“I guess you like books,” he deadpanned.
I moved toward the nearest bookcase as if mesmerized. “I do. That’s why I work at the Daily Report.”
Stopping short of touching one of the books, I forced myself to look away from the fascinating collection and smiled at Jack. Here was a possible connection that might ease the uncomfortable tension between us and make the interview go more smoothly.
“I guess you do, too. I mean, look at all these.”
He shrugged and opened the desk’s top drawer, withdrawing a stack of white paper. “I suppose. I haven’t read most of them.”
“What? Why on earth not? Why do you have them?”
“Some of them came with the house. Some of them were gifts. I’m busy.”
“Well, if I lived here, I’d never get anything done. I’d have to read every one of them.”
In a crisp voice, he said, “Youdon’tlive here, and I’m a lot more interested in you readingthis, if I might have your attention for a moment.”
He stretched out his arm, offering the papers to me. I hurried toward him and took them.
“Of course. I’m sorry. We don’t have much time left of our contracted interview window. We should get started.” Taking the papers, I asked. “What is this?”
I was afraid it was a list of questions he wanted me to ask. Sometimes interview subjects tried that because they wanted to be prepared. I never used them.
Prepared answers were the worst. And people who tried to stick to a pre-rehearsed script came across sounding wooden and uncomfortable, or even worse, fake.
I always wanted my interviewees to shine in my articles, to come to life for readers who’d never get the chance to meet them in person.
But this… it wasn’t just a list of prepared questions.
No, what Jack had handed me was a thousand times worse.
Chapter Seven
In Trouble
Jack
The reporter sat in the desk chair, poring over the eight-page contract, turning pages faster and faster. She was a speed-reader—unless she was skimming.
Her long, caramel-colored curls obscured her face as she read, giving me a moment to catch my breath. I’d been so stunned by her appearance in the foyer I’d barely been able to speak.
She was beautiful, and not just the regular kind. The made-exactly-for-Jack kind, the kind of gorgeous I’d only ever imagined when dreaming up a new character, a malevolent mermaid intent on luring my hero to his death in dark, cold waters, for instance.
The kind of beauty who only existed in fiction.
But here she was, the living, breathing version of my physical ideal. In my library.
And the way she’d looked at me… I shuddered remembering it. She had the most intense brown eyes I’d ever seen. When she’d spun around and they’d met mine, I’d nearly stumbled backward. It was like she could see straight into my soul.
And then her eyes had dropped. And zeroed in on my dick. While rubbing my dick-shaped writing award.
Not gonna lie—I had movement. It had been a while since I’d spent time around a woman I didn’t employ or regard as a family member, but if memory served, that kind of behavior signaled interest.
Not that I’d be interested in this reporter, no matter what she looked like. Wait—I wasn’t interested, was I?
I was rocked by a sense of impending doom. This woman was dangerous. I needed to get her out of my house as soon as possible.
The more I looked at her, the angrier I got. Howdarethey send a beautiful woman here to manipulate me.
