Project Virgin Page 9

  A man could walk away from many things, as Jesse knew from personal experience. But a direct challenge was not one of them—not when the challenger in question was a family member who would, quite literally, gleefully throw it in his face for the rest of his goddamned life.

  “Why can’t I write a check to whatever charity this is like a normal person?” Jesse had demanded when his Uncle Jason had sprung this on him. Today. After lunch. “Why do I have to channel Channing Tatum to support this thing?”

  “One, because I think it’s funny,” Jason had retorted in his usual gruff way, the only hint he’d ever laughed about anything in his entire life in the faint creases around his eyes, but it was only the faintest hint. It could also have been the weather. “And two, because I think you’re too goddamned comfortable writing your freaking checks.” He’d only shrugged when Jesse had glared at him. “Maybe you need to see if your body can cash one of them, for a change.”

  Jesse hadn’t known what the hell that meant. But he had known better than to push his uncle on that or any other topic. His own father, Billy Grey, was a punk at best. He owned a regional sporting goods chain based out of Billings, Montana, where he made enemies and cheated on his various wives and never, ever suffered any consequences for his actions. Jason, on the other hand, was Billy’s older brother and he was definitely not a punk. He was the current owner of Grey’s and the custodian of the family’s Marietta legacy. Jason didn’t play games, pull punches, or suffer fools.

  In the comfort of his life as one of Seattle’s young millionaires, though his wealth had nothing to do with the tech industry that ruled the city and everything to do with his own sweat and labor and desire not to be his father, Jesse liked to think he was more like his uncle than not. But he doubted Jason would agree with that assessment.

  This, of course, was how Jesse had found himself succumbing to the indignity of this evening, an auction to benefit a little kid he’d never met with medical issues he didn’t know anything about. It was that or punk out in front of his uncle, which was what his father would have done and was therefore unacceptable.

  So Jesse had stood on that so-called stage. He’d listened to the auctioneer discuss him as if he was little more than a glorified cow. He’d been half-asleep, busy pretending he wasn’t actually there, until the bidding had climbed above a thousand dollars. When it had hit five thousand, he’d been astonished. Who the hell had that kind of money to throw around in a sleepy little place like this?

  He’d had an unpleasant sort of jolt when he’d seen the woman who was steered in his direction when he exited the stage. He’d hardly noticed the loudmouthed one acting like her usher. He’d zeroed in on Michaela immediately, as if she was brighter than everyone else in the room, and Jesse didn’t like that at all.

  She was delicate and gorgeous in the kind of fresh-faced, approachable way that made every part of his body lock up tight and hard. She looked like the kind of girl who should have freckles, the kind that danced across her cheekbones and made her taste like some kind of sweet summer crumble, though she didn’t. She wore her dark brown hair swept back in an easy, friendly sort of ponytail he doubted she understood made her prettiness that much more pointed and difficult to ignore, and a long-sleeved magenta t-shirt that looked like a micro wool over a pair of casual jeans and winter boots. As if she was wholly unaware of her effect on every man in the room, with that mouth and that sweet ass.

  And it took all of three sentences out of her mouth for him to realize that she must have no idea what she looked like, that she definitely had no idea that those lips of hers could start a riot, and that it was very unlikely that she possessed the kind of hardened, licentious casualness that he preferred in his disposable women these days. Not this one.

  She was earnest. And possibly nervous, which should not have charmed him. She was intriguing. He didn’t have to ask her if she liked casual sex and anonymous encounters, because he could tell by that particular look in her bright, hazel eyes that she had little to no experience with either one. Just like he could tell from his body’s over-the-top reaction to her that he’d like to introduce her to the joys of each, if she’d let him.

  Jesse doubted very much she’d let him.

  He hated that he even wanted her to let him.

  She was a problem, was what she was, and he’d never been more relieved in his life to hear of an engagement than he had been to hear of hers.

  Until she mentioned that egregious loser, Terrence Polk.

  Terrence Polk who was, among many other unsavory things—like a self-proclaimed “money and ideas guy” who never had much in the way of either—renowned to be just about the biggest slut in the greater Seattle area. That some woman was dumb enough to marry him was surprising enough. But a woman like this? Who seemed… nice? Actually nice, like a real person instead of the kind of fake, grasping, plastic creature who would make sense with a dirtbag like Polk? That was just wrong.

  Jesse opened his mouth to tell her that. But there was something about her posture that got to him. She stood with her spine too straight and her hands folded too tightly in front of her, the way awkward teenagers stood in front of intimidating authority figures. He didn’t know why that snuck under his skin and made him… restless. But Jesse didn’t want to upset her.

  And he didn’t have one damned clue why not, when ruining people’s days was a major pastime of his. He did it all the time as the owner of his powerful little construction company and he didn’t care whose feelings he hurt when he did.

  But Michaela was different.

  Jesse hated “different.” He wanted absolutely no part of “different.” He’d thought Angelique was different, which was why he’d brought her home with him for Christmas that year. And she’d sure proved him right, hadn’t she? He wasn’t doing “different” again. Ever.

  “To clarify, you want me to meet your fiancé,” he said after a moment, because he had to say something, or his head might explode. Or something worse might happen, right here in Grey’s Saloon in full view of at least three of his relatives. “For business purposes. You don’t actually want me to go on a date with him.”

  “I’m sure Terrence would enjoy any date you might plan for him,” she replied, and then she smiled as if she had no idea what a reckless smile like hers could do. It was more powerful than it should have been. It made Terrence Polk, that piece of shit, seem like a decent person instead of the epic loser Jesse personally knew him to be. It made Michaela hard to look at directly, and not in a bad way. Not in any kind of bad way. Worst of all, it shot through him like pure sugar and too much heat, and he scowled at her as if she’d done it to him, deliberately. “He’s very romantic.”

  “Have you actually met him?”

  “I’ve been dating him for two years and engaged to him for six months.” She didn’t quite roll her eyes. “But no. We’ve never actually met.”

  “You’ve been engaged to him for six months after the two years or during the two years?”

  She laughed, but not like she thought it was all that funny. “Because those six months are what make the difference? That’s what determines whether or not I know him, in your unsolicited opinion?”

  “I,” he heard himself say, harsh and rough, like a complete dick, “am not going to go on anything even remotely resembling a date with Terrence freaking Polk.”

  He expected her to flinch away from him. Cry, maybe. He probably deserved it.

  But Michaela only eyed him. Not without wariness. But not as if she was about to wheel around and race for the door or the safety of the group she’d come in with, either.

  “Really, you don’t have to do anything,” she said calmly. Too calmly for his peace of mind, in fact, and he opted not to analyze why that snuck beneath his skin and stuck there. “My aunts and cousins mean well, but they shouldn’t have interfered. Terrence has a lot of plans and a lot of balls in the air. He always does and, sooner or later, they always work out. It’s just a question of
waiting to see which one works out first this time.”

  And this was not his business, Jesse thought, looking down at this woman who had complicated all but stamped on her forehead. It wasn’t his business and she wasn’t his problem and this was not the kind of thing he wanted in his life in any way, shape, or form. Hell, no. It meant nothing at all to Jesse that Terrence Polk had managed to snow this admittedly lovely stranger into overlooking his basic worthlessness as a human being. That was her mistake to make, and the fact her lips were a temptation made real was unfortunate, nothing more.

  This had nothing to do with him. She had nothing to do with him.

  “Have him look me up if that takes longer than expected,” Jesse said, so gruffly he was practically a parody of his uncle. But he figured there were way worse things he could be—like too involved with any woman ever again, for any reason. He’d sworn that crap off right along with his ex and his father. He’d meant it then and he still did. “I’ll let him buy me a cup of coffee.”

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  The only thing more disconcerting than Jesse Grey scowling at her in the shadows of a wild west saloon after a long, strange evening was Jesse Grey in her Aunt Cathy’s front hall the following afternoon, looming there next to the framed needlework and dated, vaguely floral wallpaper, looking six times more dark and annoyed than he had the night before.

  “Oh. Um. Hi,” was Michaela’s bold, incisive response to the sight of him. She’d walked in from the kitchen, expecting to see one of her cousins after she’d heard the door slam, and she’d stopped dead in her tracks when it had turned out to be Jesse, of all people, instead. She assured herself that was a perfectly reasonable response. It wasn’t every day a man who looked like Jesse turned up, much less unshaven and dangerous-looking, wearing those damned jeans and a knit hat tugged low, with nothing but a fleece against the snow outside.

  Terrence would agree that this was reasonable. Rational, even, given Jesse’s astonishing good looks. It would be odd if she didn’t have this reaction to him. So there was absolutely no reason at all that she should feel something a whole lot like guilt that she did.

  “What are you doing?” She swallowed. “Here, I mean?”

  He glared, apparently not finding any of her responses all that reasonable, and she ignored the little part of her, down deep inside, that agreed.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Ready?”

  His jaw, already a masterwork of carved marble, turned even more stony as she watched. “To go.”

  Michaela blinked. She was aware, on some level, that she was still standing there half in and half out of her aunt’s front hall, rooted to the floor, like maybe he wasn’t the only thing made of marble. “Go? Go where?”

  That scowl of Jesse’s took on a life of his own. The fine, masculine lines of his rangy body all drew tight and the way he glared at her should have knocked her back a few steps. Instead, she could only gaze at him as she understood, for the first time in her life, the real meaning of the word dumbfounded.

  “Did you get hit over the head?” he asked, gruffly. More gruffly. “And let me give you fair warning. If you repeat that question back to me, I can’t promise I won’t lose my shit.”

  Michaela opened her mouth, then shut it, and she could have sworn the gleam in his dark eyes that followed then was her reward. Or his grumpy, pissy, overtly male version of laughter. Or one of the many things about him she definitely, one hundred percent, should not allow herself to find attractive in any way.

  Hi, honey, she’d chirped into Terrence’s voicemail when she’d gotten back to the upstairs bedroom she’d shared with her mother last night. Crazy night! Who knew a bridal shower could take such a strange turn? Ha ha ha—but do I have a story for you!

  Luckily, Terrence had yet to call her back, which was not uncommon. Michaela reminded herself that she thought it was deeply silly so many couples she knew got all uptight about things like returned phone calls. She congratulated herself on the fact that she and Terrence were so much more mature than that, that they’d transcended all the childish jealousy and insecurity that marked so many of the romantic relationships of their friends. Thank God for their reasonable, rational, completely un-dramatic way of handling things! She was grateful every day. But the fact Terrence had been unreachable since Michaela had left Seattle on Wednesday night meant the story that was Jesse Grey was still hers and only hers.

  Which, she thought as she gazed up at Jesse in her aunt’s front hall that felt smaller by the minute, felt a smidge too much like some kind of intimacy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. It occurred to her that she’d apologized an awful lot to a man she hadn’t known existed twenty-four hours ago. There was something about that, which struck her as unbalanced if not outright wrong, and she frowned, which probably shouldn’t have felt quite so liberating. “But I can’t figure out why you’re here.”

  A man wearing a bright blue stocking hat had no business looking that sexy, Michaela thought as he glared back at her as if her frown was a direct challenge to his authority. Or that… edible.

  She needed to get a hold of herself. It had been a long night, filled with disturbing dreams, most of them featuring Jesse Grey and his astonishing abdomen, despite the fact she’d only glimpsed it beneath last night’s t-shirt, and Michaela was appalled at herself. Deeply, resoundingly appalled.

  Not that she was feeling whatever she was feeling and working that out in her subconscious, because there was nothing wrong with that, per se. Of course there wasn’t. Humans were resoundingly human, she and Terrence always agreed. They were always going to do human things, at the end of the day.

  But she couldn’t seem to control this—herself—at all. That had never happened to her before. She didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with it.

  Hi sweetie! she’d sing-songed into Terrence’s voicemail this morning when she’d woken in what she wouldn’t call a panic, because that suggested things she refused to think about and were likely the kind of silly, overwrought nonsense she and Terrence didn’t believe in anyway. What a crazy weekend! I can’t wait to tell you all about it! You’re going to laugh!

  But right at the moment Michaela did not feel at all like laughing. Not when Jesse Grey was taking over the whole of the front hall as if he was a black hole, light and air and energy collapsing into him and simmering there in the set of that mouth of his, the glitter in his milk chocolate gaze, neither of which—she told herself stoutly—affected her. At all.

  “I’m your ride,” he said, after a long pause that Michaela thought might have lasted several years.

  She stiffened, while her head toppled off into the gutter. She was certain he could hear it. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jesse smirked. “I’m your ride,” he said again. “To Seattle.”

  When she only stared back at him, he sighed and then jerked his head toward the door behind him and, she supposed, the world outside it she’d completely forgotten about since she’d set eyes on him. Again.

  “A big storm’s about to hit,” he grated out. “I’m driving west because I can’t get stuck here and they’re grounding planes at the Bozeman airport. Your aunt and my uncle decided you should come along, but you’re more than welcome to stay here snowed in until later this week. Your call.”

  She should have some kind of response to that. Michaela knew she should. She should say something, nip that crazy suggestion in the bud, assuring this odd and unfriendly man she absolutely did not need him to drive her anywhere, much less some seven hundred miles west to Seattle.

  But instead, she stared. Every vivid thing she’d dreamed about traipsed through her head, kicking up heat and making her face go red, and what little air was leftover in the space Jesse Grey didn’t take up seemed to sizzle.

  The fact was, she needed to get back to Seattle. Fast. Her boss Amos was one of her closest friends after all they’d been through and all these years they’d worked together, but he was
incredibly demanding and still her boss all the same. And that was apart from all of her own duties and responsibilities that she’d put on hold to come here and play The Bride for her very traditional and Very Concerned family members, who didn’t understand a single thing about her life. Not any part of her high stress job and certainly not her relationship with Terrence.

  Michaela thought if a big snowstorm was coming, the absolute last thing she needed was to stay here in Marietta one second longer than necessary. She would have to fend off six or seven thousand more rounds of the what do you do again game. Which was irritating after almost a decade, but still much better than the pointed prodding about her upcoming wedding, which was, in turn, no more than thinly-veiled, intrusive questions about hers and Terrence’s relationship.

  And if this morning were anything to go by, her cousins and aunts would do nothing but talk about Jesse until he’d achieved mythic status in her head, colonizing everything. Which meant, as strange as it sounded even in her own mind, that among all the other reasons she needed to get home ASAP, the quickest way to be rid of Jesse Grey was to go with him.

  “I’m not packed,” she said, like the idiot she was in this man’s presence and nowhere else.

  And that marvelous mouth of his curved then, as something that might have been humor, if much harder, moved through his gaze.

  “You have five minutes.”

  Michaela took more like twenty-five. She confirmed her flight out of Bozeman that evening really was likely to be cancelled, she texted Amos to inform him the weather might keep her away from the office longer than she’d planned and he should try not to freak out, and she threw her things into her small, carry-on roller bag. Then she paused to make the usual series of mild death threats to her meddling, irritating, cackling relatives, gathered around her aunt’s kitchen table, until her mother cut her off midstream. Bonnie Townsend sipped at her coffee in that delicate way of hers that made Michaela feel like some kind of lumbering wildebeest in comparison, the perfectly-shaped eyebrows Michaela had been envious of all her life high on her forehead.