Page 24 of Broken Lines

“You talk a lot.”

Even if he doesn’t so much speak the worlds as he does rumble them, instantly, there it is, washing over me.

The famous Jackson Havoc voice.

Velvet and whiskey. Sex and fire. Woodsmoke and golden honey. It’s thatinfamously, British-accent-soaked rumble that’s somehow genetically programmed to make your heart thud and your knees weak.

It iscompletelyunfair that this man found himself in show business, as a singer. Because when it came to Jackson, the audience never had a chance. They were fish in a barrel.

And Jackson was fishing with atomic bombs.

Somehow, though, I manage to not turn to a pile of ash, or a pillar of salt. I swallow thickly, looking up at him.

“I’m talking a perfectly normal amount.”

His lips curl darkly. His eyes narrow. It’s not a smile. It’s the snarl before the pounce.

“I live purposely alone,” he rasps. “On a fucking island…”

He slinks a step closer to me, arresting my breath and closing my throat. And it takes everything I have not to take a step back from him.

Scratch that. It takes everything I have not to turn andrun awayfrom this man.

His lips curl deviously.

“Believe me. In my world, you’re talkingwaytoo fucking much.”

I swallow thickly.

“Well, I’ll try to be brief,” I mumble. “As I said, I’m here hoping—”

“No.”

My brow furrows.

“Excuse me?”

Jackson’s eyes narrow coldly. And this time when his lips curl, itisa smile.

A sadistic, gleefully wicked, cruel smile.

“I saidno. Now get the fuck off my island.”

My heart sinks as I start to turn away.

“Actually, wait.”

My brow shoots up, a hopeful smile spreading over my face as I turn back to him eagerly.

“Yes?”

Jackson’s gaze bores in on me.

“You owe me.”

I stare at him, shivering as my brows knit.

“Sorry, what do I owe—”

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