Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,22

anything, she’d turned him down flat.

She opened her eyes and mouthed what, the word barely audible.

“I want to take you out,” he tried again, “but I’ve been rehearsing for the festival all year. Winning is important to me…for several reasons. With you being a judge, it would be a conflict of interest.”

She pressed her hand over her heart and blinked rapidly. “Right. Yeah. I get it.”

“Does that mean you’d have said yes?”

“To what?” She seemed dazed, cheeks flushed, equilibrium sketchy.

He steadied her elbow. “Would you have agreed to a date?”

Her body snapped taut. Ready to bolt again? Just as quickly, she softened. “Yes. I’d have said yes.” A measure of stiffness returned to her joints. “Not that it matters, with the competition and all. Plus, I don’t exactly live close, so there’d be no point. And we’ve determined you’re an idiot.”

He laughed. “And that you’re annoying and secretive.” A mix of pleasure and disappointment winded him. “Too bad we didn’t meet under different circumstances.”

She reached for him and touched his jaw, feathering her fingers over his skin. The sensual move reminded him of her on that bland stretch of highway, flirty one minute, speeding away the next. She peeked up at him through her lashes. “What would you do under different circumstances?”

Kissed her. Devoured her. Used the skills one kind woman had taught him oh so well. Yes, all of that and then some, but another possibility pulled at him, too tempting to keep inside. “I’d invite you on my upcoming trip to India.”

Something dark crossed her face, and she dropped her hand. “India?”

“I have investors there.” Potential investors. The trip was business, not pleasure, like most facets of his life. Work was his life’s blood. Seeing his factory and Whichway thrive was everything. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in or had gone for a leisurely walk. A vacation with a woman? He’d never done that. What would it be like to have her along? To feed her naan while exploring the colorful city and inhaling the spice-laden air?

She lifted her hair and fanned her neck. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. Going to India,” she mumbled on a laugh. “But we can still be friends. Have coffee and go for runs. Talk about Ricky and Lucy and how big of an idiot you are. And I’d love to see the estate where you grew up. I’ve heard it’s quite something.” She strutted past him, toward the exit, determination in her stride. “Best we get that picture first. I’d hate to miss my father’s birthday.”

Her flippancy didn’t hide her need to flee. A reaction he should encourage. Yes, they could have coffee and meet for runs. They could indulge their shared herpetology interest and tease each other. But she couldn’t tour his estate. Not when his father was holed up there, nurses tending to him 24/7. Another reason for Jack to avoid Clementine’s draw: lying to her about it would feel incredibly wrong.

7

Clementine kept pace with Jack, his stride less leave-her-in-his-dust than yesterday. “But I didn’t think chameleons changed color to camouflage.”

“They don’t,” he said patiently, as though he didn’t mind her reptile-question barrage. “They lighten and darken according to emotion. Ella gets vividly bright when she’s afraid, which happened often when I first rescued her. Now she fluctuates depending on temperature.”

“It must have taken her a while to trust you.”

“It did.” He snuck a glance her way. “The singing helped.”

It sure as hell had helped Clementine. That was some kind of voodoo he’d performed, casting her under his Elvis spell. She’d already been primed for it, had lost a bit of her sense while standing in his shelter, mesmerized by his generosity and rock-and-roll attire.

Then that song.

He’d been kind and accommodating afterward. He’d snapped photos, even holding up a paper that read, Happy birthday, Clinton! All the while, she couldn’t stop thinking of the Delhi Orphanage, the money they needed, the importance of acquiring that priceless Van Gogh. Another thought had blindsided her as well: the prospect of Jack discovering her deceit.

His potential look of disgust had gutted her in a surprising way, the possibility growing alongside their strange connection. Even worse, this job had been fraught with mistakes. He knew her real name and that she owned a bearded dragon named Lucy. She’d admitted her father had died. Vague details that were difficult to connect, but paranoia had her picturing a life behind bars.

She’d maintained a healthy distance afterward, offering an awkward wave when retreating to