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Not rub salt in the deep wound she’d left me with.
I did my best at explaining away my actions. I told them she wanted to talk. And obviously, I didn’t.
I never wanted to speak to her again.
But the way they looked at me—and the way the whole fucking team gave me the cold shoulder today—I knew I was going to have to do more than that.
Fuck.
I pulled up to the mansion and parked. Christ, this place was huge. I walked up the steps and admired the enormous Mediterranean-style stone columns. Not one—but two balconies hung overhead. I knocked on the oversized double doors and their butler, Henri, opened the door. “Hi.” I gave him a nod, and he smiled at me.
“Monsieur Clemens, entrez,” he said and pulled the door open wide.
“Thanks, Henri. Nice to see you again.”
He smiled at me and shut the door. “Oui, nice to see you, too. Follow me, s’il vous plaît.” He motioned with his hand. I followed him to the front room and thanked him.
Exactly one step into the room, and I heard, “Hi, Cash.”
My eyes shot to the right—and sitting on a chair was—Jillian.
Fuck.
Me.
“Ah, I see you two have met,” Henri said as he stepped to the side and let me through.
“You could say that,” I muttered under my breath while I glared at Jillian.
And Christ—she looked gorgeous in that tight red dress. Her long hair was swept up, showing off her bare shoulders. Of course, my eyes went right from Jillian’s bare shoulders down her perfect cleavage and curvy hips to those long, toned legs of hers. And red heels.
Jesus.
Was she intentionally trying to kill me?
Instantly, my brain conjured up an image of me picking her up, bending her over that fucking chair—and having my way with her until she screamed out my name.
Christ.
I was all kinds of fucked up.
Because even though this woman had embarrassed me in front of the entire world—more than once—I still wanted her.
Fuck.
I needed help.
And possibly a frontal lobotomy. Anything to forget all about this woman sitting in front of me.
“Marcel and Angelique will be with you shortly,” Henri said before I heard the French doors close.
I let out a frustrated sigh and chose a chair across the room.
“Cash, we need to talk,” Jillian said in her soft, caring voice. Normally, I loved it when she used this tone. She reserved it for quiet times. And usually her hands—and her mouth—were trailing over me.
But not now.
Nope.
