. But how?

And just like that, it came to her how she could call his bluff.

“Okay. You’re on.”

He did a double take. Then sat back in his chair and considered her with a pleasantly disbelieving look. “For real?”

She nodded. “For real.”

“Well, okay then, Chris-tine,” he said, drawing out her name, “what do I have to do?”

“Run for mayor.”

That wiped the smile off his face. “What?”

“You’re so confident that Gretchen Halifax will make a lousy candidate? Then you need to make sure she doesn’t get the position.”

“Hell, sweet cheeks, I’m no politician.”

“All the better. You already run a business. It’s not much of a stretch to run a city.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Oh. Now it’s ridiculous. Now that I’ve called you on it.”

“But it’s my game,” he whined with the express intent of making her laugh.

And she did. It just sort of bubbled out, surprising her more than it surprised him.

“Lord, that’s sweet,” he said. “You really ought to do that more often.”

“You make me sound like I’m a stuffy old curmudgeon,” she grumbled, but she was still grinning.

“There is nothing stuffy about you, darlin’. And nothing old. Everything’s new—especially that laugh. Did you know your eyes sort of dance in that beautiful face when you laugh?”

His eyes had turned dark again, fueled by a fire that was far too warm and far too intimate for her comfort. She felt exposed…and as alive with sensation as if he’d physically touched her.

“You’re full of charm, Mr. Thorne. And you do so love to use it, don’t you?”

“When it gets results like that, yes, ma’am. I truly do.” He reached across the table, took her hand in his. “You have the most kissable mouth. I bet you didn’t know that, either, did you?”

Yikes. Okay. Time out. He was way too fast on his feet for her. And the way she was feeling about him was too confusing.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, pulling her hand from his. “I’ll be right back.”

Then she hightailed it to the ladies’ room while her bones were still in solid form. Another few minutes under his seductive gaze and said bones might just fold like licorice. And then where would she be? Believing he didn’t say those things to all the girls, that’s where. That belief would be a mistake of major proportions.

She knew that for a fact. But knowing it didn’t take the sting out of the truth that a teeny, tiny part of her wanted to believe he really thought she was special.

Wasn’t that just the most asinine thing? She didn’t even like him. Well, she hadn’t liked him. She still didn’t want to like him. And yet…she was having fun tonight. Kind of. When the mood struck him, he could be very sweet and attentive and…Stop!

Just stop. This was the same man who had tormented her for the past five years. For all she knew, tonight was just a precursor to another kind of torment. The kind that could leave her wounded instead of just ticked off.

“Had a good time tonight, Chrissie,” Jake said as he pulled up in front of her apartment.

As he walked her up the sidewalk to the door of her first-floor apartment, his hands were tucked oh-so casually into his trouser pockets. Of course, to accomplish that he’d had to brush his suit jacket aside. So, of course, Christine’s peripheral vision was filled with the way his white dress shirt hugged an abdomen that, if memory served, exemplified the term six-pack abs.

“The dinner was excellent,” she said, aware of the warmth of the July night, ultra-aware of the height and the rich scent of the man walking beside her.

“Exceeded only by the company.”

When she’d returned to the table after her trip to the ladies’ room, she’d very quickly steered him away from the topic of dancing eyes and kissable lips. Fortunately he’d taken her cue and backed off all the Mr. Charm talk. They’d discussed the weather, her work at the hospital and the Royal Museum. When she’d pressed, he’d reluctantly told her about his business—if you counted, “It’s doing well,” as talking about it.

Since he hadn’t seemed to want to talk about it any more than she’d wanted to discuss her family, they’d opted for talk about their alma maters. She was an Aggie and he’d been a Longhorn, and since the two schools were huge interstate rivals, verbal competition about which university was better had kept them occupied through the ride back to her apartment.

But now he was in flirt mode again. And she was going to nip that in the bud because no good could come from her falling for his practiced lines. She had it all planned in her head. She would turn to him when they reached her door, shake his hand, thank him for dinner and get while the getting was good.

She no longer cared that they hadn’t sealed the deal over Jess Golden’s things. She’d revisit the issue another time when she wasn’t so confused. With all his charming talk and heated looks and walk-on-the-wild-side banter, he’d thrown her totally off-kilter.

She wasn’t used to feeling so off balance. She didn’t know how to handle the sensation. But she did know how to handle him.

Thank you, handshake, good night. A good, solid plan.

“Thank you,” she said when they reached her front door and focused on the hand she extended. “Good night.”

Long moments passed and he just stood there.

Finally she was forced to look up and meet his gaze.

Damn him, he was smiling.

Her lungs deflated on a slow, weary sigh. “What’s so funny now?”

“You, sweet cheeks. You are a laugh a minute.” The warmth and affection in his voice and his expression stirred a herd of butterflies into flight in her tummy. “But then, I’m easily entertained. Come here. Let me show you how easy I am.”

And then he kissed her. Just like that. No long, lingering meeting of eyes in the moonlight as a prelude. No dodging and weaving or wondering when it was going to happen.

One minute he was a safe three feet away announcing his intentions. The next he gathered her gently into his arms and lowered his head.

Did she fight it? No.

Did she want to fight it? Um. Guess not.

That was the surprise of the century.

She stood there, her head tipped back, watching as that beautiful mouth descended. Actually she more than watched. She actually rose up on her tiptoes to meet him. Then she lifted her hands to his biceps to steady herself, to mold herself closer. And she let him show her exactly how easy he was.

He showed her just fine. He was easy like a down comforter on a cool winter night. Easy like a daydream on a lazy summer afternoon. The caress of his mouth as he opened it over hers was slow and sweet, soft and undemanding.

It was wonderful. It was amazing. She didn’t think about raising her arms to his neck and burying her fingers in the hair at his nape. She simply did it, only tactilely aware of the silky softness of his hair, the warmth and strength of the muscle beneath his skin, the heady heat and hardness of him against her as he wrapped her closer, deeper into his big body.

And he was big. So strong yet so gentle as he cradled her against him, changed the angle of his mouth over hers and with a groan that reverberated against her breasts, took the kiss to a whole other level.

His mouth urged hers open. His tongue entered when she gladly acquiesced. Through the ringing in her ears and the trembling of her entire body, she recognized his hunger, melted into the pleasure, rode the wave of mutual need.

She felt dizzy with the knowledge that a man like him truly could be aroused by a woman like her. He definitely was aroused, no hiding that with her belly pressed against his this way. She felt the power of that knowledge surge through her like a current. Imagined the full measure of his passion with a shiver, then felt wrenched from the heat of sensual pleasure to the cool rush of reality when his big hands rose to hers and untangled them from around his neck and he set her physically away.

“Whoa,” he said in a voice that was gruff with passion. With one small step he put a mile of distance between them.

She blinked, her lips pulsing and swollen, her entire body buzzing on sensual overload.

“Whoa,” he said again. Then he shook his head and after a look that was searching and stunned and wary, he turned on his heel and hightailed it down the walk to his car.

That was it. Not another word.

A little stunned, Christine watched him go. Got the distinct impression that he was running away, when only moments ago he hadn’t been able to get close enough fast enough.

She was still standing in the same spot when he peeled away from the curb. Her lips were still tingling from his kiss when she went to bed half an hour later. And her mind—Lord above, her mind was still spinning.

Her experience with sex was limited and for the most part unsatisfying. Her fault, is what she’d always figured. She didn’t do well with touching. Didn’t do well with trust. Sexual encounter made for more tension than passion. But Jacob Thorne had just proven there were exceptions to some rules she’d taken for granted as unbreakable.

To her utter surprise, she’d liked being touched by him. She’d loved being kissed by him. Trust hadn’t even been an issue. Or maybe it had been the entire issue and she’d instinctively trusted him when he’d drawn her in, wrapped her tight and made love to her mouth with the enthusiasm and the expertise of a lover. One who sensed exactly what she wanted, exactly what she needed, and made it clear with the touch of his hand, the heat of his mouth, that he knew precisely how to deliver.

And he had delivered—until he’d abruptly dragged himself away, looked at her as though he didn’t know how she’d ended up in his arms and hadn’t been able to leave fast enough.

He had acted as though it had been a colossal mistake to kiss her.

But it hadn’t felt like a mistake. It had felt…wow. It had felt incredible.

Now, however, she felt incredibly confused.

And alone. Most of all, alone.

Of all the things in the world she’d ever wanted, ever dreamed or fantasized about, being alone for the rest of her life hadn’t been one of them. Never had she been more aware that the choices she’d made and the barriers she’d erected might have guaranteed that she always would be alone.

She was so lost in those dismal conclusions that it didn’t even dawn on her until much later that they had never gotten around to discussing the hoops she had to jump through to get him to give her Jess Golden’s things.

Chapter Six

Later that night, Jake sat at the bar in the Texas Cattleman’s Club nursing a beer. Normally he found a certain amount of contentment in the sprawling, exclusive gentlemen’s club Henry “Tex” Langley had established nearly one hundred years ago. Everything about the place was male, from the rich, dark paneling, heavy leather furniture and massive fireplace to the huge oil paintings, animal heads and antique guns displayed on the walls.

He needed the no-frills, no-female atmosphere. But tonight instead of enjoying it, he was brooding. He’d left Chrissie Travers over two hours ago. Kissable, crushable, vulnerable, incredible Chrissie Travers.

Lord above, could he get lost in that woman’s kisses. And he had been lost—without-a-map-or-a-compass lost—until his brains had finally come in and, with a mad scramble, he’d gotten his bearings. Then he’d run, not walked, away from the glut of emotions that had scuffled with his better judgment.

He kept seeing her and her sweet, soft, swollen lips. Her and her gray-green eyes, wide open and wondering.

Whoa.

Seemed to be the word of the night.

“You look like you’re in a mood.”

He glanced over his shoulder, surprised to see his twin brother, Connor, ease onto a bar stool beside him. It was like looking into a mirror. Folks still remarked that if it weren’t for the hair, they wouldn’t be able to tell the twins apart. Connor wore his dark brown hair in a clipped military cut—a holdover from his Army Ranger days. Jake preferred to let his hair grow, sometimes to the point of being shaggy—a holdover from his rebellious youth.

“I’m in a mood?” Jake grunted and returned his attention to his beer. “This from Mr. Mood Swing himself.”

Immediately Jake regretted the offhand remark. Par for the course, he always seemed to say the wrong thing to Connor lately, and in this case Connor was right. Jake was in a mood.

Jake motioned to the bartender. “Give us two more, would ya, Joe? Seems the Thorne boys are of the same mind tonight.” He turned toward his brother, prepared to make atonement. “What brings you out this time of night?”

It was getting close to last call. Connor wasn’t known for frequenting the bar, so Jake had been surprised when his brother had sat beside him. Jake had been so mired in his own pickle, though, he hadn’t given it much thought at first.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Connor said with a throwaway shrug as he reached for his longneck and took a deep pull.

Tell me about it, Jake thought but didn’t say as much. Ever since he’d left Chris Travers standing at her front door, he’d been as revved as a DuPont Chevy on NASCAR race day.

“Figured there’d be a poker game goin’ on,” Connor added while Jake huddled over his beer and tried to forget the things that prickly woman had done to him. Like turn him on, fire him up and wring him out.

“Game broke up about midnight,” Jake said. He’d turned down the offer to join in. In his state of mind, he would have lost the business and wouldn’t even have cared.

But he wasn’t so self-consumed that he didn’t notice something was up with Connor. Jake cared about his brother. Connor hadn’t been the same since returning from the Middle East. He had followed their father’s footsteps in an attempt to win the old man’s favor by becoming a U.S. Army Airborne Ranger and then an engineer.

Jake, an adrenaline junkie, had opted for a different type of career adventure. After his four-year hitch with the Army, during which time he took college credit classes that he finished up at University of Texas, he’d gone to work for Red Adair fighting oil-well fires.

He’d became so addicted to the danger, he’d wanted a greater hand in it and left Red to form his own company, Hellfire, International. While his twin had been fighting terrorists in the Middle East, Jake made his own statement for freedom and patriotism by fighting oil fires in the same war-torn countries.

They’d both been there. Now they were back. And some things had never changed. Such as sensing when there was a problem.

“Heard from the old man lately?” Jake asked, wondering if a recent set-to with their father was at the root of Connor’s dark mood.

Connor’s grunt gave Jake his answer. Yeah, Connor had had another tangle with their father. Even though his folks had moved to Florida, James Thorne still could reach out and touch all kinds of raw nerves.

When Connor had retired from active duty, he’d made the ultimate sacrifice. He’d taken over the family engineering firm when their father retired. Jake owed his twin big-time for that. It had gotten the old man off his back.

Some would call his father’s repeated wish for Jake to take over the business the burden of the favored son. Jake called it something else—damn unfortunate.

He knew that their father’s blatant favoritism toward Jake had always made Connor feel like second banana. Oh, Connor had never said as much. He didn’t have to. Actions spoke louder than any words. Even when they were kids, Jake often had talked his way out of a sound pounding with the old man’s belt. Connor, on the rare occasion he bucked the old man, never even tried. He just took the beating. And as a result, Jake had watched Connor turn deeper into himself, bottle up his pain and anger until the dark mood would hit him.

Like tonight.

“Tell you what, brother mine,” Jake said, slinging an arm over Connor’s shoulder, knowing there were some things embedded so deep, no amount of heart-to-heart sessions would drag them out, “how about we blow this place, dive into a case of brew and the two of us get rip-roaring drunk? I haven’t tied one on in a coon’s age. You game?”