Off Limits

His fingers are glancing over my skin, stirring warmth and desire inside my chest.

‘They’re products of their upbringings,’ I say, and then shake my head, for it’s disloyal to Grandma to implicate her in my father’s cold-fishery. He’s really a grump of his own creation. ‘Or perhaps of society’s expectations. I don’t know. They’re very...stiff upper lip. Cold. Emotionless.’

His lips twist. ‘Funny. That’s just how I would have described you a few weeks ago.’

My eyes widen and I look at him. ‘There’s a huge difference between maintaining a professional distance and being cold.’

‘Yes, there is.’ His finger lifts higher, running a line over my cheek. ‘You were doing both.’

‘I was not,’ I deny, offended by his description.

‘You made ice look warm.’

I move to stand, but his hands still me. ‘Why?’ he asks. ‘Why did you act like that around me?’

‘It wasn’t an act.’ I sniff, staring out at the storm-ravaged harbour.

But Jack’s insistent. ‘You’re not like it with anybody else. I never really noticed that until I saw you talking with Wolf DuChamp. And now I’ve paid better attention I see you weren’t like it with anyone but me.’

‘I...I was. That’s just how I am.’

‘No.’ He’s adamant. ‘The guys from the Tokyo transition team all call you “Gem”, like you’re some long-lost buddy of theirs. You’re friendly with Rose and Sophia. Amber raves about you. It’s just me.’

I open my mouth to deny it, but how can I? He’s totally right. I met Jack Grant and every single one of my defences was raised because I knew. I knew there was trouble on our doorstep: a chemistry we would need to work our butts off to deny.

‘So what is it about me, Gemma Picton, that had you acting as though I were the plague incarnate?’

My heart hammers hard in my chest. There is danger in this conversation. Danger of truth and honesty and far too much insight.

‘Maybe I thought you’d see friendliness as encouragement,’ I murmur, my tone light, going for a joke.

‘But not with Wolf or Barry or Clint?’

My expression is calm, but inside I’m shivering. ‘No.’ It’s a whisper.

God. What is he doing to me? He seems to have become ‘just Jack’, but my brain reminds me forcefully that the man made a billion-pound fortune virtually from scratch. He’s brilliant, ruthless and incisive. And determined.

‘When did you realise this was going to happen?’ He runs his finger higher, teasing my nipple through the flimsiness of my dress.

I arch a brow, my breath trapped in my throat. ‘Um...around the night you kissed me and...touched me...’

It’s a lie. I knew it from the moment I accepted the job. Proximity would feed inevitability. On reflection, I can’t believe I stalled it for two years.

‘I think you’ve wanted me longer than that.’

‘Do you?’ I clear my throat, and this time when I stand, he doesn’t stop me.

I feel his eyes on my back as I walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of mineral water. The bubbles are frantic—hypnotic, even.

‘Yeah.’

He stands, and I look at him helplessly.

‘What do you want me to say?’ I lift my shoulders. ‘I knew you, Jack. I know you. I know that you’re in love with your wife. I know that you sleep with women to forget her. Do you blame me for wanting to keep this insanity at bay?’

‘No.’ He drags a hand through his hair and his smile is ghostly on his face. ‘I blame myself for not letting you.’

His shoulders are broad, and an invisible, enormous weight is upon them.