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I grab his balls.
His eyes pop wider and his lips pull back, baring his teeth. His breath is steamy, hot, and sour. My chest fills, tightens.
He growls, “You little cunt.”
Pulling back across his desk with him lunging after me, I knock his laptop, his briefcase and his phone. They all skid off and clatter to the floor. I rip myself free. Chasing after me, Henry bangs into his chair.
The chair clatters to the floor, and he stumbles over it. He’s quick to scramble back on his feet and after me. He lumbers toward me, crouching, swaying, breathing hard.
Stumbling backward into the visitor’s chair, I topple and fall, arms and legs up, onto my back. I feel helpless, and a cold wave of fear washes through me.
Blood vessels craze in Henry’s bulging eyes. He coils, ready to pounce.
The door smashes open.
Jackson leaps across the office in one stride. He grabs Henry by the shoulders with both hands and hauls him back. Spins him around and slams him, face first, into the wall. He drives a frighteningly expert punch into Henry’s kidney. Henry buckles and sags to the floor.
I’m struggling, flailing, to my feet. Jackson extends his big hand to me. Helps me up. Wraps me in his arms.
He holds me, and I tremble in his arms for some long minutes. Currents of turbulent emotion burst and roll through me. Echoes of the fear crash and mingle with relief and a sense of safety and comfort. Feelings like I’ve been rescued, plucked up and carried out of a collapsing building.
In his arms, I feel safe.
He carries me out to a soft couch in the coffee bar. Andreas is pale and shaking.
He tells Andreas to call for an ambulance for Henry, “If you want to.” All the time he’s looking into my eyes. Stroking my hair. Studying my face. Holding me close. I feel protected from everything. Like nothing can hurt me.
His voice is soft, soothing. He asks if I’m all right. If I’m hurt.
He holds me near, covering me like a blanket.
When I’m calm, he tells me, “The Marriott has a starlight dining room. I booked the whole restaurant tonight for a private dinner for two. Would you be kind enough to join me?”
“I’d agree to anything right now, Joe.”
“I should take advantage of that.”
“I should let you.”
“You still don’t trust me, though, do you?”
“Should I?”
“Whatever else I may be, Cyntia, I am sincere.”
Chapter Nine
Jackson
Lighting in the restaurant is low, with candles on the table, as I instructed. We have the best and the only table. We’re seated at the window, with a view over the twinkling lights of the city. The moon and its reflection shine on the oil black snake of the river. We look out, high up, under a clear, starlit sky.
The restaurant is open tonight for us alone. For me and the woman I am determined to make my own. Wait staff, busboys, the sommelier and the maître d’ stay back in the shadows. Any time I raise a finger, they appear, swift and silent at my side. Attentive, ready, and eager to give the most impeccable service.
I lift my champagne glass.
“For a moment there,” I tell her, “I thought I could lose you. That’s when I knew, I have to do whatever it takes to make you mine.”
Her eyes lower. “It’s a pretty speech, Joe. And I expect all the girls swoon for it. Hell, I could. Easily. But you’re a big-shot billionaire and, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re pretty hot. You can pretty well have any woman you want on the planet. And as many of them as you want.”
