I lick my lips. “It’s just business.”

“The hell it is.” I hear the sharp edge of emotion in his voice, as dangerous as a well-honed blade. The fight is obvious on his face, as well, and I press back against the car, wishing I could disappear through the metal. He’s fire and fury, and I have no idea what he is going to do. All I know is that all that passion is directed toward me, and that no matter what happens, I won’t leave this parking lot unscathed.

I see it in his eyes first—a quick flash of wildness before his hand lashes out and his palm slams hard against the Lexus. Then he pulls me close, and I don’t even have time to think before his mouth closes over mine.

The kiss is violent. Wild and desperate. And when I gasp, he takes advantage, thrusting his tongue into my mouth as one hand holds my head and the other slides up my chest to cup my breast. He deepens the kiss, claiming me with such intensity that I know I would not be standing were it not for his hands upon me.

The thin material of my dress does little to hide the heat of his hand, and even less to hide my arousal. My breast is heavy and with every stroke of his thumb against my painfully erect nipple, I want to beg him to just pull the damn dress down and let me feel skin on skin.

He pinches my nipple even as he bites down on my lower lip, swallowing my cry of pain and longing. Then his hand slides lower and lower. He cups my sex, and I cannot help the whimper that escapes me. Jackson hears it, too, and breaks the kiss long enough to meet my eyes, his hot and hard.

Then his mouth finds mine again, and goddamn me, I don’t even protest for show. I take him, welcome him. I revel in the taste of him even as his hand urges my skirt up. Even as he finds my sex, hot and wet and throbbing with need.

There is no romance. There’s no tenderness. He roughly shoves my lace panties to the side, exposing my flesh to his fingers. He thrusts his fingers inside me, and I moan as my body clenches tight around him, wanting him deeper, wanting more. Wanting to get lost in this moment and cling hard to everything I am feeling, but know that I cannot have.

His fingers are slick when he teases my clit, playing and stroking, teasing me to the edge and back. My body is alive with electricity, sparks dancing over me, my lips tingling, my nipples hard and tight and so painfully aroused. I want his touch, I want him inside me.

I simply want.

“Now,” he growls, making me forget both fear and reality. “Dammit, Sylvia, you come for me now.”

I do. And when I shatter in his arms—when I spin out and explode into the light-splattered night—I can only wish that I could stay like this, lost in pleasure with this man. But I know better than to believe in wishes, and when reason returns to me, I lean back, once again relying on the car and not Jackson to keep me steady.

His eyes stay on me for an instant longer, but I cannot read his expression. Then he takes a single step back. “Goddamn you, Sylvia,” he whispers, holding his hands up as if in shock. “Goddamn you all to hell.”

I tremble, lost and light-headed and confused. “I—I thought you said we were done.”

“We may be done, but we’re not over. We’re a hell of a long way from over.” His tone is still harsh, but beneath it, I hear something more. Regret? Resignation?

I don’t know, but whatever it is rips through my heart, leaving it ragged.

He drags his fingers through his hair, then exhales. He looks me up and down. He says nothing about what just happened. Nothing about our past. Nothing about the present. His expression is harsh and hard and unreadable.

But his eyes …

His eyes don’t lie, and the tenderness I see there comes close to destroying me. Because tenderness from Jackson is something I can’t handle.

“Come on,” he says, then surprises me by taking my arm.

“Where are we going?”

“Unless you want to make poor Louis walk home, we should probably get away from his car. I imagine he’s hiding around here somewhere.”

“Right. Of course.” I take a deep breath and force my thoughts back in the right direction. This isn’t about me. This isn’t about Jackson. And it’s not about us, because there is no us.

It’s about the resort, and I’d do well to remember that. “There’s gotta be a coffee shop open back on the boulevard,” I say. “Let’s have some coffee and dessert and we can talk about the project.”

“I already gave you my terms, princess.”

I don’t bother to answer. I tell myself he can’t be serious. He’s too accomplished a businessman and this is too plum a project. And once his temper cools down we can move on to serious discussion.