Claiming Cleo (Masters Club 2)

He tapped Cleo lightly on the shoulder, a signal she was to stand. Something was off in the way she held herself, her posture rigid, where it had been relaxed only a moment before. Perhaps she hadn’t liked Smithson’s obnoxious banter any more than he had, but surely she had to be used to that kind of talk.

Looking to Grayson, he said, “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. Cleo and I have someplace to be. It was nice to see you again, Bob,” he forced himself to add.

As Jack led Cleo away, she continued to hold herself stiffly. When he glanced at her, she looked down, as if not wishing to meet his eye.

“Everything all right with you, Cleo?”

She sniffed. “Of course, Sir. Everything is fine. I serve at the pleasure of my Masters.”

Jack winced inwardly at the use of the plural. In her not-so-subtle way, she was emphasizing the fact that she belonged to the club at large, and was only on loan to him. He couldn’t really fault her for her reply. The words were appropriate, but the attitude was not. Her tone was cold, her bearing stiff. The easy camaraderie and warmth they’d shared had evaporated. Within the space of a few minutes, she had closed up like a turtle hiding in her shell.

Jack could no longer ignore the elephant in the room. If he was going to claim Cleo, he needed to face whatever was going on head-on. Clearly, there were unresolved issues between them that needed to be addressed.

“Let’s go somewhere private, Cleo,” he said, striving to keep his voice calm. “We need to talk.”

Chapter 13

As Master Jack led her from the room, Cleo tried to get herself back under control. While she remained concerned about Rowan, she had confidence in Eric as a trainer. He would get to the bottom of whatever was going on with that poor girl.

The aborted scene had resulted in an unexpected bonding moment with Jack the man, as opposed to just Jack the Master. And that had been her undoing. Like a fool, she’d let her guard totally down.

Master Bob’s offered condolences had been like a bucket of cold water dashed over her head. She’d seen the sudden, stark anguish in Master Jack’s eyes. He still pined for his late wife. That look of longing and loss had been like a dagger straight through her heart.

She should thank Bob Bloody Smithson for his sharp reminder that the deck was hopelessly stacked against her when it came to Jack Hartford. She’d been fooling herself to think she could ever be more to him than—what had Master Bob called her?—a sexy distraction.

And now Master Jack wanted “to talk,” which was the last thing she wanted right then. No, what she wanted to do was to curl up in her own bed, cover her head with the pillow and indulge in a good, old-fashioned cry.

Obviously, that wasn’t an option. However uncomfortable she might be, she had signed a contract, and she was a professional. She would honor the terms of the deal, get through these next few days, and then put Master Jack out of her mind and heart—once and for all.

“I can take you to my room, Sir,” she said, aware her voice sounded stiff, but unable to help it. Stiff was better than pummeling him with her fists, which was what she really wanted to do.

Either that or kiss him.

“That works.”

They made their way to the small lift located at the back of the house. Cleo quickly tapped the four-digit code into the keypad by the lift doors. They rose in silence to the fourth floor and made their way down the thickly carpeted hallway, Master Jack’s hand lightly on the back of her neck. They entered her bedroom. Sunlight poured through the single, high window of her small but cheery space. She stood stiffly, waiting for Master Jack’s direction.

Master Jack dropped his hand, closed the door and moved to stand in front of Cleo. He looked down at her, a question in his soulful brown eyes. Why did he have to be so bloody gorgeous?

Unable to maintain his questioning gaze, Cleo looked away.

Master Jack gently but firmly gripped her chin, forcing her to turn back and look at him. “This is about more than Rowan, isn’t it? Since Smithson approached our table, you’ve”—he paused, as if searching for the right word—“disappeared, at least emotionally. I thought we were getting somewhere. Reconnecting in a positive way. Now, it’s like you’ve put up this barrier—this brick wall between us. What’s going on?”

Was he really asking? Was he that clueless?

As if he hadn’t vanished for half a year after Annette’s death, when Cleo would have loved nothing better than to have been there for him. When he’d returned to the club at last, he’d made it abundantly clear she was just another pleasure sub—no more, no less. Could he really have no idea just how badly he’d hurt her? Then there was the stupid, bloody letter, tearing away the new skin of resolve she’d managed to grow over her shattered heart. That stupid, breezy, hey-how-are-you-it’s-been-too-long letter that she’d read so many times she knew every word by heart.