“It really is,” Cass agrees, nodding sagely.
“I’m going to die,” I say. “I’m just going to melt here into the floor and die. And you,” I add, pointing to Jackson who looks just a little too amused, “are going to pay. Big time.”
His lips twitch. “I look forward to it.”
“Incorrigible,” I mutter. But, yes, I’m amused, too.
Cass leaps to her feet and grabs my hand. “Come on. I love this song. Dance with me.”
I don’t recognize the music, but I’m willing to dance. I extend my other hand to Jackson.
“Oh no,” he says. “I already danced once. Besides,” he adds before I can protest, “I need to stay here and guard the table. But you two go on.”
“You sure?”
His grin is just a little devious. “What? Watching two beautiful women dance together? Trust me. That won’t be a problem at all. But first,” he says, then pulls me in for a long, deep kiss.
I let out a soft moan, then grin happily at him as I stroke the pendant that hangs between my breasts. “Later,” I say in my most husky voice.
“You can be sure of it,” Jackson says, with so much real heat in his voice that my mood shifts immediately from amused to aroused. He can see the change, and his smile is understanding. “Go,” he says, nodding toward the dance floor where Cass is already moving to the music and motioning me over.
I obey. But where I really want to be right now is in his arms.
We dance for a while, moving with the music, following each other, just generally having a good time. But after six long songs I start to lose a little steam. I need a break and a drink, and so I nod my head toward the table, indicating that I’m going to fight my way back through the throng.
I’ve barely taken a step, though, when Cass pulls me back, her eyes wide.
“What is it?”
“Look.” She points toward the table, but slightly to the left of Jackson. I follow her line of sight—and then gasp.
“Is that who I think—”
“Graham Elliott,” she confirms, identifying one of the biggest stars in Hollywood at the moment. “Damn,” she says. “If only I were straight.”
Normally, I’d laugh. But right now, nothing seems funny to me. Because Graham Elliott is gunning to play Jackson in the movie that Reed wants to make and that Jackson wants to block.
And at the moment, Elliott is making a beeline for Jackson.
I am no longer even swaying to the music. Instead I am just standing on the dance floor watching as Elliott goes right up to Jackson, puts his arm around him, and greets him as if they are the best of friends while all around them, dancers pull out their cell phones and snap their Twitter and Instagram images.
Jackson remains as still as a mountain, his expression like thunder.
“I don’t get it,” Cass says. “Why’s Jackson so down on the movie? Does the script make him look like an ass?”
“He knows the family. And what with the murder and the suicide, he’s protective of their privacy.”
“That’s it?”
I’m certain that it’s not, but I don’t know the rest of it, and I tell Cass so.
She frowns.
“What?” I demand, and my voice is harsher than I’d like, because I’m touchy about the subject.
“I just figured he would have told you the real story.”
“We haven’t really talked about it.” And that’s technically true. But at the same time, the movie has come up every time we’ve talked about the assault on Reed. Because the movie is Jackson’s sleight of hand—it’s what he’s willing to show the public even as he protects me.
And yet never once has he told me why he punched out that screenwriter. Why he doesn’t want to see the movie come to life. And I have no clue what is so goddamn private within that family that the world would come crashing down if Hollywood looked through the lens.
And, most important, I don’t know why it matters so much to Jackson, who wasn’t even in the same state when the murder-suicide occurred.
So, yeah. I’m a little touchy on the subject. And all the more so now that even Cass thinks Jackson’s silence with me on the subject is more than a little odd.
Right now, however, that’s not what I’m focused on. Instead, I just want to get to Jackson, but that’s getting harder and harder, because the crowd has realized that Elliott is nearby and it’s moving in, circling tight around the two of them. And though I keep trying to see Jackson again, the crowd is just too deep.
“Dammit,” I curse. And then, when there is a gap in the crowd and I finally do get a glimpse, I repeat the curse with even more ferocity as Jackson stands. And I seriously fear for Graham’s very pretty movie-star face. Because at that moment, Jackson looks ready to explode.