Love's Inconvenient Truth Read online

  Once I turned around preparing to adjust myself into the seat, my feet stopped movement and all the wind in the room had vacuumed into my lungs. My heart furiously palpitated and my mouth hit the floor. All I could see was the scowling eyes belonging to the towering frame of a man encased in cinnamon with the most heartrending, arresting eyes. If this was a dream I would’ve awakened at the pinnacle of it—and this was the height of it. It was him. Only he didn’t have the same lazy, seductive incandescence he’d possessed the previous Friday during our one-night encounter.

  Upon coming down from my initial shock, I noticed he sported stubble on his jaw that unbelievably made him even more appealing than he was on Friday, but it was definitely him.

  Still frozen, but slowly expelling air from my mouth and trying to manage my equilibrium during my myocardial infarction, I managed to peruse my eyeballs around the room to see every other person there was either fixated on me or the fully clothed Greek god, seething at the other end of the table.

  No…no! This cannot be happening. Not today. God, no!

  My belly went empty and suddenly I couldn’t detach my gaze from his speculative glower.

  “May I help you?” his deep and commanding voice rumbled. Suddenly, I felt reduced to a perpetrator.

  My eyes perused the room again just to be sure they saw familiar faces from our last meeting. Yup. They were all of the folks that were at the original RFA.

  I willed my voice to return.

  “I am here for the second round of the RFA rollout.” My voice was cold, fighting against the tremors that accompanied it.

  His chin collapsed in disbelief. He closed his eyes for a few seconds before opening them with renewed persistence. He returned his gaze to me. “Your name?”

  “Elle. Elle Jarreau.” I pronounced sharply, furious at his pursuit to disprove my purpose for being in the same room as him.

  He turned to the woman to the left of him. The redhead’s hand landed at my name and tapped on it before giving him a confirmatory nod. He paid a glance at the document and read out loud in resolute exhalation, “Elle A. Jarreau.”

  My eyes danced in embarrassment. He was confirming the accuracy of the moniker I’d given him that Friday night in the heat of passion. Embarrassment morphed into anger at his allusions of me being a fraud on some level.

  The audacity of this S.O.B.!

  “And yours, sir?” My tone firmer than before.

  His dangerous glare returned to mine. “Excuse me?” I could hear the incredulity in his tenor.

  “Your name?” I bit out, sans welcoming warmth.

  Who does he think he is, calling me out in front of my colleagues? I had a right to be at this meeting just as much as he did. Or did I? Who in the hell was he? And I found myself asking again—how old was this man? Right now his scowl read of an aged man, but his unimpeachable athletic posture and frame gave hints of youth. Nonetheless, he was still as delicious in appearance as he was on Friday.

  His eyebrows shot up, expressing he was appalled that I asked. His neck jerked back to confirm my presumption.

  “Jackson. Jackson Q. Hunter, Ms. Elle A. Jarreau.”

  I knew what that meant. He wanted me to know that he had been somewhat honest with his name. But so had I. Ann was my middle name however; Jack was only a variation of his. We stood there and argued with our glowers, neither one wanted to relinquish rights to righteous indignation.

  “Is it me or are we all flies on the wall of a lover’s quarrel?”

  I turned to find the recipient of those uncanny words. It was the senior tot from outside of the conference room. His eyes sloped in amusement as he crossed the room. Everyone else, still clearly uneasy.

  Once the youngster hit the top of the table, the room was so silenced that I could hear him whisper to Jackson, “Are we good here, Hunt?”

  Jackson gave him an affirmative nod before turning to the redhead, prompting her to start the meeting.

  The minute the redhead, whose name I’d eventually learned was Bridgette, gave the final benediction, I gathered my things in double quick time. The hour and a half meeting had sucked the life out of me by each tick of the clock.

  When Bridgette glanced over to Jackson for confirmation that the agenda had been exhausted, I never regarded him for his response, but in seconds she announced, “Well, that’s all, gang. You should be hearing from us with our final selections by the end of the workday tomorrow.

  That was my cue to charge to the door. I needed fresh air. I couldn’t believe how Jackson made every attempt to relegate my intelligence in less than two hours.

  Asshole!

  I cut off Brian, who sat to the right of me and therefore had first courtesy to the door, but I was a woman on fire and if I hadn’t left that room when I did, I would’ve had a public meltdown. It was truly a miracle that I didn’t when Jackson asked me in front of the group if I knew the difference between rap and hip hop. That wasn’t half as bad as him asking me to recite the last ten cover candidates for Sports Illustrated magazine. When I got to number six he asked me to stop and it was a good thing because I couldn’t recall the 9th and 10th. Clearly, he couldn’t put away his initial shock of our encounter long enough to get through this meeting. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been so angry.

  And imagine my surprise to learn that Jackson Hunter was the new partner of J.G., Wizer and Hunter. Apparently, under his direction, the firm was taking on a new form of marketing targeting celebrities pursuing branding their legacy and would start the following week. They informed the group that we’d be taking someone from design, I.T., as well as two from marketing to form a dynamic team. We were not guaranteed anything, just granted the opportunity of a seat on the team based on our proposals.

  They gave us feedback on the original proposals we submitted, asking for clarification and more detailed explanations on our ideas. We also had to undergo a roundtable of questions and brainstorming for a mock client, at which time Jackson made it his personal agenda to undermine me and therefore disqualify my abilities, banishing me from the roster of candidates. Fucker!

  A mere two feet from the door, I heard a voice that carried from the front of the generous sized conference room to the back where the mass exodus was happening and I was at the front of the line, “A word, Elle.”

  My stomach clenched at the way my name rolled off of his tongue. As much as the bastard annoyed me, I couldn’t deny the way my body reacted to his voice. Without an outward flinch, I backed away from the door, moving out of the flow of traffic and stilled myself there in the back of the room.

  Within seconds, the room was empty. All you could hear were the footsteps of Jackson making his way toward me. Once he was inches away and I could smell the trace of his tantalizing cologne, I intuitively glanced up to meet his scowl.

  For seconds he didn’t speak, he just studied my face. I noticed features of Jackson that were impossible to observe in the heat of Friday night. For instance, the brilliance in his amber irises and the wonderfully bushy eyebrows that clouded over them. And the thinly trimmed mustache, one that I didn’t exactly recall from Friday. Damn. His masculine splendor irradiated under the ceiling lights. He wore a dark blue suit with a crisp white shirt, an electric blue tie and from his balled fists resting on his hips, exposing his wide chest, I couldn’t help but to recall the bubbled washboard that lay beneath.

  After a few beats I could no longer take it. I found my nostrils flared as I rolled my eyes at him, landing them down at my black, leather, pointy toe Jimmy Choo’s.

  “Did you do this on purpose?”

  My mouth went dry as I peered up and into his distressed eyes. “What do you mean by that?” My mouth drew up tightly.

  “You know what the hell I mean. Did you set up Friday to secure your chances on this team?”

  Was he asking if I had orchestrated sleeping with him in order to get the promotion? Although that wouldn’t be the most original idea, how cowardly of him to shift the coordinati
on of our rendezvous onto me? Did I just say rendezvous? Shit! This can’t be happening!

  Feeling anger building once again, I cocked my head to the side. “Who in the hell do you think you are to accuse me of something so scandalous? If I remember correctly, you approached me.”

  “Yeah, asking if you had plans for that evening. And how do I know I wasn’t your plan before I approached you?”

  “You have got to be kidding me. Listen, you ignorant son of a bitch, this project aside, I am intelligent enough to earn opportunities that are generated from my very capable brain, not between my legs—”

  He backed up as if the air had been knocked out of him. “Excuse me!” He attempted to interrupt me, but I jumped before him.

  “Yes, excuse you! I will not stand here and allow you to marginalize my professionalism and ability to get the job done. Toss my proposal, but you will not degrade me like some whorish opportunist. When you pick up a woman at a bar to fuck, put your big boy pants on long enough to devise how to react should you meet her again in an unexpected situation,” I hissed through my teeth as I watched his jaw clench at my words.

  I stormed out of the conference room.

  I was good at it. I did it once again. I deflected. I made Jackson feel as if he were the one to blame for our mishap that night. I mean…isn’t that one of the best reasons to avoid sleeping with strangers? You may end up running into each other at the most inconvenient time. It was just as much my mess as it was his. But I didn’t like his implication that I’d devised it. It was really insulting and swept in the feelings of cheapness that I’d suffered all too often as a young adolescent who didn’t respect her body. Sex wasn’t a big deal to me. Physically, it didn’t do much but provide the opportunity to manipulate men and boys with my body. I was well conversant with sex; we were great bedfellows. He was a man, so I just didn’t understand why he had such an explosive reaction to seeing me in the RFA meeting.

  I trudged my way back to my desk, leaving fumes of fury in my wake. When I unlocked my computer I saw Susan had approved my proposal and asked that I send it to her supervisors.

  Impossible!

  I stole a glance in the direction of her office door that I sat right outside of and rolled my eyes. There was nothing I could do. As it was, I’d be doomed to spend an unknown extended amount of time at the direction of her incompetence. I got to it right away and midway of proofing her receipted version, an interoffice instant message popped up at the lower right corner of my screen.

  From Jackson Q. Hunter: It’s imperative that we come to a resolve. Meet me in the lobby at one. I’m hoping we can chat over a civilized lunch.

  Lunch? There was no way I wanted to go anywhere with him! What type of ruse was he running now?

  I decided quickly to reply: While I appreciate your attempt and would like to come to a standing agreement, I have lunch obligations in place already. I will contact your secretary to arrange a more convenient time.

  I waited a few seconds for a response and when it didn’t come right away I returned my attention to the task at hand. I’d hoped that I showed Jackson that my attention was not fixated on him in a ploy towards advancement in the firm.

  PING!

  The box popped up again and it was Jackson… again.

  I will be in the lobby promptly at one o’clock. If you are not there by 3 mins after one you can forget about your candidacy for the senior account mgr role and sign your fate to remaining Lazy Ass Susan Littlejohn’s over-qualified assistant for the remainder of your tenure at this firm.

  My fingers clenched into fists and my lips twisted into a ball. Was he threatening me? He sure as hell did not leave me opportunity to decline the meeting. Okay. If it was meeting with Elle Jarreau he wanted, I’d make sure he would never forget it.

  At exactly 12:58 I was standing in the lobby next to the oval guard desk, stilled in vehemence when Jackson exited the elevator and ambled over to the door of the building. His stride was collected and exuded confidence, but underneath I knew he was brooding over our recent discoveries as much as I had been. He stopped and held it open as he inclined his head, inviting me to exit. I all but stomped my way over to the door and past him.

  He hailed a cab and we were off to Michael Angelo’s for our lunchtime pow-wow. The ride over was filled with silence, making it clear that Jackson was just as pensive about our impending conversation as I was.

  We were seated and given menus. When the waiter walked off I chipped through the ice of our company.

  “Michael Angelo’s hardly seems like the appropriate restaurant to hold a business luncheon.” I mean, really. The ambiance alone screamed romantic elegance.

  Jackson lowered his menu to shoot me a reproachful stare. “Not good enough for you, Elle A. Jarreau?”

  I’d had it already! “Jesus! Let’s just cut to the chase. If you don’t want me on the team just say it, but don’t antagonize me or manipulate me into having lunch under the guise of securing my future on it.” I managed with my best inside voice.

  When I expected a fiery rebuttal, Jackson surprised me by reclining in his chair, widening his robust frame unruffled. His expression was impassive and the silence provided time for me to reflect on my abrasiveness. The waiter appeared, taking our drink order and waited while we quickly roamed the menu to make selections. I could tell that Jackson didn’t want to prolong our time together.

  Once the waiter left, Jackson let out a long breath as he brought his elbows atop the table. “Listen, Elle, you were right. I didn’t react in the most professional manner. I apologize for losing my cool in there. Nonetheless, you must understand it from a man of my…berth. I have to constantly be on guard for buccaneers. It’s something I’ve had to adjust to over the years.”

  He didn’t give me consistent eye contact, but his ardent expression brought about so many questions. I couldn’t help myself.

  “If you have so much to risk, why take chances?” He didn’t see me bitching and moaning about running back into my truncated lover at work. But then again, I had a longstanding affair with abridged lovers.

  He didn’t answer right away. His eyes closed in frustration and reopened dejectedly. I watched as his jaw clenched just before his eyes slowly rolled back over to mine. “Call it running into what you believed to be the most irresistible creature and not having the wherewithal to deny yourself of her.”

  Our eyes locked for a moment and it took straining effort for me to look away. I didn’t know what that was, but whatever just transmitted between us made me feel drained and exhilarated at the same time. I hated it.

  “Well, if it makes you feel better, Friday disappeared at the exact moment I left your suite. You don’t have to worry about me using it against you or as a stepping stone for your new venture. I would never do that.”

  Our food appeared and we proceeded to go at our lunch spiritlessly, a cloud of ambiguity hovering over our table. I’d given the last correspondence and would not attempt resolution again. Desperation was not my thing. I’d retired from trying to gain acceptance years ago.

  Somewhere mid our lunch he muttered, “You’ve already made the team.”

  Did he just say…?

  My eyes circled, trying to wrap my brain around his words and then shot over to him, but his remained in his antipasto salad as he drew imaginary circles in his plate with his fork. I could tell he had been brooding over his food, but for how long?

  “I made the team? But how could that be when Bridgette said that you guys wouldn’t decide until—”

  He cut me off with his head still to the table. “You weren’t an uncertain applicant. Every other candidate is. We decided to hold off on giving you the news and just have you participate until we make our decisions on the rest. Your prospectus was impeccable.”

  Well, why the threats? Why drag me to lunch? Then it dawned on me.

  “You needed to be sure that I’d be cool to move forward. To make sure I wasn’t some emotionally deranged lass who would h
ave hopes of developing a romantic relationship with you, or to be sure that I am not the opportunist you believed me to be earlier.” It wasn’t a question, rather my revelation.

  He didn’t answer. Instead he reserved a few more beats before murmuring, “I have a lot riding on this venture; personally and professionally. As much as people find my position here to be nothing more than grandstanding nepotism, I view it as far more. I’m carrying a legacy on my back while trying to blaze my own trail. And I can’t afford any slip-ups to provide my partners, or enemies vying for my birthright, an opportunity to affirm that my age and lack of experience will work to my detriment. I’ve worked hard to even be considered for a seat at the table and I will continue to do so.” With that he peered into my eyes once again searching me.

  His gaze seized me and I didn’t like the sensations I felt when he did. I needed to conclude this meeting and put some space between Jackson and me so I could think about all of this. I started reaching for my purse. Instantly, the waiter appeared and we consented to him taking both of our half-eaten plates.

  “Jackson, I don’t want to use you to gain opportunity—well, I don’t want to immorally, anyway.” He snorted and insouciantly blinked sexily at the same time. Ignore that, Elle! “I appreciate the opportunity. If you agree to officially give it to me, you have my word that I will work harder than anyone on your team to ensure its success.”

  Jackson gave another time-consumed gaze. The waiter coming over with the bill intercepted another transmission. Before he could touch it, I handed the waiter the credit card that I’d been furtively pulling from my purse beneath the table cloth.

  His eyebrows rose expressing his shock and he slowly murmured, “There’s no way that I’m letting you pay for lunch, Elle.”

  “I don’t think you have too much of a choice in the matter.” I pushed my card closer to the waiter in such a manner that he mechanically retrieved it from my hand and I forcefully inclined my head for him to go and clear the bill, which he did. “I don’t need anything from you, Jackson. No special treatment.”