Slipping the key into the lock, I attempt to turn it, but it sticks. Jiggling it doesn’t even make it budge.
“Here, let me,” Jax’s voice is low, he’s standing a step or two below me. But he makes his way up the final steps to just shy of pressing against me as his arms reach around, one hand with the keys, the other a firm grip on the knob, caging me between the door and his warm body. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up, taking notice of the heavenly body standing so near. Definitely not a good idea.
Too quickly, the lock gives and the door opens, forcing me to step inside, although I would have preferred to spend a little more time tightly pressed against the door with Jax so close behind me.
I flip the switch on the lights and the dark room comes into focus. It’s simple, but neat and clean. “It’s not much, but you won’t be bothered coming in and out at least.”
Jax looks around and smiles warmly. “It’s perfect.”
“Do you want me to go get some of your stuff from your hotel?”
Jax looks conflicted, almost as if he wants me to, but doesn’t want to ask.
“I don’t mind. Really.” I encourage.
His gaze slowly searches my face, “Okay, but you have to let me buy you dinner.”
“I have to, huh?” I tease.
“Yep, or I won’t let you do any more nice things for me.”
“And that would be tragic.” Placing my hands over my heart, I feign disappointment.
“Wiseass,” Jax rebuts, smiling.
“You better be nice, Jackson, or I’ll show the reporters the way up.”
“Jackson, huh? I thought it was Jax, since we’re friends and all.”
“Jackson just seems to slip out when I need to put you in your place.”
Jax laughs. A deep, real, natural laugh, the kind you can’t fake. The sound makes me smile.
“I’ll call my driver and have him pick you up and take you to my hotel. He can pick us up some dinner from the restaurant while you’re grabbing my things.”
“Your driver? I thought you weren’t important?”
Jax opens his wallet and slips a sleek black hotel key card out and hands it to me. “I’m not. Doesn’t mean I always need to walk.” He grins.
I roll my eyes.
***
The unmarked black town car pulls up to the hotel and the driver turns to hand me a business card. Through a thick Russian accent, he introduces himself as Alex and says, “Mr. Knight requested I pick up dinner while you’re inside. Please call when you’re ready and I’ll be outside waiting.”
Stepping out of the car, I look up at the beautiful architectural feat. I’ve passed the San Marzo hotel before, and thought about drawing it, but never actually gone inside. As I approach the impressive double doors, a uniformed doorman opens the door and tips his hat with a nod. “Good evening.”
Inside, the grandeur of the hotel takes my breath away. Jax is lucky I don’t have my sketch pad with me, or he’d be eating his dinner for breakfast cold, wearing the same clothes as he has on now.
After a few starry eyed minutes, I force myself to stop ogling the lobby. I enter the elevator and insert the key as Jax instructed, the car begins moving without my even pressing any buttons. A long, but rapid, climb takes me to the top of the building and then the elevator doors open. Although they don’t open to a hallway as I would have expected. Instead, they open directly to the penthouse. A beautiful, elegant, completely intimidating suite with a living room that’s larger than my entire apartment.
Grateful that I’m alone, it gives me a few minutes to nose around, checking out the place in its entirety. Finding closets large enough to contain my wardrobe makes me wonder, do people live here or come for a few nights? The first bathroom I enter gleams in floor to ceiling white marble. There’s a tub large enough to hold six and a separate shower with at least half a dozen shower heads. Two smaller bathrooms are equally as lush, one off the living room and the other off the second bedroom. Really, who needs three bathrooms when you’re alone in a hotel?
The door to the master bedroom is open, the oversized four poster bed adorned with sumptuous deep burgundy and gold colored fabric. Two chocolates wrapped in gold foil rest lovingly in the middle of the pile of fluffy pillows. The only sign anyone has even visited the insanely luxurious suite is in the closet, where Jax told me I would find his bag and some clothes. Feeling slightly guilty for going through his things, although not enough to stop me, I examine the labels as I fold each garment into his bag. Expensive. Not flashy, but the feel of the fabric and the names of the designers tell me they likely cost a small fortune.
I pack enough clothes for a few days, and grab the toiletries he has in the bathroom, rolling the full suitcase back to the elevator doors. I look around as I wait for the elevator to rise, a small round table with a wooden tray catches my eye. A few folded up papers and some keys sit, likely the contents of Jax’s pocket at one time. Curiosity gets the best of me as I wait, and I find myself unfolding a newspaper article before I can think better of my snooping. Middleweight Champion, Vince “The Invincible” Stone, confirms rumors he is the lovechild of Senator Preston Knight. The photo shows a handsome man pushing a photographer with one hand, his other arm wrapped protectively around a pretty auburn haired woman as they attempt to walk past throngs of media staked out in front of a gym. The elevator doors open. And then close after a few minutes, my nose still buried in the last of the two page article.
The date of the article catches my eye. He’s been carrying it around for a while. Not long after I lost my father, so did Jax. It may not have been a physical loss, as mine was, but if he admired his father a fraction of how much I did mine, it must have been a devastating loss all the same.
Carefully, I fold the newspaper back up into the little square it was when I found it, moving on to examine the business cards held in a beautiful monogrammed silver clip, JPK. I run my fingers over the unusual cards, they’re not paper, instead some sort of silver metal, paper thin, but strong. Raised engraved lettering displays a simple three line message. Knight International Investments. Jackson P. Knight. President. Only one simple phone number on the card, rather than the usual six lines of email, fax, and other means of communication listed. The card matches the man. Intriguing, strong, edgy, yet with a regal air…and pretty damn sexy too.
***
Jax unloads half a dozen takeout containers from the bag. Unless he’s planning on feeding the reporters, there is definitely going to be a ton of leftovers. He fills two plates with a little from each container and sets them down on the small kitchen table. “I had Alex pick up a bottle of red to go with dinner, I hope you like it.” He pulls a bottle out of the bag and begins to open drawers in search of a corkscrew.