Читать книгу A Puppy for Christmas: On the Secretary's Christmas List / The Patter of Paws at Christmas / The Soldier, the Puppy and Me - Кэрол Мортимер, Nikki Logan - Страница 10

IT WAS almost midnight when Bree quietly let herself into the darkness of Beaumont House, moving softly through the silence to the kitchen and out into the entrance hall, before making her way to the sitting room, where she could hear the low murmur of the television. Jackson had evidently waited up for her to return from her dinner date as promised.

Or not, Bree realised with wry amusement as she entered the sitting room and observed Jackson, sleeping peacefully in one of the armchairs. The fire in the hearth had burnt down to just a few hot coals; only the flickering television and the coloured lights on the Christmas tree illuminated the comfortable room.

Bree crossed the room with the intention of switching off the television, only to hesitate beside Jackson’s chair. She had never seen him asleep before—there was no reason why she should have—and she couldn’t help noticing how much younger he looked without that mocking glint in his eyes and that cynical twist to those sensual lips. His golden honey-and-molasses hair had fallen untidily over his brow, which only added to that illusion of boyishness.

Because it was an illusion, Bree told herself sternly; Jackson was both mocking and cynical. And sarcastic. And rude. And completely impossible. And—

And quite possibly the most sensually handsome man Bree had ever set eyes on.

She had been both hurt and hurting when she’d first come to work for Jackson almost a year ago. Totally disillusioned with all men. And the often outrageous, too-handsome Jerome Jackson Beaumont was a man who enjoyed the constant stream of women coming and going in and out of his life—and his bed. Or rather the woman’s bed; Danny’s presence at Beaumont House meant that Jackson never brought women back here to spend the night with him.

All that had only served to confirm Bree’s belief that men simply weren’t capable of faithfulness and love for one single woman.

Which didn’t mean that she couldn’t appreciate what all those other women saw in Jackson!

He was certainly a handsome devil—if a devil could have long golden hair and mocking sky-blue eyes. And a wicked sense of humour. And a lean and muscled body that had to be every woman’s deepest fantasy …

Exactly when had Bree stopped feeling so hurt by David’s betrayal and become so aware of all those things about Jackson? Was it only today? Or had she noticed these things before but just never acknowledged them?

‘What the—? Bree, is that you?’

Bree had been so lost in thought as she gazed down at Jackson appreciatively that she hadn’t noticed when he awoke. Now he was gazing up at her—not with cynical or mocking blue eyes, but with the slow, lazy appreciation of a man who liked what he saw. Which happened to be Bree!

She took a couple of wary paces backwards. ‘Well, of course it’s me!’

Of course it was, Jackson acknowledged sardonically as he heard the familiar sharpness in Bree’s tone. But this was a Bree he had certainly never seen before …

In the office Bree wore businesslike dark tailored trousers or skirts, usually teamed with jumpers in the winter and blouses in the summer; the soft, silky black dress she was wearing this evening could never be considered even remotely businesslike!

It was a sheath of a figure-hugging dress. Strapless and knee-length, it showcased a large expanse of her bare shoulders and the soft swell of the tops of her breasts, along with the shapely length of her legs, and her feet, tiny and slender, in black strappy three-inch heels.

Very, very nice. And yet, despite all the femininity on show, it was Bree’s hair that held Jackson’s fascinated gaze. Earlier today he had wondered briefly how long her hair would be when loose, and now he had his answer: it was so long and thick and curly that it almost reached down to her shapely bottom, and it was the rich colour of sable!

She looked, Jackson realised as he sat up slowly, like a woman out of a Renaissance painting, with the softness of her skin appearing a pearly and lustrous white against the darkness of that long, flowing hair and the fitted black dress. Hers was skin that tempted a man to touch and taste it. As for those incredible sexy smoky-grey eyes and the long dark lashes that framed them …

‘Jackson?’

Bree had no idea what thoughts had been going through Jackson’s head during the past few moments, but whatever they were she had become increasingly aware of the deepening tension that crackled in the air: a physical awareness that she sensed was no longer just her own …

‘What have you done with Beau this evening?’ she prompted, as a distraction from that awareness. ‘I didn’t see him in the kitchen earlier when I came through, and he obviously isn’t in here, either …’

A rueful smile curved Jackson’s lips as he saw the concern in Bree’s face. ‘Well, I haven’t sent him to the stray dogs’ home, if that’s what you’re imagining!’ He grinned.

She gave him a reproving glance. ‘I’m pretty sure Danny wouldn’t have allowed you to do that!’

Jackson arched a mocking brow. ‘Well, for your information I tried putting Beau and his basket in the kitchen when Danny went to bed, but he cried and whined so much—Beau, that is,’ he explained drily in response to Bree’s questioning look, ‘that I eventually brought him in here with me. Where he continued to cry and whine.’ Jackson frowned at the memory of that piteous sound.

Bree nodded. ‘Obviously he’s grown as attached to Danny as Danny has to him.’

‘Obviously,’ Jackson snapped.

Bree eyed him quizzically. ‘So where’s Beau now?’

Jackson grimaced. ‘I put his basket upstairs in Danny’s bedroom. Normally I wouldn’t approve of allowing dogs in the bedroom, but it was the only place where he would stop whining,’ he explained defensively.

Bree was having trouble holding back a smile. ‘Of course it was,’ she said, humouring him lightly.

‘If you dare to laugh—’ Jackson broke off the warning as Bree did exactly that. ‘It isn’t funny, Bree,’ he muttered gloomily, but she seemed unable to contain her amusement at his expense; those velvety soft grey eyes were glowing with humour.

‘Of course it is,’ Bree chuckled finally. ‘Big, strong, I-don’t-want-a-puppy Jerome Jackson Beaumont, worn down by the cries of that same little puppy!’

‘You would have done the same in my position,’ he muttered gruffly.

‘Undoubtedly.’ Bree felt herself softening at the realisation that beneath his gruff exterior Jackson was as tender-hearted as she was when it came to a defenceless, cute little puppy like Beau.

Jackson sighed. ‘I told Danny to make sure Beau stays in his basket.’

An instruction that Danny—and Beau—had probably completely ignored, as they were both well aware. The puppy was no doubt curled up fast asleep on the little boy’s bed at this very minute.

‘You really are just a big softie!’ Bree smiled at him teasingly.

Jackson’s gaze, glittering brightly, continued to hold hers and a derisive smile curved those sensuous lips. Bree took another step backwards.

Her eyes widened in alarm as Jackson countered that movement by taking a stealthy step forward, standing so close now that Bree was able to feel the heat emanating off his body.

‘What are you doing …?’ she breathed softly.

‘Nothing …’ he murmured.

She swallowed hard. ‘That’s goo—’

‘… yet,’ he added huskily.

Bree had been aware of the stillness of the house when she’d first come in, but now that silence was charged with something else: a tense expectancy much like the loaded pause before a predator pounced on its prey!

She moistened lips that had gone suddenly dry. ‘I only came in to let you know that I’m back.’

‘And did you have a nice evening?’ Jackson asked softly.

‘Very nice, thank you.’ Bree answered warily, not fooled for a moment by the casual pleasantry when she could still see that speculative gleam in Jackson’s eyes as he continued to look down at her so unblinkingly.

It was a wariness that Jackson’s next comment proved was completely warranted.

‘Did you go out in that dress?’ he enquired as his gaze swept over her from head to toes.

Bree swallowed. ‘I … Yes, of course.’

It was one of the dresses Bree had bought a year ago to take on her honeymoon to Paris. Bought but for obvious reasons never worn—before this evening …

‘It’s … very nice.’

‘Thank you.’

The speculation deepened in Jackson’s eyes. ‘Did you come home alone?’

‘Well, of course I came home alone!’ Bree snapped, glaring at the impertinence of the question.

Jackson shrugged the wide and muscled shoulders that were clearly defined in the fitted black T-shirt he was wearing. ‘Just checking.’

Bree still frowned her irritation. ‘Why?’

‘Before I do this.’

Jackson took the single step that separated them, sliding his arms about her waist and pulling her into the heat of his body before his head lowered and his mouth claimed hers in a searingly hot kiss that totally took Bree’s breath away.

She clung to those wide shoulders as her knees buckled slightly. Not that there was any possibility of her falling when Jackson’s arms were clamped like steel bands about her waist. His hands stroked the length of her spine, his fingers a hot and arousing caress against the bare skin above her gown as his lips continued that plundering exploration, his tongue moist against her lips as he parted them before thrusting deep into the heat of her mouth.

His tongue stroked intimately against hers, evoking an explosion of pleasure, an aching response deep inside Bree. She felt heat burning between her thighs. Her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened as they pressed against the material of her dress, and she became fully aware of the hard throb of Jackson’s answering arousal as his hands cupped her bottom to pull her up and into him.

A hard and throbbing arousal that was entirely in response to her, Sabrina Jones!

Bree felt empowered by that realisation, moving her hands up as she gave in to the temptation to entangle her fingers in that honey-and-molasses hair, finding it just as she had always imagined it would be: thick and long and silkily soft, and so—

As she had always imagined it would be …?

She had imagined something like this happening between herself and Jackson?

Since when?

What—?

All thoughts fled—Bree even forgot to breathe—as Jackson’s hand cupped her breast before his questing fingers sought the swollen tip.

Bree gasped as Jackson’s lips left hers and his other hand moved to twist the long waves of her hair in his fingers. He arched her neck back, exposing it to his lips, teeth lightly nipping the lobe of her ear, before he softly kissed the swell of her breasts.

‘Your skin is like velvet!’ Jackson groaned.

His lips found her aching nipple through the silky material of her dress, his tongue stroking intense heat through the fabric to her breast for long, pleasurable seconds before he clamped his lips around her nipple and pulled it deep into the heat of his mouth.

An almost unbearable burning coursed through Bree’s body as she gazed down at him, his lashes long and thick against his sculpted cheekbones. His hand moved to cup her other breast, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing against the nipple in the same rhythmic caress. Raging fire burned between Bree’s thighs and she felt herself swelling and moistening there in a deep and aching throb that beat with the same rapidity as her heart.

She realised that it was Jackson kissing and caressing her so intimately!

Jackson of the wild and dangerous good looks. Jackson of the lean and muscled body. Jackson who had to be every woman’s wildest fantasy in the flesh. Jackson who could—and did—have any woman he wanted.

But at the moment he seemed to want Bree.

At the moment.

Chilling reality hit Bree with the force of a physical blow, erasing all pleasure, all arousal, as she acknowledged that this couldn’t—shouldn’t!—be happening. Not between herself and Jackson, of all people!

She knew for a fact that Jackson never became involved with the women in his working life. Not the models he occasionally used for commercial photo shoots, and certainly not his assistants. He had several times stated—as a warning, perhaps?—that he wouldn’t work alongside any woman with whom he had been intimately involved.

Tonight could definitely be described as intimate involvement.

How on earth was Bree going to extract herself from this explosive situation without also finding herself out of a job?