In Bed with the Boss's Daughter
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But his beautiful mouth wasn’t smiling. It was set in a grim line, and his deep-set eyes weren’t the warm, molten chocolate she remembered. The laughter lines still sprayed from the corners, but he didn’t look like a man who did much laughing these days. He looked like a man who worked more on the worry lines between his brows.
Paris did not want to smooth those lines away.
“Do you mind?” She wrenched free of his tormenting touch and glared at him through narrowed eyes. “Is there anything else you’d like to wreck, apart from my hairdo? My dress, maybe? It’s part of the new grown-up me!”
Big mistake, Paris thought, the moment his eyes dropped to the dress.
“Oh, yes,” he murmured gruffly. “This dress is extremely you.”
His knuckles brushed across her neckline, and Paris felt the slight resistance as some rough skin caught in the georgette. He stroked a fingertip over the pulled thread, and Paris swallowed. He’d barely touched her, yet her breasts were tight and tingly, needy.
Needy?
What she needed was her head examined for responding to such a cynical touch. She drew herself up to her full height. “What’s with you, Jack? I don’t understand your attitude and, quite frankly, I’m sick of this…this…” Paris searched around but couldn’t find any suitable description. “I’ve just flown halfway around the world, I’ve spent all day auditioning another bloody stepmother contender, and now—” she took a deep breath, because the last one had run out “—and now I have to put up with you glowering at me and pawing me and ruining my hair… What are you—don’t you da—”
His mouth descended to hers, swallowing the rest of the word and the rest of her complaints. Not that Paris remembered what they were. They fled her brain the instant his lips closed over hers. Some dim recess registered the soft thump of her shoes hitting the carpeted floor, the rough strength of his hands on her shoulders, the brush of his unbuttoned jacket against her body, the accelerated thud of her heartbeat.
For a time she managed to concentrate on the taste of frustrated anger—and then she needed to breathe. With her nose hard up against his cheek, she inhaled the scent of his skin, discovered it hadn’t changed. No fancy cologne to match the fancy suit, no conservative aftershave to match the barbershop cut, just strong elemental outdoors male. She uncurled her fingers from the tight fists crushed between their bodies and gripped his jacket, anchoring herself against a sudden weakness in her knees.
His mouth eased its rough pressure, and for the barest moment Paris savored his gentled caress, the fleeting brush of his thumbs against her neck, the fullness of his lips on hers. And then those lips retreated as suddenly as they’d advanced, leaving her swamped by conflicting emotions. Shocked confusion registered in his eyes, too, but was quickly displaced by the same old fierce-eyed irritation.
Carefully Paris released her grip on his lapels. Casually she smoothed out the creases. Deliberately she coaxed her mouth into a facsimile of a smile. “If that’s a sample of what I missed out on six years ago, I can count myself lucky,” she drawled.
His eyes glinted dangerously, and his hold on her shoulders tightened. “You want to talk samples?”
A disturbing sense of anticipation washed through Paris’s body as his head ducked and his gaze lit on her lips. Her legs wobbled, and she swore that the only thing holding her up was his grip on her shoulders, a grip that felt like a curious mix of support and restraint, holding her up and him back.
But he didn’t kiss her. Instead he slowly and deliberately ran his tongue across her bottom lip, before pulling back and rocking on his heels. He flashed a tight smile and declared, “Yep, tastes exactly like saccharine!”
Paris’s mouth fell open, then slammed shut.
“Now why do you suppose that is? Too much time with Lady Pamela or with poor old Teddy?”
“Edward’s neither poor nor old!”
“No?” He lifted one brow. “Bankrupt, but not poor. An interesting concept. Is that why you dumped him?”
Paris shook her head slowly, hoping to clear the confusion. He was mad because she’d run away six years ago? Because he didn’t like her hairdo? Because she’d dumped her fianc'e?
“You think I dumped him because of the bankruptcy thing?” she asked slowly. Then she almost laughed out loud at the irony.
Yes, she had dumped “poor Teddy” because of his money troubles. Because he’d wanted her money, her father’s money, to rescue his crumbling fortune. That was the only reason he’d wanted to marry her in the first place.
If there had been any easing of the contempt on Jack’s face, she might have told him all about “poor old Teddy.” But his mouth held its tight line, and his eyes brimmed with contempt, so she lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. “I could have bought Edward ten times over.”
“Your father could have bought him ten times over.”
“If you want to be pedantic.” She shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel.
“Is that why you came home? To play the heiress?”
“I don’t intend playing anything,” Paris said, her tone as sharp as the hurt in her chest. She’d never played the heiress; she’d never played poor little rich girl; she’d never played victim nor victor. “I came home because K.G. asked me to, because he has a job for me.”
Jack snorted. “Doing what?”
Paris didn’t know. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on what use she could be in her father’s corporation. It was enough that he’d asked her, that he wanted her help. But she wasn’t about to admit that to the man standing before her, dripping disdain. She lifted her chin. “Maybe there’s a suitable job in your department.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Well, well, well…
“Come to think of it, I’d rather enjoy working in your office. I shall have to speak to Daddy about it.” Paris knew she sounded snooty, but she considered it fair payback for his playing-the-heiress crack.
For a long moment he stared at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he turned on his heel and strode away, only pausing when Paris called after him, “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, Jack. At the office.”
His hand flattened against the back of the door for no more than a second before he pushed through without a backward glance or a final word, leaving Paris itching with dissatisfaction. She wanted to stalk out the door after him, to hurl something at his retreating back, even if it was only a demand that he come back and finish their argument.