Flirting with Disaster (Jackson: Girls' Night Out 2)

Goddamn it. She was driving him mad. He was here to do a job—two jobs, actually—and neither of those involved getting into her bed. Not necessarily.

Tom winced at that cruel thought. No. He wouldn’t sleep with her for information. But he couldn’t shake the truth that she might be more willing to open up to him if they were intimate.

“No,” he growled to himself. He couldn’t have sex with her just to find out more. Those two things were separate. He wanted to sleep with her, and he also needed information. If those two things intersected, so be it.

The skin on his arms prickled, but he ignored it. If someone needed help, you took care of that whether they liked it or not. Isabelle didn’t want help. She didn’t want interference. But he’d give it anyway.

She reminded him a little of Michael, actually, before his brother had lost the greatness of his personality. Bold and brave and wild, and looking at the whole world with chin held high.

And like Michael, she’d never ask for help, even if she was drowning. Her pride scared him. And it turned him on like crazy.

He shut off the light illuminating her nude portrait, set his face in its best impassive expression and went out to join girls’ night.

* * *

ISABELLE WATCHED AS SOPHIE, Lauren and Veronica slammed down their shots of vodka and grinned at each other. “I hope some of you are spending the night,” she said before downing her own shot.

Sophie and Lauren raised their hands.

“I have a chauffeur,” Veronica said with a wobbly smile. She was definitely starting to loosen up.

The oven timer buzzed, and for once, Jill didn’t jump up. Instead, she poked her toe into Isabelle’s thigh. An empty sangria glass dangled from her fingers. “Quiche is ready. Where’s the salad?”

Isabelle winced. “Oops. I forgot about the salad.”

“Isabelle!” Jill yelled.

“I’m sorry! I got busy and... Look!” She held up her own glass. “It doesn’t matter. We have sangria fruit! That’s the best kind of salad.”

Lauren nodded. “She’s got a point, Jill.”

Jill didn’t look appeased. “I just want all of you to know that I brought Isabelle’s favorites, and this isn’t a menu I’d normally create. Or at least there’d be vegetables!”

Isabelle jumped up to head for the kitchen. “There’s spinach in the quiche. I’ll get it out of the oven.”

“Try not to forget between here and there,” Jill mumbled.

But all seemed forgiven when Isabelle brought her another sangria and the first plate of quiche. The fact that Jill had let Isabelle do the plating—okay, the triangle of quiche was a little lopsided—showed just how relaxed she was after that drink. Or she was exhausted. Isabelle gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You okay?”

“A little regretful, but that’s to be expected.”

They both looked up to see the other women watching curiously. “Marguerite and I finally ended it,” Jill explained and was greeted with moans of sympathy.

By the time Isabelle got quiche to the other women, everyone was telling breakup stories. Isabelle hurried back for two more plates, one for her and one for Tom, who’d just come in the front door.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Everything’s good. I’ll take this to the kitchen.”

“You can stay,” she said.

“No, I don’t want to be in the way.”

She bit back a sigh as he walked away. She’d been trying to drive him mad, but now she was the one suffering. She wanted to touch him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to suck his fingers into her mouth and make him moan. But she was apparently having a sleepover with friends. Damn it.

So all she could do was eat her delicious quiche and drink another sangria and offer horrified laughter at the other women’s stories.

“Speaking of exes,” Lauren drawled. “I finally saw Steve over the holidays.”