Page 19 of Wild Card

“And your point is what? That I inherited great bone structure and have decent hair?”

“It’s a little better than decent.” Much better, actually, but she didn’t push the subject. He’d started to steam about this. “But no, that’s not my point. It’s not what you have here,”—she relished the chance to glide a touch down the side of his face—“it’s what you are in here.” She dipped her caress to the middle of his chest. “You’re something special, Sam. People see it, know it, everywhere you go.”

He lifted a hand to cover hers. “And you’re not?”

His words still sounded like accusation. Beneath their weight, Jen squirmed. “I don’t light up rooms everywhere I go. I don’t fly to the stars then bring them back down for the Earth to revel in.” The glow from a wall sconce was a perfect fixation, invoking a vision of Sam’s jet against a sunset sky. “That’s another fantasy of mine, you know,” she said wistfully. “To know what it’s like to fly with you.”

“Don’t change the subject.” His retort was instant. Too much so. Her confession had touched him a little, and Jen was glad of it. Her confession had been honest. She respected him for what he did in a cockpit, but adored him for the joy he took in doing so. For nine months, the best part of her days at work had been watching his eagerness before heading out for pre-flight checks. Bringing that glimmer back to his gaze was now the best part of her night.

Wrecked the next moment—by his growled challenge.

“How can you not see what I see in you, Jenny?”

He waited, silent and alert—actually expecting an answer. She stared back, just as still, refusing to give him one. “You know what? We’ll have to agree to disagree on this.” When another snarl churned in his throat, she turned their handclasp around, thumping his own knuckles against his sternum. “And no, I won’t consider your arguments otherwise. You’re a good man, Sam—a damn good man—but you can’t change what simply is. Even if we didn’t live halfway around the world from each other, we’d be living in different circles. Different worlds.”

“So you think a woman like Mattie belongs on my arm, then?” He spat it as if considering the idea of sleeping with a snake. Jen grasped his hand between both of hers, an unspoken plea for calm.

“All right,” she acquiesced. “Maybe not her, exactly…but someone like her.”

“Like her?” He leaned away. Yep. Avoiding the snake.

“You know what I’m trying to say,” she snapped. “Why are you making this so hard?”

His eyes bugged. “I’m makin’ this—” He interrupted himself, inhaling sharply. Finished with just as harsh a nod. “All right, then. If I belong with someone like Mattie, who the hell do you belong with?” He swept an arm out. “Go on. Here’s a nice room, full of chaps to choose from. Who among them is like the guy you need to be with?”

Jen flinched. What other choice was there, in reaction to the venom in his voice? Logically, she connected the dots to hurt feelings and a bruised male ego. But a bruised ego over what? The simple idea of her with someone else? Riiiggght. Either he’d been hiding one huge ego over the last nine months, or—

Or he really had feelings for her beyond the friends-with-benefits thing.

As they said where he came from: horse shite.

There had to be some other explanation.

“What the hell’s going on?” she finally mustered the courage to charge.

Sam finished off his ale. Pounded the glass to the table. “That wasn’t an answer to my question.”

Fine. Two could play this game.

Jen scooped up her glass and chugged the rest of her Pinot Gris.

Or maybe not.

The wine crashed into her empty stomach, was instantly picked up by her racing nerves, turning her head into a cyclone. “All of them.” Liquid courage, don’t fail me now. “There’s your answer, Captain. Because every man in this damn room wants to be with a cute little catch like me, right?” Her throat snagged on the sarcasm, making it possible for her pain to seep through. She pushed on, having no choice if she was to save any kind of face. “Damn. I’m so glad you’re here, because I’d be beating them all off with sticks if that wasn’t the case. Story of my life. Men, men, men. Everywhere I turn, it’s—agghh!”

Her yelp popped out as Sam thrusted to his feet, hauling her right behind. Still with no footwear except the wedding heels, she toppled forward. He caught her easily, despite the dark fury still claiming every inch of his mien. While settling her balance, he beckoned a cocktail waitress. “Captain Mackenna,” she murmured politely. “Will you be transferring the evening to private status now?”

Sam’s smile was perfunctory. “You fuckin’ bet we will.”

“Transferring the—” Jen darted her gape between him to the waitress. “‘Private status’? What the hell does that—”

“Very well, then.” The server, a leggy beauty with trendy cat-eye makeup, spoke like Jen had commented on the weather. “Right this way.”

“This way” turned out to be a hallway, cleverly hidden behind a portion of the wall that swung out at Leggy’s seemingly magical cue. Upon closer look, Jen noticed that the woman’s electronic order pad also included an icon of a lock, with the label VIP beneath it. But Jen didn’t feel very “VIP”. Skittish colt instincts, to the rescue. She backed away until she couldn’t—hitting a roadblock in the form of a six-foot-four fighter pilot with launch rockets blazing in his eyes.

“Room three,” said Leggy.

“Hell no,” Jen retorted.

The roadblock bent his head, fitting his jaw to her neck and his lips to her ear. “She said room three. Now walk.”

Jen jabbed an elbow into his ribs. He barely grunted—before sweeping her hair off her neck and digging his teeth into her nape. “I said walk, Jenny, or I’ll be takin’ you myself with your ass over my shoulder.”

And because she was naked under the dress, a lot more than just her ass would “entertain” everyone in the room. Not that they wouldn’t enjoy the spectacle. Something about the soft laughs from around the bar told her that a lot of guests already knew about the secret panel—and exactly what lay behind it.

That didn’t make things easier as she growled and stalked down the hall. She hated herself for obeying him—and her traitorous body, for its thousand tingles of erotic expectation.

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