Someone grabs my elbow from behind, and I turn. I’m taken aback. It’s the tall Italian man, the CEO of the Gazette.
“Hello.” He smiles sexily down at me.
“Hi.”
“Who are you?” he asks.
I frown, and my eyes flick back to my table. Jameson is talking to Tristan. “Emily,” I reply nervously.
He picks up my hand and kisses the back of it. “My name is Gabriel Ferrara.”
“Oh.”
“And I like to take over all things owned by Jameson Miles.”
My eyes widen.
His dark eyes drop to my lips. “Women included.”
Chapter 18
“Excuse me?” I frown as I snatch my hand from his grip. “What did you say?”
He smiles sexily. “I was merely stating that you are gorgeous. Don’t be alarmed.”
“Well, don’t,” I snap.
He smiles as he sips his drink, clearly amused by my response. “Who are you?”
“Someone whose intelligence is insulted by your audacity. Goodbye, Mr. Ferrara. Go away.” I turn my back to him and take my place at the bar.
His lips come to my ear from behind. “Lovely to meet you, Emily. We will meet again. I’ll make sure of it.” His breath prickles my neck, and traitorous goose bumps scatter up my arms.
“Don’t bother,” I sneer, annoyed by my physical reaction to him.
My heart is hammering. No wonder poor Jameson is stressed to the max. He’s dealing with complete and utter snakes here.
Good grief, I’m completely rattled.
I get my drink and go back to talking to Lauren, although my mind is anywhere but on our conversation.
That fucking asshole Gabriel is sabotaging Jameson’s company and is openly making a play for his women.
Woman.
I feel outraged on his behalf, and I want to march over and tell Jameson what just happened, but then I don’t want to stress him out. But maybe that’s exactly what Gabriel wants—an open war.
Shit . . . this is hectic.
From my place by the bar, I watch as person after person goes and strategically says hello to the Miles family at their table, as if wanting to be acknowledged by them. Tristan is all smiles and happy, and Jameson and his father are polite. It’s blatantly obvious to me that they are not at all seduced or fooled by the fake greetings and well wishes.
After the longest conversation in history, I make my way back to Jameson. I sit beside him, and he takes my hand in his and puts it on his thigh.
“Do you like these people here?” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “I like the people at this table.”
I look around nervously.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sensing that something is off.
“Nothing,” I whisper as I lean in and kiss him softly on the lips. “I don’t particularly like any of these people.”
“Me neither, and as long as you like me, that’s all that matters,” he murmurs.
I smile over at my beautiful man and lean up to whisper in his ear, “I more than like you.”
He squeezes my hand in his. “Two hours, and we can go,” he whispers.
“Good.”
Dinner has been served, we are on to dessert, and the award ceremony is about to take place.
The lights are dimmed, and the stage is lit up by a spotlight as they go through the categories. They must start with the smaller awards first.
Jameson sits and stares at the stage as he holds my hand on his large muscular thigh. He’s completely expressionless, and I have no idea what he’s thinking.
He does it so well, keeps his emotions completely under control. Tristan is laughing and talking about the categories with the other managers sitting at the table. He’s completely relaxed and having a good night.
How are two brothers so different?
Tristan is open and jovial, and Jameson is closed and hard . . . at least to the outside world.
Although, knowing what Tristan’s role is in the company—acquisitions—he has to be hard on some level. Perhaps even harder than the rest of them because he takes over companies and dissolves them. I think on it for a moment as I stare at Jameson. No, that’s impossible—nobody could be harder than Jameson. My eyes flick to his father, who wears the same steely face as he watches the stage . . . perhaps George is.
I think back to Jameson’s childhood and how he went to boarding school overseas with his brothers. How do you learn to be soft and nurturing when you’re in a cold school environment? I wonder if that is why he’s all or nothing with me.
Does he have to give himself permission to feel before he can physically do it?
It would make sense. I mean, since he told me he wants me, we’ve moved forward in leaps and bounds. Every touch I feel him let me in a little more. Is it because he can finally verbalize things now?
I exhale heavily as I clap for an award. My mind is far from here. I’m fixed on the complex man I’ve fallen for, as I try to unravel his inner demons.
Maybe Jay needs to talk about the company. Maybe he needs someone he doesn’t have to pretend with that he has everything under control.
He’s the CEO of Miles Media. The family is looking to him for guidance. Waiting for him to rectify the situation.
Of course he’s stressed.
The reporter in me wants to deal with this situation, find the leak, and fight our way back to the top.
The lover in me wants to steal my Jay away and take him to an island in the Bahamas and let him live a peaceful, relaxed lifestyle . . . where the only thing he has to worry about is pushing his children on a swing.
His children.
I feel my chest constrict as I get a peep into the future with Jameson.
Will his children bear this stress? Will they be able to feel their father’s worry through his touch?
They’d have to—I know I do.
God, I need to wind him down so that he can deal with all of this crap. How do I do that? I think for a moment and clap on cue as another award is announced.
He needs to get out of New York. Yes, that’s it. A weekend away. Somewhere crazy different. I smile as the idea takes shape in my mind.
“And now for the major award for the night,” the MC announces. “The Diamond Award for exceptional media coverage goes to . . .”
The drum rolls.
He opens the envelope and smiles with a shake of his head. “Well, well . . . it seems we have a changing of the guard.”
The crowd falls silent.
“Ferrara Media.”
The crowd applauds, and the Ferrara table erupts into cheers. Jameson clenches his jaw and sips his drink.
“Fuck,” Tristan mutters under his breath.
Our table stays silent as we watch Gabriel Ferrara take the stage to accept the award. He holds it up in the air, and the people in the crowd all laugh and cheer, and he takes the microphone.
“Thank you.” He looks around the room. “It means a lot. Commiserations to Miles Media, who have won this award consecutively for the last sixteen years.” He blows a cheeky kiss to Jameson and then waves down to our table.
Jameson glares at him. His tongue runs across his teeth as sheer contempt drips from his every pore.
“I think it is safe to say”—Gabriel smiles sarcastically—“that in the last twelve months we have led the market with our cutting-edge news delivery.” He holds up his finger. “We are now the number one media empire in the world.”