Page 147 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Not again!

His back teeth ground together in frustration at her cool disinterest. Was it a game? Was she teasing him? Just what the hell was going on here?

“Jenna, look at me,” he commanded in a near-whisper.

But as he edged closer, he realized that she wasn’t as perfect as he’d thought. No . . . her makeup wasn’t quite right. Her lipstick was too pale, her eyeshadow barely visible. He’d wanted her to look more like a whore. That was the plan. Hadn’t he told her to play the part of a prostitute? Isn’t she dressed as a prostitute? Isn’t this part of your fantasy?

Damn, he couldn’t think straight. His mind wasn’t as clear as he’d hoped. Probably the drugs . . . or was it something else? Something vital? Jenna wasn’t responding the way he’d hoped.

She knew what he liked.

But then, she’d always been defiant. Always aloof. Icily so. That was part of his attraction to her.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered, deciding to give her another chance, though he was having trouble focusing. Maybe he was a little too high and he wasn’t seeing those little nuances of lust that she was known for. That was it. His mind was a little too cloudy, his thoughts not quite joined, his lust overtaking reason. He was quivering inside, and his lungs felt constricted. His erection was rock-hard, straining against his fly, but the images in his mind were a little blurry.

He licked his lips. No more waiting.

He placed a knee on the bed beside her, and the mattress creaked loudly.

Still she refused to look at him.

“Jenna!” he said more sharply than he’d intended, his temper catching fire, his tongue a little thick.

Take it easy. She’s here, isn’t she?

“Jenna, look at me!”

Not so much as a flinch.

Stubborn, thankless woman! After all he’d done for her! All the years he’d thought of no one but her! Rage burned through his blood, and his hands began to shake.

Calm down! You can still have her. In your bed. She hasn’t moved away, has she?

“Jenna, I’m here,” he said.

She ignored him.

Fury blazed white-hot, but he tried to fight his anger. This was her game, that was all. She knew that the more she pretended disinterest, the more he would want her, the higher the erotic stakes. And that was all the better.

Wasn’t it?

He didn’t know. Couldn’t really remember.

Sweat beaded his brow though it was cold in here, the temperature hovering only a few degrees above freezing. And yet he was hot inside, a fire raging through his blood.

Didn’t she feel it—the intimate bond that tethered them together?

He knelt beside her and with a trembling finger traced the outline of her cheek. It was warm to his touch.

Then he understood. This was all part of her fantasy. She wanted him to think of her not as Jenna Hughes, but as one of the roles she’d played on the big screen. Wasn’t she dressed as Paris Knowlton, a New Orleans prostitute in Beneath the Shadows? Hadn’t he wanted Jenna to act like Paris tonight? Isn’t that exactly what she was doing? Suddenly he felt better, the warmth running through his veins due to lust and drugs rather than rage.

“Paris,” he cooed, touching her dark hair lovingly. It shimmered a blue-black in the shadowy lights. “I’ve been searching for you.”

Still no response.

Jesus, what did she want? He was playing his part . . . or was he?

“Jenna?”

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