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“Whoa… what?”
“Most CEOs wouldn’t be so cavalier about throwing a billion-dollar deal in the trash.”
“The truth is all that matters,” I snarl. “It’s the bottom line. It’s theonlyline. Once a journalist crosses it, everything unravels. We’re nothing more than propaganda agents. I refuse to let that happen to my business.”
“But if you go sneaking around Metis…”
“It’s cute how much you care about me,” I tease lightly, but she’s not in a teasing mood.
“It’s notcute, and it’s not that I care about you, Jacob. It’s like you said. The truth.”
A pause, and then she says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“So, youdocare about me?”
She rolls her eyes. It seems flirtatious, but then it’s also possible I’m reading into her every tiny gesture, every quirk of her personality drawing me in.
“I shouldn’t have snapped, but this is a big deal.”
“It is,” I agree, “and I know you will get to the truth.”
“I know how much that means to you,” she replies.
“Probably as much as it means to you,” I say. “Is your next stop the journalist?”
She nods. “I’ll arrange a meeting soon.”
“Don’t tell him you want to meet about this,” I reply. “If he’s the sort of man to bury a story, he’ll probably refuse to speak with you.”
“He’ll probably refuse anyway,” she murmurs. “It’s Wayne Dalton. He’s big time… at least compared to me.”
She hangs her head, sighing. It’s too much to handle, seeing her like this, a hint of defeat in her ready-for-battle demeanor. Reaching over, I softly touch her chin and turn her head so she’s facing me.
She lets out a short, moaning breath of air as if she feels it too. Even if it’s only a piece, a fraction of what I’m feeling, it means she wants me,us. Maybe not all of it. Maybe she’d freak if I dragged her from the car, knelt down, and asked the question that will seal us together forever.
No, notmaybe. That’s a guarantee.
“You’re not small compared to anybody,” I tell her.
She laughs darkly. “Don’t worry. I’m well aware of that.”
I tilt my head, studying her. “I thought you were getting down on yourself for a second there.”
“No, I mean.Small… I know I’m not that.”
I stare, still not understanding.
She hasn’t mentioned how strange it is, me touching her like this. Does that imply it feels as natural to her as it does to me?
“I’m talking about myself. Jeez. I meant it to be a little throwaway comment.”
“I know we’re talking about you. I just don’t get it.”
“Small. Me. I’m not small. Get it now?”
Her voice rises in the confines of the car, pain contained within it.
Finally, it hits me. She’s talking about her curvy figure, her wide hips, and those voluptuous breasts that have me imagining pulling down her shirt, freeing them, pushing her breasts together, and massaging them compulsively.
