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“Good God.” Her stomach dropped a notch. Yes, that was what it looked like. Not only had she been given the juicy promotion after breaking her engagement with Jackson Striker—correctly implying he had pulled strings for her—she had also accepted the position—erroneously implying she still had feelings for him. That she might need the money or want the experience didn’t seem to register with people like Brandi. Nor would they have a clue about Jackson’s true motives.
“So, are you going to give him another chance?” The woman’s eyes glittered with eagerness; the whiff of a scoop hung in the air. “What’s happening with you two lovebirds?”
Cassidy leaned in, mimicking the conspiratorial attitude. “Nothing that’s fit to print.” At least not in the society pages. Police blotter, maybe.
“Oh, c’mon.”
While Larry chuckled, Cassidy summoned what fight she had left and headed for her office. She didn’t even want to know Jackson’s reasons—as though she couldn’t guess—for showing up here and throwing fuel on the gossip fires. The faster she could kick him out, the better.
By the time she burst into her office, Cassidy was in full battle mode. She dumped her carryall at the base of her desk and set down the mug hard enough to send coffee sloshing over the rim. Her nostrils flared when she caught his painfully familiar scent of masculine citrus and bright sunshine.
“Whatever it is you want, I’m not interested.”
“Good morning, Cass,” Jackson said as he jumped up from the visitor chair, the perfect gentleman except for the patronizing tone. “You look hassled. Rough night?”
“My nights are none of your business,” she countered with a glare. Then she spotted Brandi outside, right behind him, cell phone at the ready, paparazzi mode engaged. Cassidy stabbed a finger in her direction. “Oh no, you don’t.”
Jackson turned. “Hey. Private conversation here,” he barked.
Brandi put up her hands and retreated. “Sorry,” she mouthed unconvincingly.
“That’s all I need,” he grumbled as he went to shut the door. “More coverage in the social pages.”
“It must suck being so well-known when you’re living such a lie.”
He looked her up and down, assessing, his six-foot-four frame making the office feel even smaller than it was. Cassidy straightened to her full five and a half feet and wished she’d gone for the heels and a blazer today instead of her long-neglected boots and sweater.
Jackson appeared oblivious to the chill. In his polo shirt and crisp shorts, his tanned, muscular arms and legs were on full display. Vigorous youth, rugged charm, mind-boggling wealth…Jackson Striker was all that. In every way, he appeared to be the polar opposite of the dark and enigmatic Dominique Marchant.
Cassidy knew better.
Jackson and Dominique had one crucial thing in common: they were both killers. But while Dominique, the vampire, wrestled with agonized guilt over what he had done, Jackson, the vampire hunter, destroyed lives with the cold calculation of an exterminator.
His smile was just this side of condescending. “It’s great to see you up and about during the day.”
“Oh? Would you cut off my head, too, if I weren’t? Or are your uncle’s methods more your speed now? Have you roasted anyone alive lately?”
His expression soured. “Easy, babe. I didn’t come here to pick a fight.”
“Too bad. I’m in a mood.” She shoved up the sleeves of her sweater and propped her hands on her hips.
“I can see that.” His bright gray eyes narrowed. “Trouble in moonlit paradise?”
“You need to leave.”
“Okay, okay, sorry.” He backed up a step and ducked his head. The polished charm she had once fallen in love with surfaced as if on command. “I really didn’t come here to fight.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Well, actually—” He scratched his clean-shaven jaw, shrugged.
“I’m aging here. Out with it and go.”
“Right. Well, I was wondering what you’re doing for Thanksgiving next week.”
“For Thanksgiving?” she said, dumbfounded.
“Yeah. Thanksgiving. I was hoping you and Sam might like to come have dinner with us. If you’re not busy.”
