Page 7 of Leather & Lies

Now he looks up, and the inferno in his eyes flares. He gestures to the chair at his right. “Sit.”

“I’m not one of your horses.”

“No.” His smile shows teeth. “They’re better behaved. Sit, Shiloh. Before I make you.”

I suppress the urge to defy him for the sake of defying him, to see what he’ll do. Jackson brings out a side of me I’ve ruthlessly suppressed—needy, greedy, desperate for his attention.

To my surprise, he pushes my chair in behind me as I take my seat, his fingers ghosting against the wisps of my hair and sending electricity crackling down my spine. I sit, spine rigid, hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling.

He sits at the head of the table, where a sheet of paper waits on the white tablecloth in front of him. “You missed the deadline.”

“Is that why you summoned me here, like an errant child?”

Jackson’s lips crack into an unkind smile. He gestures at the wine, the gorgeously set table, the way I’m dressed. “Think of this as a first date,” he says.

“Let’s not pretend this is anything other than coercion,” I snap back at him. “You want my land, and you think I’m going to turn you down so you can have it.”

He blinks, then looks me up and down like a lazy lion before his lips tilt up into that cruel smile once more. “Shiloh, I promise you, it’s not your land I want.”

My eyes fly to his, ice-blue and unflinching as he looks down at me, amused. If he didn’t want my land, did that mean he—? I shake my head.No. That’s absurd.

“How many times did your father check himself into rehab?” he asks me, in an abrupt change of subject.

I freeze with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?”

“The three times he checked himself in. The three times he checked himself out against medical advice.” Jackson sips his wine, watching me over the rim. “The last time was what, six months before his death?”

“You don’t get to talk about my father.”

“I get to talk about anything I want.” His voice stays pleasant, reasonable. That’s somehow worse than if he shouted. “I paid for two of those attempts, you know. Arranged the best facilities, private rooms, discrete staff. And still, he chose the bottle over his daughter’s future.”

The soup spoon clatters against fine china. “You son of a?—”

“Careful.” His hand catches my wrist before I can throw the wine in his face. “That vintage costs more in a month than your ranch and training operation combined. You can pour it on the ground, but don’t waste a gesture by throwing it at me.”

His fingers burned so hot I was sure the brand of his fingerprints would remain on my skin long after.

“Let. Go.”

“No.” His thumb finds my pulse, and damn him, he can feel it racing. “I don’t think I will. I’ve waited too long to have you exactly where I want you, Shiloh. And now that I do—I’ll never let go.”

“You think money makes you powerful? Take it all away, and you’re nothing but a bully in a suit,” I spit, trying to twist away.

“And you’re nothing but a little girl playing at running a ranch.” His grip tightens. “One year,” he continues. “And then it’s yours.”

“It’s already mine!” I cried, hating that my father left me in this position.

“That’s not what the bank says,” he drawls, drawing me up and out of my seat. “Now sign the fucking contract or walk the fuck out of here.”

“I’d rather walk barefoot through a rattlesnake den than play this game with you.” The words come out steady despite the tremor in my hands. A lifetime of handling dangerous animals has taught me to project calm I don’t feel.

“You owe me. And I intend to collect. Or you can walk right out that door, right now. No one is forcing you to stay, hellcat.” His voice holds the same quiet authority I use with spooked horses, but there’s a darker edge that makes my skin prickle.

“You’re a monster.” The accusation tastes like ash on my tongue. We both know it’s a lie—monsters don’t make your breath catch or your thighs clench with need.

“Fight me all you want. We both know how this ends.”

He moves with the fluid grace of a predator, backing me against the wall, bracketing me with his hands, caging me in. The scent of leather and sun-warmed skin fills my lungs. His calluses catch against my wrists as he pins them above my head, rough hands that speak of real ranch work despite his empire.

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