Page 45 of Jack Frost
Wait a second. I'm a scientist as well as a cinematographer. We figure things out all the time. Hypothesis, theory, control factors—then testing and observation. I've got this. All I need to do is apply science to matters of the heart.
Easy.
"I'm not going to sleep with you," I tell him. "Not ever."
His profile doesn't change, other than a faint tensing of his jaw. "I didn't really expect you to."
So far, so good. Time to hit the next pressure point. "I know you're only hanging around me to siphon my energy or whatever."
He sucks in a sharp breath. "Is that what you think?"
"Red light, Jack!"
He slams on the brakes and the car grinds to a stop just in time. Jack glares at me, breathing hard. "That's what you think of me? That I'm hanging around you wanting sex and healing energy, like some kind of incubus?"
"Aren't you?"
"No, damn it! Maybe a little, at first, but then—I thought we had something—that we were becoming closer friends. You said you wanted to work together—youkissedme, Emery. Not just once, either. I don't know what game you're playing right now, but it's not funny."
I've never seen him this angry. Is he mad because I shut down the idea of us having sex, or have I really hurt his feelings by questioning his motives?
So much for the scientific method. My test to discern his intentions only left me with more questions.
Silence drapes the interior of the car during the rest of the drive to the benefit. We're early, so the valet parking isn't happening yet. Jack finds a spot in the parking garage and stalks defiantly around the car to open the door for me. I let him do it. Once I'm out, he slams the car door shut and faces me, his eyes flaming blue.
"Tell me you don't care about me," he says, low and fierce.
Blood pounds in my ears, fresh from my thundering heart. I didn't expect this. I know how I feel for him, but I can't say it out loud. Not yet. It would be too silly, too soon—speaking the words might shatter the emotion. And if I fear its fragility so deeply, how true can it really be?
I angle my face away from his. "I feel bad for you—"
"No! That's not it."
"I know we could work together, to help the planet—"
"No. Wrong again. Forget all that for a second. How doyoufeel, about me?"
Emotions churn inside me, unbearably powerful and confusing. "How dare you do this to me right before the benefit?" I shove him away with all my strength, and he stumbles back. "You know I'm anxious about tonight—how dare you add this stress to my plate? You think buying me a fancy dress gives you the right to pressure me? Back off!"
He tilts back his head and clenches his fists, groaning in frustration. "Okay, fair enough. I'm sorry. I meant for this to be a lovely night—I wanted to help you through it. Damn it—" He ruffles his pale hair wildly. "I screwed up, all right? Can you—can we just table this, for later? For now, we can be a couple of friends enjoying a nice event."
Desperation shines in his eyes, and the sight of it quells my anger. Slowly I exhale, nodding. "All right. Friends. But no more pressure."
"No pressure." He holds up both hands, palms out. "I'll be good, I promise."
But he still looks distressed, and I want the sparkle of mischief back in his eye. That's what I need tonight—confident, playful Jack—not desperate, passionate Jack.
I link my arm with his. "I never said you had to be good. Just don't ask me any hard questions."
"You got it." He sweeps his cool hand over my fingers where they rest on his arm. "Whatever you need."
When we approach the entrance to the venue, I worry briefly about how I am going to explain my plus one and find a spot for him—but Jack has already secured himself a place on the list. In fact, he's been assigned a spot at one of the VIP tables, which means he has made a significant contribution to the benefit—and he somehow arranged for me to be seated next to him. I'm not sure how he got all that done in the limited time he had, without me knowing about it; but I suppose someone like him, with money and a couple centuries of varied experience, could make it happen.
I place my clutch on my assigned seat and take my camera out of its bag, eager to get some photos of the decorated room. The theme of the gala is "Winter Wonderland"—not original at all, but unfailingly pretty nonetheless. The round tables are festooned with frosty tulle, faceted crystal, and tall vases holding sprays of white twiggy branches and silver ferns. Strings of pearly beads and imitation crystals drape from the ceiling, twinkling in the light, and the string ensemble in the corner plays airy holiday music.
Jack inhales deeply, as if he's breathing it all in. "I love Christmas, don't you?"
"Uh-huh." I don't feel like explaining why the holiday doesn't hold the same charm for me that it does for others. "I've got to wander, and video, and network. Will you be okay?"
