Page 95 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
Then, still shaking his head, he took my arm and led me away.
There wasn’t enough time for a tour of the “house” before dinner, so we went straight up to Jackson’s room via one of the elevators he informed me were scattered all over the place like gopher holes. Once inside the door, I stopped dead.
“I can see why you’d hate it so much here,” I said, gazing around. “This is really beyond the limits of human tolerance.”
More oil paintings, more soaring ceilings, more priceless antiques. But the thing that truly made this room so beautiful was the massive wall of windows that gave way to the view of the gardens and lake, and woodlands beyond. A fire crackled in the huge stone hearth on one end of the room. On the other end a door stood slightly open, giving a peek of what looked to be an Olympic-size bathtub in the en suite bathroom.
Jackson went straight to the enormous bed centered under the windows and flopped facedown onto the silk duvet cover, where he remained unmoving.
Which is when I realized we’d never had a talk about the sleeping arrangements for this weekend.
Big sofa over there, I thought, eyeing a tufted, peacock-blue couch in the corner, opposite a pair of straight-backed chairs. Or whatever that thing is, I thought, catching sight of a long piece of furniture against the wall. It had no back, only cigar-shaped pillows at each end, but was obviously designed for seating. A divan or some such that garnished wealthy people’s homes. The pillows looked wicked uncomfortable, but Jackson would probably let me steal one from the bed—
“You’re thinking again.” Jackson’s voice was muffled in the comforter. He raised his head and glared at me. “Stop it.”
“Is this . . . are we . . .”
His glare intensified.
I sighed and spit it out. “Where will I be sleeping?”
Jackson rolled onto his back and put his hands under his head. That made his T-shirt ride up his abdomen a few inches, exposing a hard expanse of golden skin and a fine trail of dark hair that disappeared under the waistband of his jeans.
I hoped my gulp wasn’t audible.
“Here,” he said, looking at me with half-lidded eyes.
“You mean . . . on that bed?”
He nodded.
My pulse ticked up a notch. “As in . . . with you?”
When a corner of his mouth quirked, I blew out an irritated breath. He’d been baiting me.
“I’ll take the sofa, you can have the bed,” he said, muted la
ughter in his voice.
I tossed my handbag onto a chair by the door and wandered into the room. Ignoring him, I roamed around for a few minutes, touching things, being nosy. I poked my head into the bathroom and wondered how many people would fit into the tub. At least ten was my guess.
I knew he was watching me the way I always knew he was watching me, by the sense of having two hot irons poking into my back.
Finally, when I was done with my inspection, I turned to him and demanded, “Tell me about your mother.”
He closed his eyes. “Christ, you’re like a honey badger,” he muttered.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds extremely cute, so thank you.”
His sigh was a tremendous gust of air. “It’s like a large, ferocious weasel with impenetrable skin.”
That was so ridiculous I wasn’t even insulted. “Just give me a little something to prepare for. I assume I’ll meet her at dinner?”
A long silence followed. Then a curt, “Yes. Unless she decides not to come down.”
That sounded bad. “Are you on speaking terms with her?”
His jaw worked. He was silent for a long time before saying, “I haven’t spoken to her since I left.”
