Getting Played (Heart of Fame #7) (25 page)

The words flayed at Nat’s sanity. As did Dory’s delighted squeal when Jax hooked his arm behind her knees and swung her feet up off the ground, his laugh low and thoroughly filthy. “Let’s go. There’s nothing else I need here.”

His stare connected with Nat’s for a brief moment, long enough for her to see the contempt in his eyes, and then he turned, carrying her assistant from her office.

He didn’t look back.

Nat sat at her desk, numb. Empty. Motionless.

It was only when she heard the outer office door open and close that she squeezed her eyes shut. Hot tears burned at the back of them. She blinked, refusing to let them fall.

Refusing to…to…what? Blame Jax for his actions? She’d caused this. All this. She couldn’t blame him. She was the one who had demanded sex for names. She was the one who had goaded him into pleasuring her.

She was the one who had let him back into her life, when she’d known damn well she didn’t have the strength or will power to survive him.

She was the one to blame for it all. What had she expected? For Jax to beg to be with her? Refuse to accept her dismissal?

“The least he could do,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hands, “was give me my AC/DC record back.”

It was meant to be a joke, a way to break the misery in her soul.

It was only when Nat heard the first raw sob tear from her throat that she realized it was something else entirely.

The final nail.

Jax was gone from her life. For good this time.

The darkening evening beyond her office window fifteen minutes later, told her she had to move. As did the shrill chirp of a text message on her phone.

Nose blocked from her unchecked, shameful tears, she scooped her bag from the floor and dug out her mobile.

Shall pick you up in thirty minutes, Natalie. May I say I am so very happy you are attending the PM’s ball with me. I hope—no, I know it will be the first of many events and moments we share.

xox

J.

Nat read the Minister for the Arts and Culture’s far from subtle message, the words blurred by her stupid tears.

“Okay.” A heavy sphere of pain sat where her heart used to be. “Okay. We’re done here. Time to get moving, Nat. Time to put the last two weeks behind you and move on. You’ve had your fun and look where it got you. It’s time to be the Dean of the Con again. Time to get back to reality.”

Refusing to sniff or sob again, she rose from her desk, collected her bag and walked from her office.

She had a ball to get to. With a lovely man who was funny and good looking and smart and didn’t sleep with groupies and whose job worked perfectly with hers and…and…who was nice…and…publically aware and…and…

“And who isn’t Jax,” she finished aloud, her voice cracking. “Goddamn it, who isn’t Jax.”

Chapter Fourteen

An hour into the Prime Minister’s Ball’s proceedings, Nat knew coming had been a mistake.

Pulling in a slow breath, she ran her palms down over her belly, looking about herself. There were more dignitaries—local
and
foreign—and influential people here in the Sydney Town Hall than she’d ever encountered in one location. Every one she’d met had been friendly and interesting to talk to. She’d had a lengthy conversation with the prime minister’s wife about the Australian opera scene and how the Con was integral to furthering its international acclaim. She’d discussed Chopin and hip-hop with the Ambassador for the U.S. and the role of Eminem in Australia’s popular culture with the CEO of Qantas. It was, for someone in her position, a dream.

And yet she knew it was all a farce. Not because she wasn’t capable of holding her own in such company, but because the man beside her for all those conversations and discussions was not the man she wanted beside her.

Pressing both hands to her belly again, the snug black satin of her evening gown like cool liquid against her palms, she flicked Jeremy a quick sideways glance.

When he’d collected her from her home, just under ninety minutes ago, she’d been struck by how handsome he looked in his tux. When he’d run his gaze over her, she hadn’t been able to miss his admiration and desire.

She’d offered him her cheek. He’d placed a chaste kiss on it, his lips lingering long enough to indicate to her chaste was not at all how he wanted to kiss her. He’d told her how beautiful she looked and presented her his elbow.

Proper and chivalrous and gentlemanly.

She should have melted into a puddle of blissful desire. What woman wouldn’t?

Should have. But didn’t.

Since he’d collected her from her place, she’d told herself to give it time. Time. He truly
was
good looking. And quick witted and knowledgeable and easy to talk to.

The perfect date.

Standing beside him now, she told herself the same thing. Despite her expectation he would leave her to talk politics with his peers, he’d stayed with her from the moment they entered the ball. Had seldom removed his palm from the small of her back. Had included her in every conversation he had, no matter who it was with.

The perfect date.

She’d heard more than one murmur of the potential of his political future as they moved around the hall, most including the words
future prime minister
. He was humble and sweet and attentive and she knew they looked good together. They’d been complimented on that very thing often, including from the PM himself, his wink to Jeremy encouraging.

Jeremy had ducked his head with a boyish smile and slid his hand a little farther up Nat’s back. Up. Not down. Not closer to her butt to give it a taunting squeeze.

She’d held her breath, waiting for
something
inside her to react. To tell her this wonderful, perfect man was the right man for her.

Even if only the right man for her right now.

An hour in, and she’d accepted the fact that
something
was never going to happen.

It was a mistake to be here with Jeremy. It was a mistake to let him believe there was any hope of there ever being anything between them. There wasn’t. There never would be.

Not when she was irrevocably in love with Jax.

Jax. Who she’d spurned only a few hours ago. Who’d left her office with another woman in his arms.

Nat caught her bottom lip with her teeth and drove her nails into her palm.

“Are you well, Natalie?” Jeremy’s low voice tickled her ear, his breath warm on the side of her neck. “You seem…distracted.”

She started, jerking her head around to give him a guilty stare. “I’m…”

She stopped, the word
fine
dying on her lips before she could utter it.

“It’s the rock star, isn’t it?” Jeremy said, his eyes direct behind the spotless lenses of his glasses. “Jaxon Campbell.”

At the sound of Jax’s name, Nat’s stomach twisted. Her chest clenched. Her throat grew thick. “I…I’m sorry, Jeremy.” The apology left her on a soft whisper.

He drew in a slow breath. Released it and then let out a wry chuckle. “I suspected I had no chance when you rescued him from that melee after we’d had coffee. When you saw him, even at a distance, you came alive.”

Nat’s breath caught in her throat. “Jeremy…”

The Minister for the Arts and Culture shook his head, his smile warm. “I’m not mad. Disappointed, yes, but not mad. I had hoped we would…” He chuckled again, the sound self-deprecating. “Well, you are aware of what I hoped for. And it wasn’t just a political move, Natalie, me wanting to be with you. It was because you are incredible.”

Heart racing, Nat raised her hand and placed it to Jeremy’s jaw. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

He leant forward and brushed his lips against hers. “I am too,” he whispered before stepping away from her.

She looked at him, guilt and grief and dejection wrapping her like a shroud. “I have to go.”

He nodded, his smile both kind and sad. “You do.”

Nat caught her bottom lip with her teeth again. She studied him and, hands resting on his shoulders, placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Minister,” she said as a goodbye.

“Dean Thorton,” he said in return.

She turned and weaved her way through the ball to the main exit, head roaring, heart a crashing tattoo in her chest.

Flagging a taxi, she climbed into the back and settled into her seat.

When she didn’t immediately provide an address, the driver twisted in his seat and cast her an impatient look. “Where to?”

The thought of going back to her place, to her empty house, chilled her. Made her belly roll. She needed to get her mind off her misery, off the woeful situation she’d brought upon herself.

“The Sydney Conservatorium of Music,” she answered. “Main building, please.”

With a grunt and a nod, the driver turned back to the wheel and swung out into the steady flow of Friday evening traffic.

Fifteen minutes later, Nat unlocked her office door and crossed to her desk.

She sat in her chair. Opened her laptop. Opened the most recent budget report and stared at it.

Beneath her desk, her feet encountered…nothing.

Nat closed her eyes. Unable to stop herself, she thought of Jax hiding under there, smoothing his palms up the inside of her thighs…making her come…grinning up at her when they were alone, the devilish delight in his eyes filling her with a wanton, happy thrill she’d missed more than she ever wanted to admit.

“Damn it,” she growled, slamming her laptop shut and jolting to her feet. First thing Monday she was getting a new desk. Hell, a new office. She couldn’t be in here anymore.

Not Monday. Not now.

She hurried from the room. She needed to clear her head. Go for a walk.

Reconnect with who she was—the dean. Not a lovesick teenager.

The Con’s silent hallways stretched around her, dark and serene. She wandered, not paying attention to where she was, just listening to her footfalls, her heartbeat, her breathing as she walked.

When she came to rehearsal room four, she stopped.

Her pulse pounded in her throat. Staring at the door, she shook her head. “You are such a masochist,” she muttered, a second before she opened the door and entered the room.

And stopped.

The muted spotlights were on, their warm glow illuminating the picnic blanket laid flat on the floor beside the baby grand piano. On the blanket sat a wicker picnic basket, two white plastic plates, two plastic champagne flutes and a silver wine cooler in which sat an unopened bottle of Moët. The pool of water staining the red-checked blanket beneath the cooler told Nat the ice inside had long melted, condensation no doubt trickling down the silver cooler to seep into the material.

But it wasn’t any of those things that stole her breath. That ripped her chest open and squeezed her heart in a punishing grip.

It was the old-fashion portable record player sitting beside the champagne. And the AC/DC album resting against it, the five signatures scrawled on its cover clearly visible.

“I’ve got something special planned for the evening.”

Jax’s words from earlier that day, uttered with open happiness and teasing delight, came back to her. She stared at the AC/DC album,
her
AC/DC album, the air in the room crushing her. Pressing down on her.

He was going to give the album he’d taken from her back.

He was going to…

Stomach a hot mess of knots, she crossed to the picnic blanket, blinking a little as she stepped from the dark shadows of the room into the golden light falling over the picnic blanket.

Yes, it was her album. There was no denying it. The right top corner was a tad frayed from all the times she or Jax had parted the cardboard to slip the record inside out. Angus Young’s signature had that funny little wriggle in it where he’d been bumped by Brian Johnson as he was signing it. And there was her name, written by Phil Rudd, the band’s drummer on the top left of the cover.

Nat dropped to her knees and reached for the album, the satin of her evening gown pooling around her, her ribs straining against the boned corset.

She skimmed her fingertips over its surface, staring at it.

He’d planned to give her the album back. Planned to play it tonight while they ate a picnic dinner here in the rehearsal room. The same rehearsal room they’d…they’d…

“I’ve got something special planned for the evening.”

His words mocked her again.

A raw sob tore at the back of her throat. Hot tears stung at the back of her eyes. She touched the album cover again, letting her finger rest on the worn top right corner.

She could see him here, in her mind, setting it up, grinning that boyishly wonderful grin of his, most likely humming. Could see him standing back and checking it out before walking to her office to ask her when she was going to be finished. To tell her he had…

“Something special planned for the evening.”

She let out a ragged breath, a numb weight on her heart.

He’d planned to give the album back and make love to her right here, tonight. Maybe even tell her he loved her. He’d planned that. Jax who never really planned much of anything, who was led by his impulses and desires. He’d planned this, and instead he was now with Dory, probably having wild sex, probably making Dory scream with pleasure over and over because she, Nat, had rejected him.