She reached for him and touched his jaw, feathering her fingers over his skin. The sensual move reminded him of her on that bland stretch of highway, flirty one minute, speeding away the next. She peeked up at him through her lashes. “What would you do under different circumstances?”
Kissed her. Devoured her. Used the skills one kind woman had taught him oh so well. Yes, all of that and then some, but another possibility pulled at him, too tempting to keep inside. “I’d invite you on my upcoming trip to India.”
Something dark crossed her face, and she dropped her hand. “India?”
“I have investors there.” Potential investors. The trip was business, not pleasure, like most facets of his life. Work was his life’s blood. Seeing his factory and Whichway thrive was everything. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in or had gone for a leisurely walk. A vacation with a woman? He’d never done that. What would it be like to have her along? To feed her naan while exploring the colorful city and inhaling the spice-laden air?
She lifted her hair and fanned her neck. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. Going to India,” she mumbled on a laugh. “But we can still be friends. Have coffee and go for runs. Talk about Ricky and Lucy and how big of an idiot you are. And I’d love to see the estate where you grew up. I’ve heard it’s quite something.” She strutted past him, toward the exit, determination in her stride. “Best we get that picture first. I’d hate to miss my father’s birthday.”
Her flippancy didn’t hide her need to flee. A reaction he should encourage. Yes, they could have coffee and meet for runs. They could indulge their shared herpetology interest and tease each other. But she couldn’t tour his estate. Not when his father was holed up there, nurses tending to him 24/7. Another reason for Jack to avoid Clementine’s draw: lying to her about it would feel incredibly wrong.
7
Clementine kept pace with Jack, his stride less leave-her-in-his-dust than yesterday. “But I didn’t think chameleons changed color to camouflage.”
“They don’t,” he said patiently, as though he didn’t mind her reptile-question barrage. “They lighten and darken according to emotion. Ella gets vividly bright when she’s afraid, which happened often when I first rescued her. Now she fluctuates depending on temperature.”
“It must have taken her a while to trust you.”
“It did.” He snuck a glance her way. “The singing helped.”
It sure as hell had helped Clementine. That was some kind of voodoo he’d performed, casting her under his Elvis spell. She’d already been primed for it, had lost a bit of her sense while standing in his shelter, mesmerized by his generosity and rock-and-roll attire.
Then that song.
He’d been kind and accommodating afterward. He’d snapped photos, even holding up a paper that read, Happy birthday, Clinton! All the while, she couldn’t stop thinking of the Delhi Orphanage, the money they needed, the importance of acquiring that priceless Van Gogh. Another thought had blindsided her as well: the prospect of Jack discovering her deceit.
His potential look of disgust had gutted her in a surprising way, the possibility growing alongside their strange connection. Even worse, this job had been fraught with mistakes. He knew her real name and that she owned a bearded dragon named Lucy. She’d admitted her father had died. Vague details that were difficult to connect, but paranoia had her picturing a life behind bars.
She’d maintained a healthy distance afterward, offering an awkward wave when retreating to her car. Now they were running through Whichway’s Wherever Park, as though her internal warning light weren’t on the fritz: Heart Trouble Imminent.
Don’t fall for him. Don’t land in jail.
“What about the names?” she asked, keeping their conversation light. She could do light. She could do sweet. “Hank, Ella, Ray? I’m guessing they’re music inspired.”
“You guessed correctly.”
Not surprising from a man who idolized Elvis. Her father had enjoyed old rock and roll, too. Hank Williams. Ella Fitzgerald. Ray Charles. He would have loved the names Jack had picked. “And Ricky Ricardo?” she asked. “Why that one?”
Clouds zoomed across the sky. A thick wind mussed her hair. Where he’d answered her other eleventy-million questions quick as a flash, he delayed this time. Each thump of her feet pounded in her head. Sweat dampened her neck.
Jack wiped his brow. “My granddad watched I Love Lucy with his father. Then he watched reruns with my dad, who carried the tradition on with me.” He jogged around a fallen tree branch. “What about you? Why’d you name your dragon Lucy?”
“Also my dad.” More real details shared with Jack. She’d given up evading, but it didn’t change her plan. Thankfully Jack was fighting their connection, too. “One of my strongest memories is of my father watching reruns and cracking up. I never liked the show, so I’d roll my eyes and call it lame. He’d tell me I had crap taste with a teasing wink.”
The treasured flashback filled her up. The memory had led to her watching that once-hated show into adulthood and naming her dragon after its main character, but it wasn’t her strongest memory. That one was less pleasant. A locked car. Clinton Abernathy slumped over his wheel. Not moving. Not breathing. Her deafening scream.
She blinked the garish image away. “I love the show now.”
“How’d you get into the music business?”
The sudden question felt jarring, but this was a normal conversation. People talked about life, pets, jobs. She wasn’t a normal person, though. “Honestly, this is the first work break I’ve had in forever. I’m kind of reveling in it and would rather not talk shop.”
A pained expression crossed his face. “I get that. So, why a bearded dragon?”
“Like, why’d I choose her?”
He nodded as he ran.
“A zoo came to my school as a kid, one of those ‘play with the animals’ presentations. Most girls screeched and wouldn’t touch the snakes and lizards. I couldn’t get close enough.” She’d fallen half a step behind him and gave a push, meeting his longer stride. “They had an inland dragon and explained that when stressed or territorial their scales go from soft to spiky. I loved the idea of that.”
“That they adapt?”
“That they change to protect themselves.” A living embodiment of herself. “Also, they don’t shed or have to be walked.”
“So you’re lazy.”
“I’m running, aren’t I? Idiot,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear.
He grinned.
His amusement made her strangely happy. “Lucy is adorable,” she said. “She has a red ball she chases when swimming in my bathtub. My dad would have loved her.”
“Mine isn’t a reptile fan.”
“Where is your father?”
“What do you mean?” Jack stopped short, so abruptly she’d gone five strides before noticing.
She faced him, breathing hard. “Isn’t your father away?”
“How’d you know he’s away?”
Shit. Had she heard it from a local or had she studied it in her notes? On any other job, she’d know the answer instantly. This job had been nothing but a delayed start, distracted focus, and lusty dreams. But nope, she was sure. She’d learned that tidbit publicly. “In the diner that first day, Jasmine said something about him being away, that she hoped he’d return for the festival.”