Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors Page 10

“You bet it is.”

  He’s superstitious even if he doesn’t admit it, and I can’t see how he couldn’t be. The pressure to stay “on” has to be tremendous. “Are you really going to retire in November?”

  He nods. “I have plenty of money; it’s time to let someone else win.”

  I give him a curious look. “But you said you love to play.”

  “And like I also said, I can play in charity events.” He stands and opens the panel above us, grabbing the bag again and shoving the boxes inside before sealing the overhead bin. “I’m going to heat our coffees.”

  “I’d offer to do it, but I’m not getting up if I don’t have to. And Lord help us both if I have to pee.”

  He chuckles. “I’ll walk you to the door if you want.”

  He’ll walk me to the door? “Going all out on the seduction, huh?”

  “Pizza, coffee, and a walk to the bathroom. You betcha, baby.”

  Now I’m laughing, watching as he grabs our coffees from our earlier seats and heads to the front of the plane. He’s charming, funny, a self-made millionaire, apparently likes charity work, and is protective of his family. And while I have no doubt he enjoys his share of women, I’ve known my share of womanizers, my father included, and I don’t think Jason lies his way into women’s pants, or makes promises he doesn’t intend to keep. He hasn’t done so to me, despite wanting something from me. I think he’s a good guy.

  He reappears and sets my coffee on the table. “It’s a little too hot. Be careful.” I nod, and he moves to sit down when the plane shimmies beneath us.

  I grab the seat and he grabs the panel above him, his gaze meeting mine. “It’s perfectly normal, I promise.”

  “That doesn’t mean I like it.”

  “No one likes turbulence, but it beats spending hours or days in a car. Let’s go back to our seats and buckle in so you can try to relax. Let me have your coffee again.” I offer it to him and he says, “Hold tight,” and without waiting for my answer, moves to our prior seats and sets our coffees in the drink holders on the arms.

  He returns to more shakes of the plane, snatching the bottled waters and sticking them in a seat pocket before grabbing the overhead again and offering me his hand. “It’s August and we’re heading into Nevada, where the heat is suffocating. It’s going to be bumpy. Come on.”

  I scoot around the U of the booth and mentally steel myself for the impact of his touch. With a discreet inhaled breath, I press my palm to his, the touch electric, tingling up my arm and over my breasts and tightening my nipples. Hiding my reaction, I don’t look at him, but he’s not having it.

  “Skye,” he says softly, his voice a command.

  My gaze lifts and collides with his, and the connection is like a punch in the chest, stealing my breath. He pulls me to my feet and against him, hips and legs aligned, his hand caressing the hair away from my forehead and tilting my lips to his.

  “I keep kissing you,” he says, repeating my earlier words, his lips brushing mine. “I keep telling myself to wait until after this is over, but I keep failing. And I don’t let myself fail often.” His mouth slants over mine, his tongue sweeping past my lips, a caress that is long, slow, and drugging, until a jerk of the plane ends it.

  I gasp as we jump and jolt while he holds the overhead and me, my fingers wrapped tightly around his T-shirt. “I hate this so much.”

  “I know, but we are safe.” The shudders of metal ease around us again and he takes my hand, leading me to my seat where I sit and he claims the one next to me, both of us buckling up for another round of turbulence.

  “How do you sleep through this?” I ask, white-knuckled, as I hold onto the arms.

  “You get used to it.”

  “Never.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He glances at me. “You’re a control freak, and sometimes control is about having been there, done that, and experienced it already.”

  I don’t even try to deny being a control freak. I am. “Since I won’t be flying enough to do either of those things, that won’t happen.”

  “The world is a big, wonderful place you will miss if you don’t get past this.”

  “Well, most of the time my little world feels pretty all-consuming.”

  “That’s how dreams work, when you really want them,” he says. “They consume you, and the process to get there isn’t easy, nor is the fear of failure during the climb.” He reaches over and lowers our seatbacks.

  “I don’t want to lie down,” I object, but it’s too late. The seat flattens with ridiculous speed and I’m flat on my back, and so is he, the armrest no longer dividing us. I try to find the button to lift it but he grabs my hand.

  “Turn over and face me,” he orders.

  I inhale and have the sudden realization that our ride has smoothed out again. Doing as he asked, I roll and am shocked at just how close we are. “I, ah … can’t nap.”

  “Then talk to me. Where do you plan to go to law school?”

  “I want to stay in California, preferably Hastings in San Francisco.” His words replay in my mind. “You were afraid of failure?”

  “All the damn time. My family didn’t have money. I had no backup plan.”

  “That was brave,” I say, gaining more respect for him every second I’m with him.

  “I get the feeling you’re pretty brave yourself. What’s the story on your family?”

  “My mom’s on husband four, and off traveling the world with him. My father isn’t worth mentioning.”

  “Ouch. That’s harsh.”

  “Just truthful,” I say, not about to open a can of worms that might prove the two of them a little too alike in terms of seeking the spotlight and the womanizing. I’d rather not think about that right now, or ever, actually.

  He studies me for a moment and I think he might push for more, but thankfully he moves to an easy question. “Siblings?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.” He considers me again, more of that deep understanding in his eyes. “You’re alone.”

  “I’m a survivor,” I say, regretting the statement that says too much.

  “And a fighter,” he says, letting me off the hook without a probing question. “I’ll stand in line to hire you as my attorney when the time comes.”

  “Let’s hope not. I want to be a criminal defense attorney, and to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves.”

  “Why do I feel like there’s a story behind that choice, just like there’s a story behind you being a control freak?”

  We’ve just entered another section of no-man’s-land, and I quickly take us in another direction. “Your story is what’s interesting.”

  “You don’t want to talk about yourself. Got it.”

  “No. I mean … no. My story is—”

  “Who you are,” he supplies.

  That idea hits about ten nerves. “No. I refuse to believe we’re defined by our history.”

  “You can’t tell me you believe history doesn’t motivate our actions.”

  “But it doesn’t define us.”

  “No. It’s a tool we use to carve out who and what we are.”

  He’s right. The past has carved out who I am by showing me what I don’t want to be. “I don’t know your different pieces, Jason, but I admire what you’ve done and achieved. You fought for your dream, and that’s inspiring to me.”

  A surprised look flickers over his face, and he reaches over and caresses my cheek. “Like you are.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “You’re doing it,” he says, his fingers leaving my cheek.

  My gaze catches on the tattoo on his palm, and before I can stop myself I reach for it, flattening it to find the image of a red bull on his hand. I grin and glance up at him.

  “Embracing who I am.” He closes his hand around mine, the air thickening around us. “And like I said,” he adds, his voice low, sultry, “they call me Red Bull for a reason. I see what I want and go after it—which is why it’s g
oing to be hell not to press you to let me into your room tonight. But I won’t. I’m going to kiss you and touch you unless you tell me to stop, but nothing more.”

  “I knew what would happen if I came with you. I’m not looking for rings, babies, and manicured lawns.”

  “You’ve made that point, but we both know it’s no longer that simple.”

  “It is that simple. I’m not going to think worse of you because we act on something we started earlier.”

  His lips tighten. “Whatever I do here, be it to fuck you or not fuck you, might feel like manipulation tomorrow, but one can’t be undone, while the other can be remedied. I need your trust, Skye. That comes first. I have a reputation in Vegas, and I want you to ask around about me. Find out who I am, and then decide about the storage unit, and my bed.”

  He wants my trust. He needs my trust. He could demand. He could threaten. Instead, he’s invited me into the private space he swears he doesn’t share with others. It matters to me for reasons he can’t understand. “And what will I hear when I do?”

  “That I like to win. That I’ve had my share of women. And I never make a promise I don’t keep. I need you to do this, Skye. Talk to anyone and everyone. There are no boundaries.”

  But there is an urgency to his tone, laced with a plea. “I will,” I say, and right then, I know I’m going to tell him about the chip. I even open my mouth to say the words, but I check myself. He has to sit down at a poker table and be composed for television and the game. If I tell him what I have now, he’ll be climbing the walls of his own mind for hours, and it might crack his armor. Which would allow his blackmailer to feel powerful, which could be dangerous.

  Jason arches a brow. “Why do I think you want to say something?”

  “Because I do.”

  “But you aren’t.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m not.”

  “That’s honest.”

  “Because I hate lies.” The words come out a little too harsh, a confession I don’t mean to give him, and this man who makes a living reading people knows. His eyes narrow, darken, and seconds pass in which I feel he sees pieces of my puzzle I don’t want joined.

  “Good,” he finally approves, and when I fear he will push me for answers I won’t give, he doesn’t. “Come here,” he says instead, draping his arm over my shoulders and pulling me against him, my hand settling over his heart, which beats in a steady, comforting rhythm. For several beats that turn into at least a minute, we lie there, and I slowly relax into him in a way I haven’t relaxed with a man in a very, very long time.

  When the tension has completely eased from my body, he softly says, “Skye.”

  “Yes?” I ask, my pulse suddenly racing.

  “When we get naked, and we will, you will know it’s all about you, and nothing else.”

  I inhale the deliciously male scent of him, his warmth touching me everywhere, in places he is touching and in places he has not touched, but I still feel him. And suddenly I fear I’m far more naked with this man than I ever intended to be.

  • • •

  “SKYE.”

  I blink from slumber, the low hum of airplane engines bringing me into the present. The realization that Jason’s body is cradling mine tells me that I’ve fallen asleep on top of him, and while I should bolt upright, I resist, relishing the way he is warm and hard where I am soft.

  “Skye, baby, we’re going to land soon and I don’t want it to scare you.”

  Baby. He keeps calling me that, and probably calls all women that. But it does funny things to my belly, as does the certainty that I instinctively trust this man as I usually do no other, and in rather scary circumstances. Slowly, I ease up to look at him, suddenly intensely aware of my hand on his thigh. One part of me wants to yank it away, but another wants to sink my fingers in deeper and hold on tight. But I don’t.

  My teeth scrape my dry bottom lip and I inch back into my seat, releasing his leg and regretting it as soon as I do. “I slept through the flight?”

  His eyes light with mischief. “You did. And we didn’t crash, even though you weren’t monitoring every bump of the plane.”

  I glower. “Don’t tease me about my fear.”

  “I can’t help myself,” he says, hitting the buttons to raise our seats.

  “Yes, you can. Did you sleep?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “But you said you always sleep before a game. Please tell me it wasn’t because of me, and that I’ve screwed up your game.”

  “You didn’t screw up my game. I’m not superstitious, remember?”

  “But it was because of me. I’m sorry; I can’t believe I fell asleep on top of you like that. I must have been a lead weight on your chest.”

  “You were a warm, sweet-smelling blanket I didn’t want to let go of.”

  The words are sexy. He is sexy, but I respond to the pinch between his brows and the trouble in his eyes. “You’re worried.”

  “Preoccupied.” The engines roar and he leans over to look out of the window. “We’re about to touch down. Safe and sound.”

  I find my high heels on the floor beneath my seat and slip them on, holding onto the armrest as we sway, my hand hitting the cup of coffee I didn’t do justice. Jason’s palm settles on my leg, scorching me with his touch, and I swear tingling sensations travel straight up my thigh to my sex. “This is normal,” he assures me again.

  There is nothing normal about how this man affects me, though he’s referring to the flight. “And what exactly would be abnormal?”

  “I’ve flown all over the world and still I don’t know that answer, because nothing has ever gone wrong.”

  We hit the ground and bounce before stabilizing. “That wasn’t a good landing,” I say, gripping his arm.

  He covers my hand. “A pilot once told me any landing is a good landing, because—”

  “It’s not a crash.”

  “Exactly.” His cell phone starts ringing, and he releases my hand and digs it from his pocket.

  “Weren’t you supposed to turn that off?”

  “Unnecessary,” he assures me. “Did you turn yours off?”

  Oh crap, I didn’t. He’d distracted me too much. I reach for my purse under the seat while he answers his call.

  “I told you no,” he says gruffly, listening a minute, then grumbles, “Holy hell,” and unhooks his seat belt. “No,” he snaps, moving past me into the aisle, heading to the back of the plane.

  I resist the urge to twist around and watch, quite certain he’s talking to his manager—a man who I don’t trust, and yet Jason does. It’s a reality check for me. That man is the chink in Jason’s Prince Charming armor, the one thing that makes me question him. How can Jason feel so right and that man feel so wrong?

  CHAPTER NINE

  TRYING NOT TO THINK about what Jason’s manager suggested that had him so upset, I unzip my purse and remove my cell phone, glancing down to see a voice mail message and I’m unsurprised that it’s from Ella. I hit the Play button and hear “Hey you. I haven’t seen you at the storage unit and I’m worried. Do you need help? Call me.”

  Dang it. What if she thinks I blew off the unit and she really needs her money back? I dial her number and she answers on the first ring. “Hey you,” she says again. “Did you give up on the unit?”

  “No, I was excited to find a prize inside.” I hesitate on a lie I despise and try to walk around it. “I got an offer on the unit. The whole thing.”

  “You’re kidding. From who?”

  The man Stephanie is blackmailing, I want to say, but settle for, “Someone who knows the woman who owned it. And since there doesn’t seem to be much in it, I’ll probably take the offer. I’ll get your money to you next week.”

  “I told you, I’m not worried about the money. How did you meet this person who made the offer?”

  “He approached me at the unit. He’s … a professional poker player, and I’m actually on a plane. I just landed in Vegas.”

&
nbsp; “Get out of here. You’re in Vegas with a pro poker player you just met?”

  “I know. It sounds crazy.” The plane jolts to a stop. “But yes. I never do anything spontaneous and—”

  “Neither do I. I’m jealous.”

  “What? That’s insane. You do, too! You’re the reason this even happened.”

  “Auction hunting is different.”

  “It’s daring. It’s different. Like you.”

  “You know that journal I found?”

  “The sexy one?”

  “Yes. The woman is so much more than the sex. She was afraid to chase her dreams, but then she just did it. She took a risk, and it’s all documented in her writings. Her fears. Her excitement. Her daring. She’s making me think about my own decisions and life. And so are you. And I’m not talking about you taking a spontaneous trip to Vegas. I’m talking about how you’re fighting for a dream, working hard and pushing yourself with that goal in mind.”

  “I am. It’s not always easy, though.”

  “Believe me, I know. But you deserve Vegas, so go have fun with your sexy poker player. When are you home?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “That’s too fast, but before you say it, I know, I know. You have work. Just promise to call when you get home so I know you’re safe. What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Jason Wise. He’s nicknamed Red Bull as a player.”

  “Googling the minute we hang up. I’m dying to know all about him. Call me when you can! I want details.”

  “I will.” We end the call and I stare down at the phone. Risk taking? Me? Is that what working two jobs makes me? No. If I were a risk taker, I’d be in school now, risking my rent and grades.

  “Everything okay?”

  I glance up to find Jason towering over me. I unhook my belt and shove my phone into my purse. “Yes. Just thinking.”

  He offers me his hand, and I slip my purse over my shoulder before pressing my palm to his and allowing him to help me to my feet. “What were you thinking about?” he asks.

  “Life,” I say without hesitation.

  “You were supposed to say me.”

  I roll my eyes. “You really are a player.”

  “Just at the tables this weekend, baby,” he says, a tightness to his voice that I don’t miss, his fingers catching at my waist, head tilting toward mine. “I promised you I’d behave, but make no mistake: I’m not going to like it.”