Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,18
as we don’t know each other that well. But I can help with your father’s gift, just not here, and—”
“Jack.”
He glanced up sharply, the tilt of his posture slightly bowed.
Shy Jack had returned, and her resolve wavered.
She’d hooked up with cocky men in the past, could forget herself in the face of their aloof vanity. Jack’s reticence was a different beast. He’d been sweetly sincere on the highway, awkward in the diner, curt then irresistible on their run, always with those flitting blue eyes. She couldn’t quite decipher him, but she wanted to unlock his secrets, offer him a wedge of persimmon to tease the real Jack out.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
“Lead the way,” she said, hoping he’d take her to his family’s estate and hurry her reconnaissance along. More time with Shy Jack was liable to wreck her transmission, lead to grinding and other unpredictable noises. There would be no grinding with Jack.
He led her out of town, along a windy stretch of road, toward his home, not his parents’ estate. An unfortunate turn of events, but the modern architecture, lit by exterior floodlights, stole her breath. The sleek angles and dark-stained wood panels stretched toward surrounding trees, as though merging with their environment.
She parked and texted Lucien quickly, letting him know she was at Jack’s home. Not the home she needed to access, but it was a step closer. She was earning Jack’s trust. Lucien would be pleased.
Once inside, her jaw dropped. Massive glass walls brought the exterior in, tall ceilings adding breadth to the sprawling space. The open kitchen/living space shone in tones of stainless steel and chocolate. Indoor plants added a ripe lushness.
She felt underdressed in her jeans and too-girly peach T-shirt.
“It’s quite the shack you’ve got here,” she said, a bite to her tone. She understood basic desires, the wanting of things, but so much of this money could have helped the needy.
Jack shifted on his feet. “I love architecture.”
He didn’t expand on this interest or show off his wealth.
Shy. Shy. Shy.
“Yeah, well, it’s certainly quaint.” Sarcasm helped her remember why she was there, and how recklessly he’d spent his millions. Fancy electric car. (That helped save the environment.) Expansive home. (That celebrated ingenuity and style.)
Focus, Clementine.
She stepped farther into the space and her attention snagged on an enlarged photograph, life-sized, spanning his living-room wall. Elvis with his arm around a man. “Who is that?”
“Elvis.”
She shot him a scowl, but his teasing smirk mollified her.
“It’s my granddad,” he said. “He was a roadie for the great man.”
Reverence touched his voice, for Elvis or his grandfather, she couldn’t be sure. “Is that how the festival started here?”
He nodded. “Twenty-four years ago.” Again, he didn’t elaborate, but he moved closer to her, stood at her side as they appreciated his family photograph.
Jack had his grandfather’s sharp cheekbones, proud chin and nose. Both men were elegant and handsome. “You look like him.”
“Not as much as others. But I—” An impatient sound arrested his words. “You mean my granddad.”
“Who did you mean?” She forced the question out. She was used to playing roles, pretending to be a wholesome teacher, a sales clerk, a waitress. Always virtuous. That was her gift, Lucien claimed. Her freckled nose and blondish-red hair, open smile, and soft voice painted her as innocent. A person marks would easily trust and wouldn’t suspect. With Jack, playing the role felt like she’d bathed with sandpaper.
“Elvis,” he said quietly. “I don’t look as much like him as…” He worked his jaw and rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes flicked to hers. “I’m part of the festival.”
“An impersonator?”
“No, no…” More neck rubbing.
“Then what?” God, he was hesitant. Worried what she’d think? Which made it even worse. She could put him at ease, admit she knew he performed for crowds and found it surprisingly appealing. She wanted to see him under those hot lights, lip curled, voice crooning, tight pants accentuating his thick thighs. She curled her toes instead.
“Impersonators,” he said, attention on the framed photo, “pretend to be a singer or celebrity. They want to embody that person. I’m a tribute artist. I celebrate Elvis and the life he injected into the world. I don’t pretend to be him.”
Right. She’d read about the difference. Jack’s vehemence drove the distinction home. “So you’ll perform on stage, at the festival?”
“Yes.” He didn’t look at her. Color rose to his cheeks.