Best Laid Plans - Robyn Kelly (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📗

class="subsq">It’s great having a friend who calls you on your bullshit. Except tonight. I need to win this argument, so I use the secret weapon.

“He’s the one who took your cell phone. That’s how he found out where I was hiding.”

Robert stops and stares. “Let’s light this cake up and start lying our asses off.”

As soon as the aerialists finish their act, we light the candles first, then the sparklers, and roll the cake out as the applause dies down. Everyone bursts into “Happy Birthday,” and I sneak out the back exit, longing for a piece of cake.

When I enter the parsonage, I’m happy to see the pack-up is almost finished. I verify the return counts on all the rentals before signing the paperwork. That only leaves waiting for the lighting crew to remove the overhead illumination. They work quickly, and we have the move-out completed in record time. The cleaners come tomorrow, so my goal is to get home, get to bed, and be back in the morning.

My phone buzzes. A text message from Robert. “Lied to the a-hole. Txt me when u leave.” Well, now it’s safe to go.

I remember that the real estate agent had told me there was a trick to locking the front door—but there had been tricks to every door and I was trying to remember this one. Do I have to hold the latch when I turn the key—or was that the trick to unlock it? I try both and the door won’t lock. This tiny little dress is no protection against the cold breeze coming off the bay, and I start to shiver.

“Ms. Whitkins, what a surprise.”

I look to my right, and see Jackson saunter toward me. His jacket is open, his white shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and his tie is folded in his breast pocket. This must be his casual look.

“Jackson. I was just closing up the parsonage before coming back to the party.” I try turning the key again.

He climbs the steps, two at a time, and stops threateningly close to me. “I was under the impression you had left for the night.”

“No. I was just checking the return counts for the linens and furniture.” I pull out my paperwork. That would certainly convince him. Solid proof.

“Oh. Because Robert was very definite that you had left. He was also very vocal in telling me that you had no experience with kinky sex. Or did he say you had no interest? They are two very different things…experience and interest.”

I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and I’m so cold I just want to wrap myself around him. “Are you sure it was Robert? That doesn’t sound like something Robert would say.” (That totally sounds like something Robert would say).

“I’m sure it was Robert. He texted you that he had lied to the a-hole.”

I freeze (literally and figuratively) and turn toward him. “Yes, I got the text. The question is, how did you get it?”

“I’ve been monitoring your phone since our first meeting. I needed to know if your story was true. I intended to turn it off, but was out of the country. It’s just a lucky coincidence that it’s still on.”

I feel so lucky—and so stalked. “Well, I will certainly talk to Robert. That is not the sort of behavior I tolerate.” I’m babbling. I just need to stall him enough to get this door locked so I can put some distance between us.

I recite every corny sales line I can remember, while I struggle with the lock and my chattering teeth. “Your business means a lot to us. We strive to go the extra mile for you. Our customers always come first.”

“Not tonight, Jillian. Like I told you earlier, I’m not the one who will be coming first.” He grabs the door handle, pulls it open, and drags me inside.

The only illumination in the room comes from the streetlight that shines through the windows, and I find myself pinned between the wall and Jackson. He feels so warm, I lean into him.

“You’re freezing.” He rubs his hands up and down my arms and I begin to defrost. When his hands rub other parts of my body, I realize I’m making the same mistake again.

“Shouldn’t you be checking on your mother? She probably doesn’t know anyone.”

“I sent her home after dinner. She doesn’t like loud music.” His hands move down to my thighs.

“I can save her a piece of cake, if you’d like.”

“Aren’t you thoughtful,” he says sarcastically. “Worried about my mother, apologizing for your behavior, handing out tissues, and giving Bryan his dream party. I’ve got a room full of people who believe I planned this big production. Why would you let them think that? I’ve spent my life disappointing my family.”

I need to keep it light. I also need to press my thighs together as tightly as I can. “Hard to believe one party can undo a lifetime of hard work.”

His hands still. “I wanted a simple dinner.”

“Then why did you give me $150,000?” I know why, but I want to hear him say it.

He steps back. “Where’s the damn lights?”

I step to my right and flip the switch. The harsh fluorescents blink on while he studies me.

“So Bryan’s party…that wasn’t you throwing the money back in my face?”

“Honestly, I was trying to justify a higher fee.”

“You were supposed to do a simple dinner and then keep the rest of the money. I thought I made that clear.”

I sigh. “Has anything ever been clear between us?”

He shakes his head. “I told you I wanted you. The women I’ve dated know what that means.”

I think of Pippa. “How have those women been working out for you?”

The tight set of his jaw lets me know Jackson isn’t a fan of sarcasm, either. “There’s always been an understanding. I take care of them, and they take care of me.”

So there it is. I was supposed to be the next Pippa. “You were trying to buy my love?”

“I have no interest in love. That money was intended as an incentive to play with me.”

I should be offended, but it was a lot of money. Plus, he thinks I’m as attractive as Pippa—or was I just low-lying fruit? “I guess my price has gone down since you found out I wasn’t kinky.”

“I don’t believe so. You’re a very responsive woman.” He takes my head in his hands. “I’ve never trained a brand new submissive. I might be able to get exactly the woman I want. Someone who doesn’t have to unlearn all those bad habits.”

His lips brush against mine and then he tilts his head back to gauge my reaction. This is a different Jackson than the one behind the altar. That man commanded and dominated. This man is all gentle seduction. I just have to remind myself that gentle doesn’t mean sincere.

I try to think of a good exit line until his mouth comes down on mine and his tongue parts my lips. I surrender to his kiss, and a small part of me hates myself for doing it. Our tongues dance and explore, and I don’t know how long we stand there before he comes up for air.

“When was the last time you had sex?”

“With someone else?” Filter, Jillian. Get your mouth filter on.

He chuckles. “That’s a good start. The way you’re reacting, it was either very recent or very long ago.”

I think. When was it? The thought is so depressing. “It was another lifetime.” My tone sounds maudlin, even to me. If he offers to break my losing streak right now, I might even say yes.

He scans my face. “I wish I knew what was going on in that brain of yours. Maybe if you weren’t such a mystery…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Maybe what? Maybe he wouldn’t be interested?

“I can see I’ve moved too fast earlier tonight. You’re very willing when you’re aroused, and I took that for experience. It’s important we communicate. I…make mistakes…when I misjudge situations.” He steps back from me and I almost fall forward. I hadn’t realized I was pressing myself against him that much.

He surveys the room. “This is where we had dinner?” Stripped bare, without the décor, it’s just a plain assembly room. Linoleum floor, bars on the windows, acoustical tile ceiling. I watch him move around the space, trying to compare what he remembered to what he is seeing now. “Why did you decide to expand the party?”

His tone has changed from accusatory to curious, and I know I don’t have to defend myself. “I listened to your brother. He was bored to tears in the countryside. I knew he needed something urban, something loud and bright. Something that would stimulate all his senses.”

I want to add, Oh, and I had all that money, but my filter is firmly in place now.

“I thought he’d be interested in wine importing.” I can hear the frustration in his voice. Family does that to you.

“No, your brother is more mojito than nebbiolo. I see him running a club, not a distribution chain.”

The tight set of his lips informs me he’s not about to indulge his brother’s latent talents.

“How was this space to work in?” And for the next twenty minutes, he bombards me with questions. Why did I choose this space? How big is the parsonage? What worked? What didn’t work? How were the owners? Are the buildings attached? What did I do pre-planning? What had the inspection found? He asks a ton of questions and listens to my answers. A man who listens. Jackson must suffer from multiple personality disorder. If only