The Magnate's Manifesto(27)
Reality hit her like the hard slap of the night waves to her face. He wasn’t kissing her because he wanted her. He was kissing her because he wanted to possess her. Just like all the others.
She sank a palm into his chest and pushed. Caught off guard, he stumbled backward. His gaze flew to hers. “What the—?”
“You are all dogs,” she hissed, legs spread wide, feet planted in the sand. “Fighting over what you want. What you think is yours.”
He gave her wild-eyed look a wary glance. “You were as into that kiss as I was.”
Her elegant blond brows came together. “And now I’m walking away. Again. You were wrong, Jared. You aren’t any different than the rest of them. You’re all the same.”
She left him standing there, staring after her, his jaw practically on the ground. Why was she always thinking Jared was different when he so categorically wasn’t? Maybe she was the one losing her sense of judgment.
CHAPTER FIVE
JARED HAD RUN the path around the rocky beaches of the Cap for fifty minutes before he gave up trying to figure out what had happened last night and pulled up into a walk, sweat dripping from his chin. Given the lack of information coming from Bailey, the only thing that was clear was that Alexander Gagnon, Davide’s heir apparent and the man who would own the decision as to whether to link Stone Industries and Maison Electronique in a five-year strategic partnership, knew his CMO intimately enough to call out a mole on her behind.
The thought had his already-pumping blood charging through his veins. He scowled and swiped his T-shirt over his face. Bailey had said she’d met Gagnon once, he’d propositioned her, and she’d turned him down. So how would he know about the mole? And why, in God’s name, was that a more pressing question for him than what he was going to do about the changing dynamics of this deal and the impact on his future?
He let out a colorful curse and raked his T-shirt over his face again. Why wouldn’t Bailey tell him the truth? What could be so horrible about her past that she couldn’t tell him? That Alexander would call her on? He’d seen that look before, the one on Bailey’s face last night. It was the exact same one his father had worn when the hounds had closed in. When his inability to escape had become inevitable—when all of his carefully constructed lies had started to unravel.
His chest tightened. He did not tolerate secrets. What he should do was march up there and tell Bailey she either came clean or she was out. There was too much riding on this pitch…this deal, not to have complete transparency. But the fact was, she was his ace in the hole. Davide loved her and her ideas. So eliminating her from the pitch was a nonstarter.
A massive bird of prey flew in from the sea, its wingspan at least eight or nine feet across. His gaze followed it as it arced and headed inland. A vulture? It reminded him of Alexander the way he’d tracked Bailey with his eyes last night. It had been beyond the look men had when they coveted something. It had been something else entirely…
He turned toward the house, his mouth twisting in a grimace. He’d been right from the beginning. The mystery that was Bailey had a history. A history that could blow the lid off this deal if he didn’t find out what it was and defuse it. Now.
He made his way up the stairs toward their rooms, refusing to let himself address the other lethal ingredient flavoring the situation: the heat that had exploded between them last night. It was one thing to acknowledge an attraction. Another thing entirely to act on it. Because when the cat was out of the bag, it was all too easy to do it again.
Out of the question.
He let himself into his room, picked up his cell phone and dialed the PI he used to track his father, just to make sure he was alive, every now and again.
Danny Garrison picked up after almost seven rings with a sleepy, “’Lo?”
“I need you to dig up everything you can on my CMO, Bailey St. John.”
There was a rustling sound in the background. “You do realize at some point I do go off the clock?”
He looked at his watch on the bedside table. Eight a.m. He hadn’t even thought about the time difference. “Sorry. But I need this yesterday.”
“Considering it is yesterday for me,, no problem.” Sarcasm dripped from his PI’s voice.
“Focus on her time in Vegas. She went to school there.”
“Am I looking for anything in particular?”
Jared stared out at the cerulean-blue sky. At the vulture that had looped back over the seashore looking for breakfast.
“Something she’d want to hide.”
Bailey shrugged out of an orchid-pink silk shirt, her third choice thus far, and tossed it on the bed. Nothing, nothing felt right about this presentation happening in thirty minutes. Nothing had since she’d laid eyes on Alexander Gagnon and realized it was him.