Cyril gave him a disgusted glance. “I see it regularly, why wouldn’t I know? Long legs, a stunning face, a heart as cold and conniving as your own can be. The women you sleep with are lionesses, while the women you save are sad. Vulnerable.”
Jacob looked up sharply at that, an unpleasant, freezing sensation shooting through his veins.
“What are you talking about? Saving people?”
Cyril shrugged, as if he couldn’t believe Jacob was asking for clarification on such an obvious topic.
“Let’s see,” Cyril began, ticking off his fingers. “There’s Regina, then that housekeeper of yours at Sea Cliff. Marianne, isn’t it? There’s Elizabeth, of course, whom you rescued from that battered women’s shelter and turned into a titan of business. And that’s not even mentioning all the unknown people and animals you save through your charities. You can keep most of your philanthropy from being commonly known, Jacob, but you aren’t fooling me on that score.”
“You’re babbling,” Jacob said coldly.
“But Harper McFadden . . . she’s not a classic victim or a heartless lioness. And yet, against all odds . . . you like her. Ah—I’ve got it! The scar,” Cyril said, pointing to the corner of his mouth, indicating the location of Harper’s scar. “She’s the gorgeous, brave reporter with a soul sensitive enough to write stories like Ellie’s. She’s the vulnerable lioness.”
Jacob hissed a curse, his spoon plinking loudly against his bowl. Cyril’s observations struck too close to home about many things, one of them being that he encapsulated his internal conflict about sexually dominating Harper with shocking precision.
“She’s a reporter,” Jacob bit out, as if that explained everything. “I should be avoiding her like the plague. And I don’t like her. What is this, the fifth grade?”
Cyril twirled his iced tea glass. “You like the way she makes you feel, then. Anyone could have seen that the other night.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Cyril just arched his brows in a sardonic challenge.
“Because in point of fact, I don’t like the way Harper McFadden makes me feel,” Jacob declared loudly. He snapped his mouth closed when he heard the glass door slide open behind him.
He blinked. He couldn’t believe he’d let Cyril get a rise out of him. It hardly ever happened. Lisa appeared with their second course. He stewed in his irritation while she served. What he’d told Cyril was true. Harper McFadden made him feel torn and restless. She made him feel like this: uncomfortably bewildered and prickly. She made him feel like he wasn’t himself . . . like he was Jake instead of Jacob.
So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her, then? He couldn’t seem to rid himself of this craving to possess her sexually, yet . . . he felt remorse over that. His guilt wasn’t dampening the need, though. There was a charge to his lust that was undeniable.
It was because it was Harper. He was like a stupid kid all over again, unable to control either mind or body . . .
And what if Cyril was right, and she was vulnerable in addition to being strong?
It doesn’t change the fact that you want to tie her up and have her until you can’t see straight, with absolutely nothing to stand in your way.
So you don’t like her,” Cyril agreed when Lisa left the balcony. He’d said it just to keep the peace, but in typical Cyril fashion, couldn’t resist sounding sarcastic as hell. “You’ll still apologize to her for my sake, won’t you?” He popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “For the film’s sake?”
“You just want that damn film made because your new actor boyfriend is so perfect for the part of Ellie’s homeless friend.”
“Of course I do. I like Miguel, and I want him to be happy,” Cyril said simply, taking a sip of iced tea. “But I want it for me, as well. And for Harper. It’s an amazing story. You think so, too. You’ll call her?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jacob repeated before he began mechanically eating his salad.
“No,” Cyril said with a sigh that set Jacob’s teeth on edge. “I think it’s you who doesn’t know, Jacob.”
• • •
Maybe Cyril was right, Jacob thought later that evening as he looked out over the shimmering cerulean lake.
He’d managed to get through the rest of lunch without allowing his friend to get a rise out of him again . . . or without making any promises he’d regret in regard to Harper McFadden. He’d successfully pushed out any thoughts of what had happened on the yacht last night while he methodically worked on the ResourceSoft acquisition this afternoon.
But then Elizabeth had left early for the night, and his phone had stopped its steady, rhythmic buzzing, and the sun had started to set. Thoughts of her began to intrude once again.
It both gratified him and rankled at once, that he was so completely different now that there was never even a hint of recognition on her face. He’d gratifyingly imagined for years that Jake Tharp was effectively dead. But seeing the evidence of that truth broadcast large on Harper’s face was firsthand proof. It seemed so strange that she could have forgotten so completely when he remembered so well.
Even though he wished like hell that he didn’t.
twelve