On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

This can’t be right.

I scroll down and find images of Jackson with other women, all taken over the course of the last five years. There aren’t many—it’s not like he’s some mega movie star and the paparazzi is glued to him—but whoever wrote this article did their homework, and for each gala Jackson has attended, there is a different woman on his arm. And the commentary makes clear that Jackson pretty much fucked his way across the United States, and is continuing to do exactly that. With Megan. With me. And with God only knows who else.

“Don’t completely freak until you talk to him,” Cass warns, which is a little ironic considering she’d called me in full freak-out mode, and I tell her as much. “I know, I know. And I’m sorry. It’s just—well, I like Jackson, but I love you, and I don’t want you to get hurt. And I swear if he does hurt you, I will cut his balls off with a hacksaw.”

I cringe. But I don’t disagree.

“You’re going to talk to him, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. I don’t say when, but I know it won’t be soon. Right now, I’m feeling just a little too raw.

“Okay, listen, my four o’clock just walked in. But you call if you need me.”

I promise that I will, then end the call. I sit and stare at the computer screen and then—because that really isn’t helping my mood—reach over and turn off my entire goddamn computer.

Shit.

How the hell could a day that started out so well have spiraled down so quickly?

I stare at the vase of flowers on my desk—lovely roses that should add some cheer to my day, but instead are only making me miserable. “Fuck.”

I pick up the vase, and before I can talk myself out of it, I drop the whole thing—glass and flowers and water and all—right into my trash.

It’s not as cathartic as I’d hoped, but I do feel slightly better.

The truth is that I should just haul my rear downstairs and talk to him, but I feel too ripped up inside. I’m afraid that I’ll start shouting at him. Or, worse, that I’ll burst into tears. I need time to get my shit together. I need to not think about Jackson or Megan or those stupid photos and just let it all settle.

And since the best way to do that is to lose myself in my work, I turn the computer back on, pull up my phone list, and start returning calls.

That’s what I’m doing when he arrives, as silent as a cat. But it doesn’t matter. I know he’s there, and the band around my heart that had started to loosen tightens once again.

“I look forward to getting your proposal,” I say into the phone, then hang up. I wait one beat, then another. Then I swivel in my chair to face him.

I don’t want it to, but the sight of him takes my breath away.

He’s not dressed any differently than he was earlier. Casual slacks and a button-down shirt, the top two buttons open to expose the indentation at the base of his neck. Nothing special about the outfit. Nothing formal about his posture. On the contrary, he is leaning negligently against my cubicle wall.

But it is the expression on his face that has knocked me flat. Passion and penitence and desire so strong it almost pulls me out of my chair. So help me, I want to enfold myself in his arms and press my head against his chest. Because isn’t Jackson the one person who has always been able to make me feel better? Who can soothe and reassure me?

Not today.

Today, I have no one.

Today, I steel myself as I look him in the eye. “This really isn’t a good time.”

He glances down, and I cringe as I realize that he’s looking right at the flowers in my trash. I start to rise—I want to explain—but I force myself to stay seated. Right now, I’m not the one who needs to apologize or explain. Jackson is. And if this evidence of how frustrated and pissed I am doesn’t prompt him, then maybe nothing will.

When he lifts his head and looks at me again, his eyes are flat and unreadable, just like his expression. Only the tightness in his jaw—as if he is clenching his teeth—evidences his dark mood. And it is only because I know him so well that I can see his rising temper. “I’ll let you get back to work.” The words are flat and measured and completely cold.

“Jackson—” His name is past my lips before I can call it back, and I sit there, slightly flummoxed, because I don’t know what I intended to say.

He had taken a step backward, but now he pauses.

I curse myself, because I am not ready to talk about this. So I just say, “Seven o’clock. Don’t forget. I’ll see you at the restaurant.”

He meets my eyes and holds my gaze for a moment longer than is comfortable. “Seven,” he finally says. Then he turns and walks away.