“Stop threatening me, or I’ll turn you over my knee and paddle your bottom,” he grunted, as he moved past the staircase toward the back hall. “We’re going to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” Her voice was shaking with anger and pain. “And you and Ian Sinclair can shove this job right up your . . . omph.” His arm tightened around her just enough to shut her up and leave her fuming.
“Let’s not get naughty, Jaci,” he drawled as he moved through the hall.
“How about homicidal instead?” She kicked at his legs, only to hear his chuckle when her slender heels connected with a pair of tough boots.
It was almost laughable. She had awakened with an enthusiasm she hadn’t had in years, and now here she was, on the verge of bankruptcy and being toted through the Sinclair mansion like a misbehaving puppy by a man who couldn’t even be bothered to stick around in her bed after f**king her half to death.
His arm flexed beneath her hands and the controlled motion against her back assured her that her weight was barely noticed and her struggles didn’t effect him in the least.
“Here we go.” He stepped into a sunlit office, closed and locked the door behind them, then sat her on her feet. “Don’t bother trying to run out. The door won’t unlock without the proper code.”
Her gaze flew to the door. There, on the side panel, was a security lock. She hated him. She hated herself because she wanted to stay, even as she wanted to run.
“This is so juvenile,” she informed him, as she straightened the thin summer knit shirt she wore over the band of her skirt. “Hauling me around like a damned sack of potatoes. Where the hell do you get your nerve?”
“From a Cracker Jack box.” He moved across the room. He was dressed in jeans and a white cotton shirt, his black hair lying loose around his face, brushing his collar and framing his dark face as he glanced back at her.
“Now, why do I believe that?”
Jaci crossed her arms over her br**sts and glared back at him as he hooked a leg over the corner of the desk, perched on the edge, and watched her coolly.
“So. Roberts?” He arched a brow.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’m going to start making people pay me every time they ask me that question,” she snarled. “I wouldn’t need to work.”
His expression didn’t change.
There was none of the lover that had taken her the night before in his face. This man was different—as though the passion and lust they had shared had never happened. And she wondered if her heart could have broken worse seven years ago?
“According to the congressman, you attempted to steal fifty thousand from the desk in his home office. When you were caught, you attempted to seduce him. His wife walked in and threw you out of the house.”
In reality, she had walked in on the congressman, his wife, and their secretary while the three were involved in some very nasty sex games. Black leather and attachments, and Rick Roberts in a very compromising position.
And they had believed she would join in! No, they hadn’t just believed, they had attempted to force her to join in.
Jaci remained silent, staring back at him, refusing to say a damned word. She didn’t dare. She could feel the fury pulsing inside her, anger burning through her system as the feminine core of her shuddered in trepidation, because the look in Cam’s eyes was deadly.
Courtney had warned her that Cam was after Richard Roberts’s blood. He couldn’t sleep with her, but he could use her as an excuse to bloody someone he didn’t like to begin with. Only a male could understand that one, she decided.
“I’m asking for your side of the story, Jaci,” he said.
She had walked in on the sexual drama and had nearly been raped. For years after that, the Robertses had lied, schemed, and connived to destroy her because of it.
“There is no ‘my side of the story,’” she finally answered. She had learned that early on. The Robertses had struck first, and they had struck hard. Anything she had said or done would have lashed back at her as a lie.
“Do you remember the night I told you I would kill over you?” he asked her, his voice so dangerously soft that it was almost terrifying.
“He hasn’t hurt me,” she said stiffly. “And after last night, you have no right to these questions.”
“Then what do you call it, if destroying your reputation isn’t hurting you?” His head tilted to the side, the sunlight falling through the windows behind him caressing the raven black hair that framed his savage features. “And, sweetheart, I hate to tell you, but last night only made certain that that bastard has to deal with me. No one strikes out at what belongs to me.”
“He’s an irritant. Nothing more. Now, I really need to leave, before I have to swallow any more of this ‘belonging to you’ crap. Because, trust me, belonging to you would really make me homicidal now.”
The look he gave her was rife with irritation. “You’re as stubborn as you ever were.”
“And you’re just as arrogant.”
He grunted at that. “Ian didn’t fire you.”
“Sounded to me like an invitation to walk.” She cocked her hip and glared back at him.
“It was an invitation to accept a helping hand.” He sighed. “We can help you with the Robertses, if you can explain the situation.”
She stared back at him silently. Oh yeah, she was just going to “explain” the whole sordid episode and watch him gut the congressman. Sorry, but the thought of blood spilling just made her ill. It might have been seven years, but Cam was the type of man who never forgot a promise. Or a warning.
He shook his head at her continued silence. “This job entails quite a few secrets that you’ll be privy to,” he finally stated. “It’s yours if you want it, but only after you understand exactly what goes on here.” He rose from the desk and moved behind it.
Lifting a folder, he slid it across the desk. “Read these, sign them, then we’ll talk.”
She stared back at him silently, aching. Where was the man who had kissed her? Who had knelt in front of her and given her the greatest pleasure she had ever known in her life?
She moved slowly to the desk, picked up the folder, and opened it. As she read, she frowned in confusion.
“A confidentiality agreement?”