Through the ice-cold rage bathing his belly, Nick barely noted that Adam directed his explanation—and a quizzical look—at him, rather than Syrius.
All around people had stopped, enthralled by the drama. And then his father gave the crowd what they wanted.
“If he’s a pup,” he suggested, “perhaps she’s a bitch in heat.”
Nick tore his eyes off his brother’s and glanced at Jordan’s white, shocked face. He gripped his father’s arm firmly. “You’ll apologize for that.”
“The hell I will!” Randall blustered.
The two Lake women reached Syrius. Elanor spoke in urgent whispers while Jordan grasped the sleeve of her father’s suit, tugging at it ineffectually.
Randall lifted his arm in a half hearted attempt to remove it from Nick’s grip.
Nick only gripped harder. “Now, Dad.”
Accepting defeat, Randall launched a scathing glance at his enemy, cleared his throat and nodded vaguely in Jordan’s direction. “I beg your pardon, Jordan.” Turning back to Syrius, he raised his chin, “When I’ve finished mopping the floor with you here, Lake, I’m going to start all over again. I wouldn’t let your lawyer take a holiday anytime soon if I were you.”
“Bring it on, Thorne,” Syrius snarled. He shot one last look of loathing that encompassed all three Thornes, then he stomped off with his counsel in tow, making no effort to assist Jordan with her mother’s wheelchair.
Mortified, Nick couldn’t look at Jordan, but as she pushed her mother’s chair past him, Elanor met his eyes and gave him a distant but not unfriendly nod. Despite the ridiculous circumstances, Nick found himself admiring her for her fortitude and grace when she had more reason to hate his family than anyone. He watched until they disappeared out of the courtroom, then turned back to find his father glaring down at Adam.
“Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”
Nick’s jealousy returned full force, crushing his chest and throat again. The thought of his playboy brother anywhere near Jordan incensed him. “Did you—” touch, dance, kiss “—speak to her at the party?” He could barely get the words past his clenched teeth.
Adam’s glance was sharp as a tack. “Nick, I didn’t get a toe in the door before Syrius was bleating at security to have me removed. Why?”
Intense relief laced Nick’s exhalation. He unclenched his palms and they were damp. Ignoring Adam’s question, he turned abruptly and reached for his jacket. The act of putting it on, gathering up his phone and briefcase, gave him a few seconds to think about that relief. Okay, we’ve ascertained that I’m not fond of the thought of anyone else’s hands on her. Fine. We can work this out.
Now composed, he gave his father a stern look. “I have to get back to the office, but try and behave yourself this afternoon.” He frowned at Randall. “Insult Syrius all you like, but leave his family out of it.”
He strode away, allowing himself a small smile when he heard his father say to Adam, “Why can’t you be more like your brother?”
Four
Nick pressed the doorbell, glowering at the peephole when he heard her ask who it was. “It’s Nick. Open up, Jordan.”
He still waited half a minute, tapping his thigh impatiently, until she opened the door. She peeked around the corner of the door, one hand covering her lower face. Her hesitation became immediately clear; a pale green chalky substance covered most of her face. Her hair was loose but held back from her face by a headband. She wore silky light blue pajamas, a less than welcoming expression, and her feet were bare.
That didn’t mean she was off the hook. “Are you ill?”
“No.” Frowning, she looked over his shoulder into the empty corridor of her apartment building and then stepped back.
“Expecting someone?” he asked, giving her a thorough inspection.
“Do I look like I’m expecting someone?” She lifted her hand from her face and gestured him forward impatiently. “Come in before someone sees you.”
Nick stepped inside and then turned and waited while she closed the door.
Jordan leaned her back against the door her skin flushing pink beneath the green facial mask. “How did you get up here?”
He shrugged. “Someone was coming up, I followed.”
“Nick, you shouldn’t be here.”
His temper bridled. He’d been on a slow burn for about twenty-four hours now. He’d had a huge row with his father last night after confirming his plans to hire a P.I. to investigate one of Syrius’s directors for corruption. It became more and more obvious that the old man had no intention of retiring any time soon, not while Syrius Lake was around to take potshots at.
Reading the papers today had turned the heat up. Nick’s frustration had about hit boiling. “We had an arrangement.”
“I sent you a text.”
Nick swore under his breath. A text that said nothing. Sorry, something’s come up.
He would have accepted her canceling their regular appointment if she hadn’t been photographed eating a late Friday afternoon lunch with Jason Cook, the most worthless playboy on the planet. An ex-pro rugby player who destroyed hotel rooms, threw things at bartenders and went through money like water. And who’d reportedly had a steamy romance with Jordan a year ago.
His father’s next potential campaign against Syrius made Nick’s decision to ally himself with her all the more attractive, but the lady herself seemed comfortable with the status quo. Somehow he had to persuade her that she wanted more, knock her off balance enough to start thinking of him in a different light.
Hence the unannounced visit. It didn’t hurt that the thought of Cook’s hands on her infuriated him. He reached out, hooking his finger into the V of her pajama top, and pulled her into him. “You and Jason in the newspaper this morning…You want him, Jordan?”
As her unresisting body bumped against his, the impact caused the top button to slip through the hole. The material gaped as she inhaled in surprise. The creamy swell of a luscious, unfettered breast taunted him.
How many men did she share her body with? The question had tormented him for hours. How many men savored that perfect mouth, nuzzled her impossibly soft and fragrant skin.
Under his glare, her eyes sparked with annoyance and her pink cheeks burned through the green streaks. She laid her hands flat against his chest and braced against him. “I didn’t realize that giving me a gift branded me as your exclusive property.”
“It doesn’t, but your Friday afternoons are mine, not bloody Jason Cook’s.”
“Jason is only a friend these days. Not—” she lifted her chin defiantly “—that it’s any of your business.”
“Some friend. I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement.”
“I was.” Her eyes flickered away and back. “I am. But I think we’re being watched.”
Nick raised his brows, waiting.
Sighing, she clasped the edges of her pajama top closed and pushed past him, padding down the short hallway through a stylish kitchen and to a side table in the lounge. Nick followed, his eyes closely monitoring the sensual slide of blue silk-clad hips.
Jordan picked up an envelope from the table and turned to him. “These came yesterday.”
Nick took the envelope and pulled out two enlarged photographs of Jordan entering and leaving their Friday hotel, wearing a little black dress with a wide belt. He remembered it because the belt had an unusual clasp and his eager fingers had wasted at least three seconds fumbling with the damn thing. The photo was dated last Friday, their last meeting. “You’re always being watched and photographed.” He handed the photos back. “What of it?”
“These were couriered to me here, yesterday morning. No note. No sender details.”
Nick pursed his lips. “And that was enough to send you rushing into Jason Cook’s arms.”
She gazed at him steadily. “Why do you suppose we went to the Backbencher’s Bar, Nick?”
“Probably the only place in town he hasn’t been thrown out of.”
“Because it’s the press’s watering hole, where most of them spend their Friday afternoons. I did it to throw whoever might be watching us off the scent.”
Nick processed her tone and earnest expression and battled down the jealousy bubbling in his blood. Considering the publicity surrounding the court case, she would have known her presence at that bar, especially with a man of Jason Cook’s reputation, would end up in the next day’s papers.
Not to make him jealous. Not to patch things up with a past lover. The relief surprised Nick with its intensity. He had to remember his purpose here tonight—keep her guessing, spike her interest. His very real jealousy was an added bonus.
Jordan shifted under his gaze as if uncomfortably aware that her face was covered in green goop. “Get yourself a drink,” she told him, pointing at the small bar in the corner of the room. “I’ll go and clean up.”
Nick’s eyes stayed with her until she turned into the first door down the hall. Her bedroom, he presumed, relieved to be left alone momentarily. It gave him a chance to explore, try to get a handle on her.
He moved fully into the lounge, his eyes busy.