hit him with two bullets before he escapes behind the rock wall—and holy hell. I have to tip my head back to see the top of the thing. It has to be at least four stories high, rocky foot holds sticking out every couple of feet, ropes hanging down on either side.
I scan the matted area to find a gym on the other side, complete with weight machines, treadmills and stationary bikes. Getting to the gym will be risky, but there are a lot of places to hide and I’m too exposed here.
“On Friday night, you told me you only exercise if it’s spontaneous,” Jack calls from behind the rock wall. “Is this what you meant?”
“Yes! And stop trying to determine my position by asking me things. This is war.”
“Bloodthirsty girl. You could have a career in finance.”
With a smile on my face, I truck it toward the gym, keeping an eye on the edge of the rock wall, just in case he tries to fire. And of course he does, but he misses and I skid into the gym, taking shelter behind a table stacked with towels and water bottles. Like fifty of them.
“Lord. How many people work out here?”
“Just me. But I’m an extravagant billionaire.”
I’m laughing again—at his unabashed arrogance this time—but I quiet myself when his shadow crosses into the gym. Jack is winning right now, four to three, but he has a lot less bullets than me, after missing so many times. I’m at an advantage.
I slide my finger onto the trigger and prepare to fire over the top of the table, but a movement to my left distracts me. Assuming it’s Jack, I fire a string of bullets, only to realize I’m shooting at a towel. With a gasp, I spin around, but it’s too late. He’s tricked me—and he’s right behind me with a smug smile on his handsome face.
Ping ping.
Two bullets catch me in the dead center of the chest, making it six to three, but I refuse to say die even though I’m almost out of bullets, attempting to scramble to my feet…
And I smack my head on the edge of the table.
Not hard.
But sensing an advantage, I immediately play it up, cradling my forehead and sniffling pitifully, like I’m on the verge of tears. “Ouch.”
Jack drops his gun. “Oh my God, Maisy.” He kneels down beside me, pulling me onto his lap, tipping my chin up. “Are you hurt? Should I call someone? Are you bleeding?”
Upon seeing his gray complexion and panicked blue eyes, I immediately feel terrible for duping him. But not terrible enough to stop me from picking up my gun and firing my remaining four bullets into his shoulder. “I win.”
A touch of panic fades. “You’re not hurt?”
Unable to subdue my triumphant smile, I shake my head.
A rush of relief blows over his features and a disbelieving laugh puffs out of his mouth. “That was cold, Whitaker.”
We’re both breathing fast from exertion. “Maybe you’re teaching me how to play dirty.”
His erection presses up against my bottom, that masculine hand slipping my dress higher on my thighs, his knuckle teasing me beneath my belly button. “I’m going to teach you a lot of dirty things while you’re here.”
A tingle tickles into my pelvis and carries low, like fingertips stroking over my private flesh. “That’s going to be tough when I’m not sleeping in your room,” I whisper, trembling.
In a split second, I’m flat on my back, Jack looming above me. “I don’t need a fucking room. I’ll take you outside and pound you against my front door while the mail is being delivered, won’t I?” The imagery of that makes me moan, my nipples beading painfully. I’m too momentarily stunned to fight and he presses that advantage, his hips wedging between my thighs, fingers tucking beneath my neckline—and ripping my dress straight down the middle, sending buttons into a scatter all over the floor. “Can I come yet, baby?” He unfastens his belt and tosses it aside. “Yes or no.”
My birth control should be effective now. And I would sell my soul to feel that wicked lick of liquid fire inside me again…which is exactly why I can’t allow it. He’s consuming me, drawing me in physically and mentally, making me fall for him before I’ve accomplished my goal of knowing him. After all, he’s still the man who broke his first promise to me. Is controlling me with money, like a carrot on the end of a stick.