The Dare Collection: April 2018. Stefanie London
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use of his French name, he groaned, the bittersweet wash of memories unleashing his raw need to stamp his mark on her as Jack Demont, not the dismissible Jacques Lane.
Her kisses turned frantic and then she tore her mouth from his, her orgasm slamming her against the wall as she cried out, her hooded stare wildly flicking between his eyes. Spasms rocked her and she rode his hand with sublime abandon.
Fuck. Perfect.
He kept up the pressure, his hand slowing but not retreating from between her legs and his thumb circling her peaked nipple. Still she twitched around his fingers, her body lax in his arms as her breaths slowed.
Finally she pushed his hands away, and he released her. A flush caressed her cheeks, her eyes slumberous, and a small, satiated smile tugged her red and swollen mouth.
She rested her forehead on his chest, the gesture so familiar, something in him recoiled from the intimacy. He pressed his body along the length of hers.
Just sex.
‘I’m a man of my word, Harley.’ She couldn’t deny she’d had a good time, and once he got inside her, he’d take her there again.
A small sated sigh. ‘We’ll see,’ she mumbled against his shirt.
He froze. Ice water replaced his blood. Had he heard her right?
He stepped back, steadying her by the forearms until she stood tall, taking her own weight.
‘What did you say?’
The post-orgasmic flush in her cheeks darkened, but she lifted her chin.
‘I said we’ll see. You’ve certainly broken your word on the Morris Building sale.’
His balls shrank as quickly as if she’d kneed him in the groin. A red film lowered over his vision—he’d always assumed that was an exaggeration, but, no, he was definitely seeing red. Hearing red. Fucking feeling red.
So she doubted his integrity, his professionalism, still blamed him for the delay despite her mistake?
He shook his head. What a fool. He stepped back, adjusting his diminishing hard-on.
‘I’m my own boss. I call the shots and I choose who I do business with. The cock up with the Morris contracts came from your office.’ His enamel creaked where he ground his teeth together.
She pushed down her dress, eyes blazing.
‘I told you, Give has nothing to do with Jacob Holdings. I’m my own boss, too.’ Her eyes flared but colour highlighted her cheekbones, and she looked away. ‘So I messed up the paperwork. But we’re not so different, you and I.’ She retrieved her purse from the floor, glaring at him again. ‘You’re so desperate to disassociate yourself from your father and the mess he made with his business, you’ve changed your name.’ She mashed her lips together, breathing hard through flared nostrils.
Perhaps he imagined the moment’s regret on her face. Either way, he was done. This—whatever this had been—was over. He turned away, gathering the last shreds of his resolve. His fingers formed a fist, frustration with his stupidity tensing every muscle in his body. How had he been so blinkered? Harley was a Jacob. She knew as much about him as he did her, but she’d already tarred him with his father’s brush. Used him to get off and then insulted him. Clearly thought no more of him today than she had nine years ago.
At least the timely reminder of the distrust between them had finally cured his hard-on. He turned back, keeping the emotions from his face. The best advice his father had ever given him—show no weakness. Not that he was weak, professionally. Only, it seemed, where his dick and Harley Jacob were concerned.
‘Well, I guess we both have something to prove.’
He needed this deal like he needed a hole in the head. He’d been half tempted to renovate the Morris Building himself. And, until the issues resolved and he was certain Hal Jacob had no hand in it, the deal stayed stalled.
‘I’ll have my lawyers contact yours when the issues are rectified to my satisfaction.’ He loosened his tie. ‘If the timing was that important to you, perhaps you should have taken better care to avoid errors.’
Her fuming glare followed the path of his fingers as he popped his shirt buttons but the satisfaction was short-lived.
‘I’m going to take a shower. You know the way out.’
Even with the water switched to arctic, he couldn’t wash away the scent of her, which clung to him as if he’d doused himself, head to toe. Nor could he banish the flash of hurt in her eyes as he’d walked away, leaving the society princess to put herself back together and show herself out.
LOFT 333 IN CHELSEA, a chic industrial space in the heart of the Garment District, provided the perfect venue for an intimate fashion show showcasing some of New York’s most exciting new designers. Harley emerged from the makeshift backstage area into the cavernous space, which vibrated with the thud of techno music, the kaleidoscopic lighting bouncing off the stark white walls.
A buzz at her temples threatened to become the perfect and fitting end to the shittiest of days.
And it was all Jack’s fault.
Starting with the stubborn pig-headedness that had caused him to cancel their meeting, ruining her favourite shoes at his Swiss cheese building site and ending with him unceremoniously kicking her out of his apartment.
She couldn’t blame him for the part where she’d surrendered to her fierce sexual attraction to him—that was all her. Stalking him to his building, practically eye-fucking him and then unashamedly riding his hand to orgasm...
Yep, all her.
Forcing her mind from the memory of his voracious, demanding kisses and his exceptional manual skills, she scanned the venue, her critical eye for detail and high expectations cataloguing the packed rows of seating, the smartly dressed wait staff and the professional, if not headache-inducing, audio-visual display.
Shame her thoroughness with the Morris deal had let her down. She sighed, slinking further into the shadows.
Part of her, the old Harley, baulked at her own success. Yes, she’d had every privilege in life. But without her team behind her—her dedicated assistant, her competent store manager, her siblings—her dyslexia meant she struggled with the very basics.
To outsiders, she had it all. And yet the planning alone for tonight’s show—the lists, the running order, the spreadsheets of which model would wear what for which designer—was enough to make her head explode.
Jack was right. She alone had responsibility for sabotaging the Morris deal. She’d failed. Again. Shot herself in the foot.
She leaned back against the wall, maintaining a low profile. She rarely lauded her own shows. Her fashion label, the only aspect of her life that offered her contentment, meant everything, but she’d decided from the beginning she wouldn’t use the Jacob name to garner publicity, make connections or grease the ladder rungs. If she made it in what was a competitive, often fickle and rapidly shifting industry, she’d make it on merit alone.
And it was the creative process—from sketching a new design, to sewing a sample garment and then styling an entire outfit—that allowed her a brief glimpse of chest-tingling pride. At least she was good at one thing.
But she wasn’t here to see her own designs paraded.
Harley snagged a glass of champagne from a table laden with exquisite crystal and located a quiet, dark corner to watch the show. She’d missed most of the first half, staying backstage to help the other designers dress their models.
The collective of young, emerging fashionistas she mentored had worked tirelessly for months putting this show together and she was here to support them, knowing first hand