Free Heiress Behind the Headlines by Caitlin Crews Page A

scenario? “To dinner,” he clarified, and smiled, calling on all his charm,all his finesse. She blinked. “I did promise I would feed you, didn’t I?”
    She let out a little laugh, silvery in the air around them.
    “How can I refuse?” she asked lightly.
    It was exactly what she’d said over five years ago, he thought as a heat flooded through him, when he’d heeded an urge he’d never had before—not with her, at any rate—and asked her to leave that party with him. He couldn’t remember, now, who had thrown that party or even if it had been for one of the many charities he supported with his presence and checkbook, as was expected of members of his social circle. All he could remember was how he’d touched her, kissed her. He remembered the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, the heat of her decadent mouth. He remembered the wild passion, the intense need that had nearly taken him out at the knees. Touching Larissa was like diving into the heart of a volcano, and he’d loved it. The rush. The danger. Adrenaline and desire.
    He had known her for years. He was not one to waste his time reading trashy fiction in the gutter press, not even back then when he’d starred in so many lurid fantasies presented as fact—but even so, he would have to have been entombed underground somewhere not to recognize that Larissa Whitney was the It Girl of their time. Her every word, action, outfit and hairstyle scrutinized, criticized and then ruthlessly copied. He’d been surprised to find that she was so sharp, so funny.
    She’d made him laugh when he’d been resigned to another night of desperate tedium. Then they’d danced together on a rooftop with all of Manhattan laid out at their feet, and touching her had felt like burning alive. His mother had just died, he’d been reeling from a loss he could hardly make sense of nor admit, and somehow, Larissa Whitney had seemed like a touchstone. An anchor to theworld, though not, perhaps, of it. She was the only thing that had broken through his numbness, his despair, like a bright shining lighthouse on the edge of a dangerous cliff.
    “Come with me,” he’d said. Had he ordered her or pleaded with her? His memory was unreliable on that point.
    She’d had her arms locked around his neck, those perfect small breasts pressed against him like twin points of flame, and her green eyes had seemed to sear right through him. He’d thought she was magical. She’d felt like some kind of spell, her body an enchantment against his, and he’d felt like his own kind of magic holding her that close, with the whole city made up of interlocking ropes of light spread out behind her and below her like a labyrinth.
    She’d laughed as if every part of that moment delighted her, as if he’d delighted her even more, straight down to the soles of her expertly, expensively-shod feet. She hadn’t asked him where he wanted to go, or what he’d wanted to do. She hadn’t played any of those games. He’d thought she wasn’t playing any games at all. She’d leaned closer then, and she’d pressed her full lips to his, a cool challenge. A hint. Like a deep, consuming flame. Like destiny, he’d thought.
    “How can I refuse?” she’d asked in that light, easy voice of hers, a sweet whisper in his ear.
    He’d felt it like a thunderbolt.
    But if she remembered that, Jack thought, searching her face, he saw no sign of it now. Her face was smooth as glass, and perhaps he only imagined that there were things to be learned still in the darkness of her unreadable eyes. Perhaps he simply wanted that to be true.
    Perhaps he was a far greater fool than he had previously believed.
    He led her through to the back of the house, where the original kitchen had long since been remodeled to suit moremodern tastes. He walked over to the subzero refrigerator and began pulling things out of it, setting them out on the counter.
    “You cook?” He could hear the laughter in her voice, though when he looked