“Indeed,” Derry conceded, playing the game, covering for the breathless feeling that turned his lungs into wet tissue paper. Perhaps Jess had really said as much to Lilah, but Derry had felt what he’d felt when he’d kissed Jess. That kiss was anything but formal. Definitely not a performance.
Denial was a powerful force, but love was more powerful.
He jolted.
Love?
“What in the bloody hell is wrong with me?” he murmured as Gavin stood and guided him to the exit.
“I don’t have enough time to list it all,” Gavin said flatly. The elevator doors opened, and Gavin came in close, his hot breath like iron shavings against Derry’s ear. “And you’re going home. The limo’s downstairs. No crashing at my place tonight.”
“That’s it? You’re turning me out in my time of need?” he joked, but the sudden plume of emotion in his chest told him he wasn’t joking.
“You can grab three women anytime you want,” Gavin said, clearing his throat. “Your needs are met elsewhere. Just any woman but Jess. Are we clear?”
The doors closed before Derry could answer.
But I shifted, he wanted to call out. I couldn’t help myself.
I can’t help myself.
It’s all about her.
Her.
Help.
The next night at the club, Jess was closed up tight. Cold and tight. Like a bank vault without a door, a block of ice, a woman in total, absolute control.
Dreams couldn’t touch her here. Even at the Platinum Club, which was designed to satisfy the wildest dreams of so many. But she wasn’t a member. She was one of the cocktail waitresses, and their only dreams were to make other people happy.
People like that movie star chick, Isla, the one Derry had fucked last night. Isla apparently hadn’t gotten nearly enough of her dreams satisfied, because tonight she was drinking glass after glass of the club’s best Chilean wine, complaining about the temperature before sucking it down and demanding another. And Jess had to serve her with a smile, quiet competence, patience, and every outward indication of pleasure.
No problem. Tonight, Jess was a woman in control. An ice woman. She brought the beautiful movie star her drinks, confident she wasn’t betraying a speck of discomfort or burning, seething, loathing disapproval. Isla never even glanced at her.
Gillian, however, was acting strange, perhaps because she was afraid Jess would squeal about her sleeping with a member. She kept shooting Jess tight-lipped glances, eyes tracking her as she moved from bar to patron. After about an hour, Jess got tired of the surveillance and confronted her coworker near the back of the bar.
“Is there a problem?” Jess asked her.
“I don’t know,” Gillian said. “Is there?”
Jess studied her, only now noticing that she wore no lipstick, had shadows under her eyes, and displayed only one pair of tiny studs in her ears. For Gillian, that was like being butt-naked.
Feeling unexpected compassion for her, Jess lowered her voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything.” Why shouldn’t she feel compassion? What did she care what Gillian did in her free time? Even if it was with her future brother-in-law?
Why would she possibly care?
Ice woman.
“There’s nothing to say,” Gillian said, looking away. “He couldn’t get it up.”
The sudden vision of Derry’s enormous cock made Jess flush. (Why wouldn’t it be enormous? It wasn’t wishful thinking or anything, just a sensible assumption.) Then she realized what Gillian had said. Enormous and flaccid? “He couldn’t…”
“Maybe he’s gay. I offered to suck him off and—pfft! Nothing.”
Jess’s mouth went dry. Although it wouldn’t have been if she’d been the one sucking—
No, damn it. ICE WOMAN.
“He’s not gay,” Jess said. “Just because he lost interest in… in having sex at that moment.”
“Before you blame me,” Gillian said coldly, narrow-eyed gaze turning to the brooding, boozing Isla in the lounge, “remember I wasn’t the only woman who gave it her all. The only one with a brain, but his cock doesn’t care about brains.”
“But he does.” The words popped out of Jess’s mouth before she could remind herself about the ice-woman thing again. She felt herself flush, cursing her fair complexion that would suggest she gave a fig about Derry and his gigantic, unsatisfied cock or how he felt about women with or without a functioning cerebral cortex. “Never mind, I guess you’re right. He’s gay. Obviously.”
Now Gillian’s narrow gaze was fixed on Jess. “Or wanting someone else,” she said slowly, raising an unusually natural eyebrow. “Someone who’s playing hard to get.”
Jess’s heart felt like it was beating in the back of her throat, cutting off her airflow. Was Gillian suggesting Derry wanted her? And that she was manipulating him, trying to fan the flames?
“I’m not playing,” Jess said in a low, hard voice.
“Maybe that’s exactly what he needs.” And after pulling that pin from the grenade, Gillian adjusted her tray on her forearm and sauntered away.
Jess’s legs felt unsteady, remembering the groping in the elevator, the orgiastic display en route to the limo.
All that, and he’d failed to follow through? But why would he do all that if he hadn’t really wanted—
He’d known you were watching.
No, no, no. It wasn’t about her. It couldn’t be. Not the way Gillian had implied. If Derry had put on a show of his sexual perversions, appetites, and popularity, it was only to soothe his pride after she’d humiliated him under the mistletoe.
Then why hadn’t he taken advantage of the situation later? Once he’d freed his colossal cock from his pants, why turn… soft?
Alcohol. It had to be the alcohol. Gillian was screwing with her head. It wasn’t anything to do with Jess. Men who drank as much as Derry had that night simply couldn’t expect their sexual organs to perform. It was biologically impossible. She turned back to the bar, rotating her tray in her unsteady hands, struggling to remember her drink orders.
No, it was all right. She’d served everyone already. All she had to do was check on her tables, see if anyone new had sat down—
Before she pivoted on her heel to face the lounge, she felt him arrive. Like a breeze, an embrace, a song. Her entire body hummed as if his powerful hands were playing every string in her soul.
Get a fucking grip. Ice woman. For God’s sake.
Holding her shoulders back, she sucked in an empowering breath and strode over to him. “Good evening, Mr. Stanton,” she said, managing to sound impressively calm. “The usual?” Which would be whisky if he was alone, and then, a few minutes later, whatever his female companion was ordering, since the alone time never lasted longer than one drink.
“Gatorade,” he growled, not looking at her.
She thought she’d misheard. Perhaps it was a Chilean vintage she was unfamiliar with. “Could you repeat that?”
His head snapped up. Dark eyes locked her in place. “Gatorade. Red. No ice.”
Professionalism came to her rescue. “Diet or regular?”
“Are you playing with me?”