After pointing out the bathroom and telling Clementine to make herself at home, he disappeared to his bedroom, through a door off the long hallway. Since the Van Gogh was owned by his father, there wasn’t much sleuthing to do in his personal home. This not-a-date would help her gain his trust and earn an invite to his family’s estate. She should pour herself a glass of wine from the bottle on his counter, strike a sexy pose of her own before he reemerged, but she was drawn to his shelter.
She tiptoed toward the glass like she might disturb a slumbering giant. The closer she got, the faster her pulse raced. If Jack had spared no expense designing his home, he’d spent a king’s ransom building his reptile sanctuary. It was twice the size of her apartment, mist hovering mid-air, with rocks and logs filling the space, select trees spreading their limbs. A green button was printed with the word Open. She pressed it and held her breath.
Soft sounds shushed and whirred. Humidity reached for her, pulling her deeper inside. Although the room looked undivided from outside, glass separations were visible now, as was the precious cargo Jack housed. Iguanas. Savannah monitors. Chameleons. Small green anoles.
One bearded dragon named Ricky Ricardo.
The small hairs at her neck frizzed, and her lungs swelled with the briny, swampy smells. She crouched in front of each enclosure, marveled at how some reptiles had two living spaces, probably with different temperatures for them to thrive. She noticed other things as well: one chameleon was missing a foot, the monitor’s tail had been amputated.
Sanctuary, Jack had said. He didn’t breed reptiles or buy them for pets.
He saved them.
“What do you think?”
She startled at his voice. Too absorbed, she hadn’t heard the door above the ambient sounds. When she turned, the sultry air pressed on her lungs. “I think wow.”
Jack was in full Elvis attire, hair combed at the sides but ruffled up top. His black slacks and dress shirt were more fitted than his work clothes. The slim white tie was a perfect throwback, but the gold jacket was the clincher. On anyone else, the gaudy shine would be garish. On Maxwell Jack David dressed as Elvis, it was mesmerizing.
He stood tall and proud as though daring her to laugh at him.
Laughing was the last thing on her mind.
“Definitely wow,” she repeated. He held her gaze this time. Bold Jack. Elvis Jack. Her belly swirled. “The space, I mean,” she added, diverting her attention to his reptiles. “The space is impressive.”
“Not impressive enough.”
Said the guy who’d spent millions on his extravagant home. The shelter was astounding, but his matter-of-fact tone cooled her too-hot blood. “You do realize how arrogant that sounds, right?”
He even had an ancient Egyptian statue in the corner. The stone cobra was weathered, a few chunks missing here and there, but its hooding was unmistakable, the flare of its neck the most distinctive feature of the poisonous snake. If the thing didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, Lucien would have her nab it.
Jack slipped his hands into his front pockets and bowed his posture slightly. A familiar pose. “Hank, the savannah monitor, had his tail mutilated. He got aggressive with his owner, because he’d been mishandled and mistreated.” He tipped his chin to the chameleon. “Ella was allowed to roam around a dingy apartment and her foot got crushed. The iguana was blinded by some asshole for the fun of it. So no, it’s not impressive enough. I planned to enlarge the space, but I’ve hit a…roadblock of sorts. I’m at capacity and can’t shelter more abused animals.”
Something flashed in his eyes, and her self-righteousness shriveled like a parched raisin. She was so damn quick to judge these days, criticize and condemn, even though he’d used some of his millions to rescue reptiles. Through all her years, her ups and downs, it was like she’d lost the ability to empathize, unless someone had walked precisely in her shoes. The bitterness was exhausting.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I can be a bit…judgmental.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A bit?”
Busted. “Fine, a lot.”
“Funny. I didn’t notice.”
“Smartass.”
He smoldered at her. “So you think I’m smart now?”
She thought he was smart and cute and a mountain of trouble. This bantery side of Jack was new, and she liked it a whole lot. “Don’t let it go to your head, but what you’ve done is remarkable. I’m just not used to so much”—she breathed in his ingenious shelter, his elegant home, his obviously caring heart—“stuff?”
“Stuff?”
She gestured vaguely around. “It’s all stunning, but it’s overwhelming.”
He considered her a moment. “You’ve had to work hard for what you have.”
It was a blatant observation, not a question, made with his head tipped to the side, his large hands still stashed in his pockets. Too observant for her liking. His eyes slid from hers, but they didn’t stray far. His heated gaze traveled down her neck and chest, before returning to her face.
Her next breath felt like she’d inhaled fire.
He affected her, this man. She couldn’t deny it, didn’t want to fight it. What she fought was the pull to open her mouth and tell him about losing her father, then being torn from her mother. The foster homes. Running away. Scrounging for food. Details she’d stupidly revealed on that awful girls’ night.
Accepting Jenny’s invitation had pushed her out of her comfort zone, but she’d been excited to have a social evening. She hadn’t expected one of the women to have opened her home to foster children. Francesca had detailed how admirable the system was, that it had given her hope for society. She’d called foster care America’s answer to its rising crime rate.
Clementine had held her tongue and swallowed the acid souring her saliva. She’d bitten her cheek to forget her painful past and focus on the immediate pain. Cheek. Bite. Blood. Yes, blood. But the wrong blood. Past blood had invaded her thoughts. Her cut cheek. The backhand that had sent her sprawling to the ground.
“And what about foster families who use the system for money? Turn their kids into servants and punching bags?” Clementine had nearly slapped her hand over her mouth, furious with herself for referencing her past.
Francesca had rolled her eyes. “You watch too many movies.”
It should have ended there. Clementine should have realized this do-gooder chose to see the world through rose-colored glasses, a luxury Clementine didn’t have. Instead Clementine spewed the ugliness that had happened in her foster homes. The meanness. The disregard for human decency. Her subsequent life on the streets.
She’d rushed from the apartment afterward, leaving all four women, mouths open, pleas and apologies following in her wake. She’d fled outside and spent the evening and morning walking aimlessly. It hadn’t been her past chasing her that dreary day. It had been her present. The friends and smiling photographs she didn’t have. The fact that no one knew or understood her.
She was so jaded she hadn’t been able to thank Francesca for her work and see that goodness for what it truly was. She’d even forgotten her one nice foster home, where she’d met Annie Ward. Annie had been a lost girl like her. Chattiest thing, always going on about Batman comics and scrapbooking, quick with a smile.