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I scoff. "I realized I was so fucking wrong and so fucking screwed. The second you stepped out of that car at Windsor, with your head held high, looking fierce as hell, I knew you were trouble with a capital T. Then, when you gave me lip, my God, it made me so hard, I wanted to bend you over right there in front of everyone, showing them you were mine. My self-control was slipping fast, and quite frankly, it pissed me off and scared the shit out of me. I'm not a fucking Neanderthal, yet you made me feel like one. No one has ever had that kind of effect on me.”
Jazz makes a time-out sign with her hands. “I beg to differ on the caveman part. Also, let’s keep your boners out of this conversation.”
I smile, which earns me a glare. “Why? Afraid you won’t be able to stop thinking about my dick?”
“Anyway,” she continues, completely ignoring my taunt. “I still don’t understand why my arrival made you feel so fucked.”
I shrug. “I made that inheritance deal with Peyton so I could get closer to Charles. I had been working on it for a long-ass time, and things were finally starting to fall into place. Charles and my dad were making little comments here and there, hinting about future business opportunities they'd like to bring me in on. But your arrival threw an elephant-sized wrench into my plan. I felt cornered, and I didn't like that one bit."
“Why not just ignore me?”
I laugh humorlessly. “Because that’s impossible. Christ, Jazz, you have no idea, do you?”
“No idea about what?”
“I don’t think anyone could ignore you,” I explain. “I don’t know...it’s like you have this X factor that draws people in. It makes them want to know you, want to be you, or want to fuck you. Why do you think Peyton and her minions were so aggressive with you right off the bat?”
“Uh, because they’re stuck-up bitches?”
I shake my head. “It’s because they’re insanely jealous. They consider you a threat—probably more than any person they've met before. You're smart, beautiful, kind, confident, and give zero fucks what they think of you. You're real—what you see is what you get. That’s sexy as hell, Jazz, and what’s more, refreshing as fuck in our world. They could never be as authentic as you are, no matter how hard they tried.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s the truth.” I clear my throat. “In the interest of transparency, there’s uh...one more thing you need to know.”
Jazz’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “What?”
Fuck. This isn’t going to go over well.
“About playing that role...both Charles and my dad may be under the impression I’m spending time with you to help get you under your father’s control.”
“What?!” she shouts. If Jazz wasn’t still healing, I have no doubt she’d be launching herself at me right now. “Why would they think that?”
I stretch my neck from side to side. “It was before I got to know you. I can’t say I wouldn’t have made the same deal if I had known you better, but there’s a good reason.”
“Explain,” she demands through gritted teeth.
"It was the first day we met—right before dinner at your house. I was in your dad's cigar room listening to them blather on about whatever. Then, at one point, my dad asked how things were going with you, and your dad bitched about how rough around the edges you were." I hold my hands up when her eyes flash with rage. "His words, not mine.
“Anyway...my dad suggested I could teach you how things worked in our world, put you in your place, so to speak. Teach you to heel like a woman should.” Jazz eyeballs the lamp beside her like she’s considering clocking me over the head with it. When she makes no move to do so, I continue. “So...I told them I’d be happy to help. Peyton was continually testing my last nerve—I saw an opportunity to get what I needed without her, and I grabbed it. Charles and my dad said if I was successful with you, they’d bring me into the fold. Reforming you would prove I was ready to take on other projects.”
Jazz sits there for a moment, shooting daggers at me with her eyes. Finally, she takes a deep breath and speaks. “Let me get this straight. You promised our fathers you could turn me into one of their little Stepford wives?”
“Essentially, yes.”
She cocks a brow. “And how, exactly, did you plan on doing that?”
“I hadn’t quite figured that part out yet.”
“So, after dinner, when you showed up in my room—what happened in my closet—that was because you were playing a role?”
“Fuck, no.”
Now, I’m seething right along with her. The one thing Jazz should never question is how much I want her.
“What was the purpose then?”
I shoot up from the couch and throw my hands out. “I didn’t plan any of that! After dinner, I was supposed to be with our dads smoking Cubans. I don’t even remember walking upstairs, now that I think about it. But when you came out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel, the last thread of control I had inside of me snapped.
