Awaken to Pleasure (3 page)

After he took care of Taylor.

Heading upstairs, he passed the closed door of his admittedly huge bathroom and entered his bedroom, knowing he had an unused robe someplace. Except when he reached the closet, he picked out his favorite.

The instant she shut the bathroom door, Taylor dropped the blanket and started removing her damp clothes, pausing only to place her cell phone in a safe spot. Clipped to the waistband of her pants, it hadn’t disappeared with Donald. The small change in her pockets clinked as she dropped her pants to the floor—forgotten from an earlier purchase, the money would have been just enough for the bus.

She noted the sunken spa to the left but headed straight toward the shower. Encased in glass, it had an enormous amount of space, the fixtures steel and glass. Obviously, it had been custom-built for someone much bigger than her.

Immediately, her brain bombarded her with images of Jackson’s muscled bulk in the shower, his arms bulging with strength as he did things to her in the watery enclosure that were surely not anatomically possible.

“Even if they were, you’re such a coward that you’d run a mile if he tried.”

With a self-mocking laugh that was tinged with a trace of disappointment, she stripped and stood in the centre of the cubicle, under the three showerheads. The spray hit her so high that she was in danger of drowning. She reached up and tried to tilt them down but they wouldn’t budge. Giving up, she stood shivering on the tiles outside. Jackson’s firm knock came a minute later. Cracking open the door, she peeked around it.

“You should be getting warmed up. I told you I’d throw it in.” He scowled, all male annoyance and faintly menacing good looks.

And yet she trusted him. He had a rock-solid integrity that defied her to put him in the same unflattering category as the rest of his sex. A thought nudged at the back of her mind but she pushed it aside. Her stepfather’s attempt at wresting custody of Nick from her was
her
problem and despite his kindness, Jackson wouldn’t want to know about it. After all, she’d just been his temporary secretary.

She grabbed the robe, hiding behind the door. “Wait.” Snuggling into the garment, which smelt reassuringly of Jackson and devoured her entire body, she tugged the door fully open. “I need you to set the showerheads lower. I feel like I’m standing under Niagara Falls.”

Shaking his head, he walked into the humid room. “They’re electronic.” He showed her a control panel on the outside wall of the shower. “See?”

Taylor flicked her gaze up from her appreciative view of his backside. The man was muscled
everywhere.
She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to run her hands all over that beautiful golden skin. “How was I supposed to know your house was gadgety?” Grateful that she sounded normal, she made a face at him. “Okay, fix them anyway now that you’re here.”

Giving her one of his rare but extremely lethal grins, he did as ordered. “Enough, shortie?”

Nurtured by the warmth of that smile, something woke in her heart, something that wasn’t lust. Used to protecting herself from emotions that promised joy but could just as well lead to incredible suffering, she tried to ignore it. “Thanks, Mr. Mobster.” She could barely wait to luxuriate in the heat. “I need to thaw now. Shoo.”

He left with another grin that seared her nerves. Disgusted at both her physical and unexpected emotional susceptibility to a man so far out of her reach, she shucked off the robe and stepped into the shower.

Jackson stood outside the bathroom, trying to relearn to breathe. It wasn’t easy when erotic visions of Taylor in black lace dominated his thoughts. His lovely guest had apparently started stripping at the door and not stopped ’til she’d reached the shower. Ignoring the trail of feminine clothes, ending in a pair of black lace panties, had been a forced lesson in self-control. Especially when he noticed that the bra matched.

He hadn’t thought that Taylor would be the black lace type. Showed how much he knew. Groaning, he leaned on the wall with both hands and dropped his head against the white paint. His shoulders were rigid with tension, his jaw set as he wrestled with instinct.

“I will not seduce Taylor,” he repeated over and over, and knew he was lying. Having her encased in his robe wasn’t enough. He wanted her encased in him, while her body sheathed his in hot, wet welcome.

Poor, sweet Taylor would probably run a mile if she discovered what he was thinking. Bundled up in his white robe, she’d looked even smaller than usual. Though she wasn’t a petite woman, next to his bulk she appeared fragile. His biceps bulged as he tensed his body, trying to tame the desire rippling through him, hot and voracious. Its talons tore at his control, hungering for heat and abandon and sheer, unadulterated pleasure.

Taylor had definitely awakened the sleeping tiger within him. The question was, did she have any interest in satiating it? Well…she
had
called him gorgeous. Despite his frustrated desire, he smiled, remembering the first time he’d seen her.

He’d looked up from drafting changes to a contract, expecting to find a mature woman in his office doorway. The agency knew his requirements. He didn’t want some young would-be starlet trying to impress him with her “charms”—he wanted superb typing skills not mediocre acting skills.

The woman in the doorway had had dark hair pulled back into a severe bun, lush lips softened only by gloss and lovely blue eyes. He’d detected a trace of challenge in those too-blue eyes, as if his reputation didn’t scare her. She’d been dressed in a knee-length skirt and fitted jacket, both in solid navy, looking every inch the executive assistant.

He’d wanted to groan in despair. It would’ve taken a blind man not to notice that she was stunning. He’d known from experience that if he gave her the slightest encouragement, she’d pull out some undoubtedly beautiful hair from that bun, undo the buttons on her jacket and sashay over.

“I need this dictation typed yesterday,” he’d growled, throwing her a tape.

She’d caught it and left, without commenting on his brusqueness. Dismissing her from his mind, he’d started to race through another piece of work, aware that without a competent secretary, his day was likely to end sometime in the wee hours of the morning.

Less than half an hour later, she’d walked back in. Handing him several typed sheets, she’d picked up his handwritten edits to the contract and returned to her workstation. Wondering at her confidence, he’d turned his eyes to what she’d given him and just about died of shock.

Stalking out, he’d stood over her desk. “Name?”

“Taylor Reid.” Her response had been cool.

“Do you want to be a movie star?”

Blue, blue eyes had widened. “Good God, no.”

He’d grinned at that disgusted statement. It had been the first time that she’d made him smile. “Fine. Good work. Do I have you for the next three months?”

“Yes.”

His delight in having found an extremely efficient secretary hidden beneath the form of a beautiful woman had been borne out. By the end of her first week, she’d organized his
office, caught up on the backlog of filing and yelled at him when he’d raised his voice to her.

And somewhere along the way, he’d found himself coming to work just to hear her tart responses to his questions, and bask in her sunny smile. They’d never crossed any line, never even touched, but in his heart he’d known that he wanted to claim her as his woman. Only his promise to himself that he’d be faithful, unlike his philandering father and womanizing half brothers, had kept him from taking her. Or perhaps it had been the fact that Taylor had seen him as honorable and he’d wanted to live up to her expectations.

Now, there were no barriers to what he wanted to do with sweet, sexy Taylor, and his body was demanding he make up for almost three years of abstinence, broken only by that one, bittersweet afternoon with Bonnie. After her death, he’d had plenty of offers and no trouble refusing them all. He’d thought his emotional centre had died with his child, taking with it his need for a woman’s soft touch. But his reaction to Taylor told him that his body hadn’t shut down, it had merely gone into hibernation, waiting for the one woman who could bring him back to life.

Taylor.

The shower shut off. Shaking his head, he pushed off the wall and headed down the stairs to the kitchen. After her assault tonight, Taylor would hardly be reassured if she found him waiting for her outside the bathroom, blatantly aroused and more than ready to peel off her single layer of clothing. He didn’t know if he could control himself around skin pink from heat, body naked and touchable under the robe.
His
robe.

Then, minutes later, she walked into the kitchen, wrapped in that damn robe. “Is that coffee I smell?”

He’d kicked off his shoes in the living room and saw that she was barefoot, too. “You’ll get cold on the tiles. I’ll find
you some socks.” He didn’t even to try to fight his protective instincts toward her.

She came to stand next to him, holding out a hand for the cup of coffee he held. “Coffee first.”

“This is…mine,” he finished, as she stole the cup and took a big gulp. He watched her swallow, heard her sigh in appreciation and felt all sorts of things harden in his body. Her fresh, womanly scent made him want to strip her down to her glowing skin and crush her body under his, while his hands stroked and kneaded. Frowning, he backed off a couple of steps. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” She turned, cradling the cup in her palms. “Donald didn’t really scare me—I guess I just felt betrayed.” Disappointment edged her tone.

He understood. “You’re safe here.”

Her smile was glorious. “I know. I trust you.”

Dio!
he thought. No way in hell could he seduce her now. “I’ll get you those socks.”

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s go in the living room instead.” She put down the now empty cup. “Are you coming?”

Bemused, he followed her into the spacious room. A small music system was arranged in wall brackets on the left, while a large sofa upholstered in blue sat against the opposite wall. However, the main feature was the floor-to-ceiling window immediately in front. Stretching from one end of the room to the other, it looked out over the sea to the dormant island volcano of Rangitoto. Tonight, the weather obscured most of the view, allowing only a glimpse of crashing breakers.

“It’s so open.” She walked across the plush dove-grey carpet to spread her palm against the glass.

He came to stand beside her. “It’s reflective. No one can see inside, even if they get into the grounds.”

Next to him, Taylor’s profile was clean and pure. The curling hair around her face looked like it would be incred
ibly soft to the touch. The urge to reach out and test his theory was so strong that he shoved his hands into his pants pockets and clenched them tight.

“Your home’s very tidy.”

To him, it looked barren. “I don’t live with a kid.”

She smiled fondly. “He is a tad messy but I suppose muddy sneakers come with little boys.”

“I’m surprised you let him go on the camp.”

Her eyes moved from contemplating the turbulent sea to fix on his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He raised a brow. “You’re very protective of Nick.”

“I’m his only family.” Her defensiveness was clear. “I can be protective if I want.”

He left the topic for now, aware how touchy she was about her brother. He’d tried to broach the subject with her while she’d worked for him, but she’d frozen him out. At the time, he’d been frustrated at having to accept that he didn’t have any rights over her brother…or over her.

Yet.

He wouldn’t touch her tonight, because he’d promised her safety and he would never renege on that assurance. But, after tonight, all bets were off, because he wanted rights over Taylor. All sorts of rights.

“O
ne of the spare rooms is made up. It’s to the right of the upstairs bathroom. My bedroom’s across the hall if you need anything.” Jackson’s tone was businesslike.

Taylor knew a dismissal when she heard one. “Yes, boss.” She looked from the tumultuous weather outside to the powerful man standing next to her. He could be just as dangerous as the storm winds.

“I certainly never heard that when you were working for me.” His words were light but the look in his eyes was intensity itself, hot and possessive.

She knew what that look meant and had from a very early age. She just didn’t want to deal with it. Heart thudding, she said an abrupt, “Good night,” and left.

There was no lock on the bedroom door but she didn’t worry. Jackson would never assault her. That didn’t mean he didn’t want her. In the past, when life had threatened to become too bleak or lonely, she’d hugged the awareness of his
desire to her, safe in the knowledge that nothing would ever come of it. She wasn’t that kind of woman.

And Jackson wasn’t that kind of man. His personal code was stronger than lust or passion. He wouldn’t have broken his wedding vows no matter what Bonnie had done. But now his wife was gone and he’d acknowledged the smoldering fire between them, if only with his dark eyes.

Confused by her warring emotions, Taylor started to get ready for bed and then realized she had nothing to sleep in. About to search the closet in the room, she heard a heavy tread outside her door. A curt knock followed.

Opening the door, she found Jackson holding out a white shirt. “Thought you might need this.” His voice was low and that banked fire in his gaze wasn’t apparent.

Her heart turned over. “Thanks.” Just as she took the shirt, her cell phone, which she’d dropped into the pocket of her robe, rang. Immediately, worry shot through her. “That might be Nick. Hold on.”

Unfortunately, it was her stepfather, Lance Hegerty, on the line. “Where are you, Taylor? No one’s answering at your place. Where’s my son?”

She knew he’d said the last deliberately—a cruel reminder that Nick was only her half brother. No matter that she’d raised him, in the eyes of the law she had less of a right to Nick than Lance, his biological father.

“Why are you calling? It’s late.” Her voice threatened to tremble. She crushed the shirt in her hand.

“You haven’t responded yet.”

She knew her face was losing its color. Turning her back to Jackson, she said, “I have two more weeks.” A bare fourteen days before time expired to file legal papers in opposition to his claim for sole custody.

His laugh was cruel. “We can do it easy or we can do it hard but I’ll win. Remember that and don’t forget your place,
brat—you’re nothing but a rich man’s castoff. My
son
deserves better than a life with you.”

She hung up, hand shaking. Lance could reduce her to tears with a few well-chosen barbs, but she prided herself on never breaking down where he could see or hear her.

“Who was that?” Jackson demanded.

She could almost feel the heat of his big body against her back. The urge to tell him was overwhelming, but remnants of the fear generated by the call held her back. Jackson was a rich and powerful man, too. He might take Lance’s side. Bewildered and a little lost, she could barely think. All she knew was that she couldn’t let that monster take Nick. Suddenly, panic hit her. What if Lance took him by force? She had to call the camp and warn them!

When she turned to face Jackson, the clean, male scent of him taunted her with promises of safety. “Someone I don’t want to talk to,” she admitted, trying not to let him see the panic riding her.

“Do you want me to deal with it?”

She shook her head. “No. I think I’d like to go to sleep.” Her words were blunt, her inner resources depleted by the force of her apprehension.

Though his dark eyes narrowed, he left, his shoulders almost filling the doorway. Despite the horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, the urge to touch those shoulders made her throat dry. Big, strong Jackson seemed like the safest port in the storm of her life.

Trembling, she closed her door and immediately called Nick’s camp counselor. After waking her from a deep sleep, she made the poor woman do a bed check on her brother and then swear that she’d ensure that no one but Taylor was allowed to pick him up, during or after camp. She wanted to go get him right now, but Nick had been so excited about the camp, she couldn’t bear to cut it short.

Calmer now that she knew he was safe, she got out of the robe and into the shirt. It came almost to her knees and she had to fold back the cuffs several times before her hands poked through the sleeves. But, for some reason she didn’t want to face, it comforted her to be wearing Jackson’s shirt. She crawled into bed, craving sleep.

Instead, fear hammered at her temples, creating an excruciating headache. Whimpering in pain, she sat up, aware that her suffering was stress induced. She needed to release some of the pressure by asking for help—by asking Jackson? Out of the grip of the illogical terror that had bewildered her after the call, she knew that her fears that he’d take Lance’s side were groundless. Jackson Santorini might be dictatorial and dominating, but unlike her tormentor, he had honor.

Life had forced her to be strong, but this time there were so many burdens on her that she felt as if she would collapse. Despite that, her heart rebelled against asking Jackson. She remembered how his family ignored him, except when they needed his help. Becoming another burden chafed, but she’d do anything to protect Nick. Including asking the help of a man who made her wish for impossible things.

Afraid that her courage would desert her if she delayed, she jumped out of bed. It was only when she was standing before Jackson’s bedroom door that she remembered her only clothing was his shirt. Her knuckles had hit the wood by then and it was too late. The door swung open before she could retreat. Jackson stood in front of her, wearing a pair of white boxer shorts.

Captivated by the view, she lost her train of thought. His thickly muscled wall of a chest, covered with a sprinkling of black hair, was only the start. Ropes of muscle ran across his shoulders and arms, and his abdomen was ridged in a way that told her he carried no excess flesh. His thighs looked like tree trunks. She’d been right—the man was muscled
everywhere.

He shifted and she jerked her head up, aware that she’d been staring. But, how could any red-blooded woman resist indulging herself with such a prime example of masculinity? Especially a woman who’d been shown time and time again that this masculine power would never be turned against her. She expected to see amusement in those dark eyes, but something else awaited her.

Desire.

Hot, rippling desire.

Scorching desire.

She was familiar with desire—Jackson inspired dreams of such erotic power they left her drenched in sweat. But she was even more familiar with desire in men’s eyes. After she’d turned fourteen, her mother’s boyfriends had looked at her with eyes hot with wanting. Then there had been that…she didn’t like to think about that much. It still made her feel dirty and used.

“Cara.”
Jackson’s husky whisper sent shivers racing through her, but she couldn’t move away.

He tipped up her face with a finger under her chin and then bent down to press his lips gently against hers. Instinctive defense mechanisms kicked into place and she stood still, not fighting but not responding either. Frustration gnawed at her stomach as she realized that despite her age and knowledge of Jackson, childhood terrors still had a stranglehold over her.

He broke the kiss. “My apologies. I did not realize that you did not accept my kiss.”

So formal, she thought, so icy, when his lips had been warm and soft. She felt suddenly bereft but knew it was her own fault—the fruit of cowardice. “I accepted.”

He braced his right hand on the doorjamb, his face expressionless in a way she hated. “Like a statue. I won’t touch you again if that is what you prefer.”

That option didn’t sound good to her. Nibbling on her lower lip, she looked down at the lush grey carpet and then
back up. “I don’t deal well with men wanting me.” While she didn’t trust Jackson’s desire, she trusted his intellect. He would never judge her for her fear, not when he’d been hurt so much by others. “I…had some bad experiences when I was younger.” She hadn’t meant to admit that much but couldn’t bring herself to regret the confidence.

Jackson’s protective instincts were jolted awake. “Who?” he demanded, his tone barely above a growl. Closing the distance between them, he put one hand on her hip. He’d expected her to recoil but to his pleased shock, one fine-boned hand fluttered to rest on his bare chest. Heat engulfed his body but he ruthlessly caged the fire, aware of the fragility of her faith in his goodness.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” Her answer didn’t satisfy him, but then she said, “I wanted to talk to you about the phone call.”

He was placated by that evidence of her trust. For this night, it was enough. “Who was on the other end?”

“Why didn’t you press for more information before?”

“I figured I had no right to know.” Her face was so solemn, so lovely in the frame of midnight-dark hair. He loved Taylor’s thick, curling mane. Dreams of the silky strands spread over his arm as she slept beside him had tormented him since their first meeting. “Do I?”

Taylor knew what he was really asking. “I don’t know if I’m ready to let you into my world.”

He was silent for a moment. “Why?”

“You’re…” How could she admit that she was scared of what he made her feel, what he made her ache for?

“You trust me, don’t you?”

The answer came easily because he’d always been far more than just her boss, no matter what she’d tried to convince herself. “I’m here.” And she wouldn’t be if she didn’t trust him on a deep, unshakable level.

That trust was rooted in the knowledge that he’d never coerce her to do anything against her will. Jackson was a protector. And she needed his protection from Lance. More importantly,
Nick
needed his protection. “Nick is the most precious part of my world,” she whispered, making a decision.

“I know.”

“He’s returning from camp in a couple of days,” she told him. “Do you want to come pick him up with me?”

“Yes.”

Taylor felt something change in their relationship at that moment. With her invitation, she’d accepted Jackson’s claim over her and made a claim of her own. But did she have any right to him when her whole being was wracked with fear over Lance’s threats to take her brother away?

“You only ever speak of Nick.” One big hand stroked her hair. Instead of fear at the intimacy, she felt a shy sense of pleasure because this was annoyingly protective Jackson. “Do you have no other family?”

“Not in truth.”

“Tell me what that means,
piccola.”
It was a masculine demand disguised as a request.

Taylor found that she wanted to tell him. He’d never been given any privacy with his life and it seemed only fair that he should know something of her as well. And the truth was, she needed to tell someone and aside from Jackson, who was there?

The first words took time, but he didn’t hurry her. Standing in the hallway with her toes digging into the carpet and Jackson’s heat surrounding her, she’d never felt safer. He might want her, but he would
never
force her—she’d stake her life on that. “My mother brought us up, well, she brought me up anyway. She died when Nick was six.” Keeping her voice steady was an effort. “I was twenty and her death wasn’t a surprise. She was an alcoholic.”

To her shock, right then, Jackson picked her up and walked into his bedroom. The only light came from the full moon outside. She remained absolutely silent as he pulled a blanket off the bed and then sat down in a window seat similar to others about the house. He slung the blanket around her shoulders and held her in his lap like she belonged to him, while he leaned against the wall. She sat up but his body surrounded her. Protected her.

“Why am I telling you?” she asked, wondering how it was that she felt so safe with him. And whether she should be frightened at the reason behind the feeling.

“Because you obviously need to talk. Did that phone call have anything do with your brother?”

“How…” She gasped at his perception.

“It terrified you. You only react like that when Nick’s hurt.”

Her nod was jerky. “It was Nick’s father, Lance.”

“Your father?”

Her blood seemed to turn ice-cold. Taking a deep breath, she told Jackson the reason why Lance cared nothing if he destroyed her. “He’s not my father.”

Jackson looked down at the flat sound of Taylor’s voice. “What?” The urge to wrap her up in his arms and press her against his chest was almost irresistible. He fought the urge because he needed to see her face.

“My mother, Helena, was pregnant by another man when she married Lance.” She stared fixedly at the dark square of the bedroom doorway. “My biological father was already married. He didn’t want his mistress after she became pregnant and refused to get rid of me. She was destitute.”