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She had to remind herself, as they turned from a small road onto an even smaller one, that she was on a business trip. It was tempting to get sucked into the fantasy that this was her life—that she had a rich, handsome, Jeep-driving boyfriend who could make her feel all squishy just by looking at her with his signature brand of intensity.
Dang. She needed to get this whole insane attraction thing under control. That was exactly what she’d intended when she suggested they part ways last night. Some physical distance to presage the emotional distance that had to come between them on this trip.
But clearly she’d been an idiot to think anything would work. The only way to get Jack Winter out of her system was to get him out of her life. And that wasn’t happening for a few days yet, so she just had to grin and bear it—“it” being the maddening and constant state of low-grade arousal his presence triggered.
She sighed and looked out the window. The trees grew thicker and the road narrower. Just when it seemed there was no way they could continue to press onward, Jack turned off the road next to a little clearing that had been shoveled out. The big expanse of treeless snow beyond must be the frozen lake.
He shut off the ignition. “This is the end of the line.”
It occurred to Cassie that she hadn’t bothered to think through the part where their destination was an island, and it was the middle of winter. “We walk from here?” she asked.
“Nope. Snow’s too deep. We snowmobile.” He gestured to his side of the Jeep, and when she leaned across him to look, sure enough, there was a snowmobile parked next to them. It was much bigger than she’d always imagined one would be, with its two seats and side compartments that looked like larger versions of panniers on a bicycle.
He hopped out of the car and came around to her side. “I’ll take you over first, then I’ll come back for our bags.”
She pulled out her phone. “Hang on just a sec. I have to text Danny that you didn’t murder me.”
“How do you know I’m not going to drive you into the woods and murder you there?” He flashed her a grin. “That would be a lot more sensible than murdering you in the rental car.”
“Good point.” She clicked off the phone and climbed out. Jack emerged from digging around in the back of the Jeep and handed her a helmet.
“Right.” She reached for the helmet even as her mind flipped through all the reasons this wasn’t a good idea—death chief among them. “So you own the land we’re on?” she said, glancing around as if she could find something to discuss that would stall their departure.
“Yep.” He nodded at their immediate surroundings. “I own this.” Then he pointed out toward the island. “But I want that.” He slung a leg over the machine, looking for all the world like James Dean from Rebel Without a Cause, the Winter Edition rather than a titan of industry.
She cleared her throat. “All right then.” Fifty thousand dollars. That was her mantra.
“Wrap your arms all the way around and clasp your hands together,” he instructed when her first lame attempt to hold on to him and still maintain a decent amount of distance between them did not meet with his approval. He revved the engine, and she instinctively tightened her grip.
Fifty thousand dollars.
She couldn’t help shrieking as he hit the gas and they started off across the snowy expanse.
Fifty thousand dollars.
After half a minute they’d reached a steady pace and he was no longer accelerating. Her heart slowed enough to allow her to take in her surroundings. The sky was almost painfully blue, even through her helmet’s tinted visor. The cold air was sharp, a cauterizing knife that felt like it cut out all the useless emotions she was battling, leaving her lean and honed and…alive.
It was a little bit scary and a lot exhilarating. Kind of like everything with Jack.
When they arrived on the island, Cassie was ready to play her role. The ride over had turned out to be the perfect demarcation line between her personal self and her business self. Between the bartender and the senior executive director of finance. Between Jack’s lover and his employee.
After some kind of person—she wanted to say servant, but did people still have those?—opened the door and settled them into a stunning great room with a giant, two-story fireplace, the Wexlers appeared.
David Wexler, nicknamed Wexler Senior by Jack, did not look at all like the shark Cassie expected. “Head of an empire” was the last thing that came to mind when the lean, flannel-shirt-wearing man arrived. He looked like a kindly grandpa. A clean-shaven, skinny Santa. Wexler Junior—aka Brian—was probably in his mid-thirties, but he dressed as if he were a decade and a half younger. His crew cut and slightly saggy jeans made him look like an overgrown skater boy forced inside because of the snow.
