But he’s determined to make his ownership public. I just don’t know if I’m ready for what that means.
The gala venueglitters with old money and new ambitions, crystal chandeliers casting golden light over the wealthiest ranchers in Salvation. Jackson’s hand settles possessively on my lower back, his palm burning through the thin silk. My skin pebbles as his thumb finds the dip of my spine.
The ballroom falls silent as we enter—a subtle ripple of awareness that speaks to Jackson’s position more eloquently than any announcement. Men in bespoke suits straightenimperceptibly. Women’s gazes sharpen, first on him, then on me with calculation that borders on hostility.
“Hawkins.” A silver-haired man approaches, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you’d be too busy with that merger in Helena.”
“Harrison.” Jackson’s tone carries perfect courtesy undercut with steel. “The Helena situation resolved itself without my intervention.”
The men exchange the kind of handshake that’s really a strength contest, and I watch Harrison’s knuckles whiten slightly. A minuscule victory that shouldn’t make satisfaction curl in my belly.
“And who is this?” Harrison’s gaze slides over me, assessing rather than appreciative.
Before Jackson can answer, I extend my hand. “Shiloh Foster.”
Recognition flashes in Harrison’s eyes—he knows my father’s name, knows the debts, the failures. But instead of the dismissal I expect, his expression shifts to renewed appraisal. As if my presence on Jackson’s arm has suddenly transformed me from cautionary tale to valuable commodity.
“Ms. Foster has quite the gift with difficult acquisitions,” Jackson says, his thumb tracing circles on my back.
The double meaning hangs between them. Harrison’s eyebrows lift fractionally.
“Indeed?” His smile turns genuine. “Lucky dog.”
I should be offended at being discussed like property, but I find myself leaning slightly into Jackson’s touch, accepting his protection against Harrison’s sudden interest. The realization sends a chill down my spine—how quickly I’ve learned to rely on the devil I know.
Jackson procures a gin and tonic from a passing waiter and hands it to me. The extra lime wedges floating in the glassmake me pause. His fingers purposely brush mine during the exchange, calluses catching against my softer skin.
“How did you?—”
His mouth quirks. “I notice everything about you, little hellcat.” His voice drops lower, the vibration of it seeming to travel straight to my core.
The sharp bite of lime and gin hits my tongue as I take a steadying sip. Before I can respond, Walter Pritchett approaches, all effusive greetings and dollar signs in his eyes. Six months ago, he said my methods were too experimental for his prize stallion. Now he’s asking about my spring training schedule.
“Unfortunately, Shiloh’s fully booked through next fall,” Jackson cuts in smoothly. His thumb strokes along my spine as he continues, the slow circles making it hard to focus. “Though I’m happy to discuss other services in our breeding program.”
Ourbreeding program. The casual inclusiveness makes my chest tight, but I dare not bring it to Jackson’s attention. I force myself to smile and discuss methods, hyperaware of Jackson’s quiet pride as I impress the investor. Bitterly, I realize this is what he wants—to display me like another acquisition in his empire.
He steers me toward the buffet next, his hand never leaving my back. The warmth of him cages me as he reaches around, selecting delicacies for me. “You’ll want these,” he murmurs beside canapés, his breath stirring the loose strands of hair by my ear. “And these mushroom caps.”
My mouth waters as he lifts a piece of beef to my lips. The intimacy of the gesture makes my cheeks flush, but I part my lips obediently. His eyes darken as his fingers brush my lower lip. A knowing smile plays at his lips as he adds fresh berries to my plate.
Bubbles fizz through my blood, or maybe it’s the way his fingertips trail down my bare arm as he hands me the plate. Each perfect choice feels like another link in a chain. I accept it with slightly trembling hands, disturbed by how closely he’s observed me, how much he’s cataloged. “You’ve made quite a study of me.”
“You’re worth studying.” His eyes darken as they sweep over me, the weight of his gaze like a physical caress. “Every perfect inch.”
“Shall we dance?”Jackson’s voice draws me back to him after we’ve eaten, standing at one of the cocktail tables dotting the perimeter of the room. It’s not really a question.
I take his offered hand, knowing the night is just beginning. And so is the danger to my heart.
His hand settles on my waist with practiced ease, the other capturing mine in a grip that’s both gentle and unyielding. Around us, other couples maintain proper distance—a respectful foot of space between partners. Jackson pulls me flush against him, close enough that I feel every hard plane of his body against my softer curves.
“Careful,” I murmur, aware of watching eyes. “People are staring.”
“Let them.” His voice drops to a register that heats my core. “Let them see exactly who you belong to.”
The possessive declaration should anger me. Instead, it sends an unwelcome thrill racing down my spine. His hand slides lower than propriety allows, fingers splaying across my hip in deliberate claim.
“I don’t belong to anyone.” The lie tastes hollow as I say it.
