The Family Simon: Jack Part 4

"Huh," he murmured, watching a slow blush creep up her cheeks. "I'm afraid to ask."

"You should be," she said slowly, as if savoring every word. "Cause none of it was good." She glanced behind him and waved at someone. "Nice to meet you Jack, but I have to go."

Before he could ask her what her name was, she was sliding by him, her hand lingering a few seconds on his arm. That piece of skin felt as if she'd branded him, and it took another five minutes before she took the stage with his cousin for him to learn her name.

Donovan James.

It was insane. But in his mind, she was already Donnie.

And she was already his.

Jack shook off the memories, his T-s.h.i.+rt totally soaked, his hair plastered to his head. Thunder rolled across the sky now accompanied by lightening. Looked like the storm wasn't letting up anytime soon.

He eyed the door once more.

With a sigh, he scooped up his gear and went inside, expecting a flood of angry words thrown his way. Instead, he was greeted by a backside he knew better than his own, barely covered by a lime green bikini.

Donovan was bent over, her foot propped up on a chair, and she hissed in pain as she tried to clean the bottom of her foot.

"What are you staring at?" she muttered, inhaling a big gulp of air as she twisted to the side, angling for a better way to get the job done.

"Your a.s.s."

"Wow. Some things never change."

"Just being honest."

"Well stop staring at my a.s.s, Mister I'm-going-to-be-a-senator. Not real appropriate for someone in your position."

"What? Senators can't enjoy looking at a nice piece of a.s.s?"

"Not mine," she replied.

"Not yet."

"What?"

Jake tossed his bag and moved toward her, slicking wet hair from his eyes. "I'm not a senator until November."

"You're pretty sure of yourself."

"I'm a Simon. Comes with the territory."

She snorted and muttered, "Yeah." And then whimpered. "Ouch."

"Can I help?" He wasn't expecting a resounding h.e.l.l yes, but it was pretty obvious the cut was bad, and she doing a poor job of cleaning it.

"Nope. You've done enough."

"What the h.e.l.l did I do?" he asked, irritated with her att.i.tude.

"I wouldn't have cut my foot if you hadn't shown up."

"I'd like to know how you came to that conclusion."

She whipped her head back but never got a chance to ream him out, because her good foot slipped along the floor and the chair she was leaning over began to topple.

Jack grabbed her before that round b.u.t.t of hers landed on the floor, and he righted the chair before that followed her down. For a few moments her soft curves were flush against his body, and Jack took his time before he set her down, b.u.t.t on the chair.

She covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s even though her top covered what needed to be covered (barely), and Jack's mouth thinned. "I've seen them darlin'. Trust me, I'm not interested."

Lies. They seemed to be coming easier these days. Christ, he'd make the perfect politician after all.

He was off kilter and didn't like it one bit. "Give me your d.a.m.n foot," he said gruffly.

"I can do it. You don't-"

But Jack was done playing games. Done with the back and forth.

"Give me your d.a.m.n foot so I can finish cleaning it and get it bandaged. Okay? Enough of the att.i.tude. I'm tired, and I need a beer. But before I can help myself to a nice cold one, I'm going to clean and bandage your foot because if I don't, it will get infected. And I sure as h.e.l.l don't want to play nursemaid for the next three days."

He thought she was going to argue with him, and on some level maybe he was looking forward to that, but a few seconds ticked by and then she lifted her foot.

"Fine," she said, voice low. "It's the least you can do."

"How's that?" he said, eyebrow raised as he reached for her.

"Like I said earlier. It's all your fault anyway."

Jack reached for the antiseptic. "That's something that hasn't changed."

"What's that exactly?" Her voice was all sugar, and he gritted his teeth, ignoring the hiss of pain when he applied the burning liquid. He glanced up, noting how dark her eyes had gotten. "You still like to get the last word in."

A heartbeat pa.s.sed.

"I'd have to agree with you on that point."

He concentrated on getting her foot cleaned and bandaged but had to wonder about all the other things that were still the same. And maybe a few that had changed.

And then his mood darkened, because really, what was the point in wondering about something he would never know?

Chapter Six.

If Donovan was an actress, she'd be up for an Oscar because she'd just given the performance of a lifetime. h.e.l.l, Julia Roberts had nothing on her.

She'd let Jack put his hands on her. PUT HIS HANDS ON HER. And she hadn't given anything away.

Like the fact that inside her body was screaming. Inside, she was a ma.s.sive ball of goo, all limp and hot and needy. Inside, the ache that had been dormant for so long was now a raging fire, inching across her skin leaving goose b.u.mps in its wake.

She'd kept her eyes glued to the floor as his large hand enveloped her foot and was proud of the fact that she didn't tremble and the whimper caught in her throat, stayed there, hidden like a secret.

Jack held her gently, cleaning the bottom of her heel and arch with precision and then bandaging it up like a pro. When he was done, he'd leaned back on his haunches, his dark eyes trained on her for a few seconds as if waiting for her to say something.

But there was nothing. Her throat was still tight, and she needed more time.

Carefully he got to his feet, standing above her, and as always, she felt small and vulnerable.

"Thanks," she managed to say.

"No problem."

He moved away from her, and she couldn't help it, with his focus on the house, she drank him in like a tall gla.s.s of cold water. His hair, still wet from the rain, curled in the humidity, giving a boyish look to features that were wholly masculine. He hadn't shaved in a few days-what was it about that look that drove her crazy? And with a dry mouth, she wandered lower.

His T-s.h.i.+rt was wet and clung to a body that looked like it belonged to an athlete, not a politician. Jack had grown up on the water, was an active boater, water skier, and as with all the Simon boys, he enjoyed sports to the extreme. She knew he was a h.e.l.l of a football player, dabbled in hockey, and that he probably could have pursued baseball like his brother Beau.

His cargoes were slung low, weighed down from the rain and when he ran his hands across his head, she caught a glimpse of flat, golden skin and a dusting of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband.

His long legs were runner's legs, muscular without being overly bulky, and they were as delicious as the rest of him.

"I'm gonna grab that beer now," he said turning to her just as she dropped her eyes to the floor once more. There was a finality to his voice. An acceptance of the way it was going to be.

For a moment, Donovan didn't know what to say. Three days with Jack Simon? Was it even possible for her to survive that? Did she have a choice?

"Okay," she finally said. "You can take the bedroom on the left and if we both ignore each other, I'm sure we can get through this."

That had been nearly twelve hours ago, and she hadn't seen him since she'd hobbled past him and disappeared into her own room. The one right across the hall from Jack.

Donovan pushed her large Gucci sungla.s.ses up a bit and grabbed the book she'd brought down to the beach. It was another gorgeous day and the breeze across the sea lifted little white caps on the turquoise water. Seagulls flew overhead, and the wind in the palm trees that lined the beach was like a whisper in her ear. It was a little slice of heaven, even though at the moment, it felt more like h.e.l.l.

Donovan wished she was anywhere but here.

She was grumpy because she'd hardly slept and though she'd like to blame that on the state of her foot, she knew it was a lie. h.e.l.lo. Jack was right across the G.o.dd.a.m.n hall!

And dammit, she was hungry. Up early, she was about to forage for chocolate and chips (considering the circ.u.mstance, was it any wonder it was all she wanted?) but when she heard movement from Jack's room, Donovan grabbed her book, towel and sunscreen and left the guest house in under ten seconds.

And now the inevitable was happening.

He'd invaded her beach.

She eyed Jack overtop of the book in her hand. He was s.h.i.+rtless and wore a pair of faded navy board shorts. Mirrored aviators kept his eyes hidden, and he carried snorkeling gear in one hand and a red cooler in the other. He set the snorkeling gear down close to the water and turned toward her.

Donovan's heart skipped and immediately she tensed. Okay. Why was he walking toward her? They weren't friends. They weren't even close.

He didn't stop until his shadow blocked the sun.

"Huxley, huh?"

"You sound surprised," she said turning a page.

"I am."

"Sorry to inform you that this Arkansas hick can read." Lord, he better not quiz her on Huxley, because so far she'd barely managed to get through the first chapter. And the only reason she was reading it was because Grace had bet her that she'd never get through it.

Thinking of the traitor, Donovan's mouth thinned. She d.a.m.n well was gonna collect whether she finished the book or not. After pulling this stunt, Grace Simon owed her big time.

"Let's not get off on the wrong foot already. I just meant that it's heavy stuff for vacation. I thought you'd have a stack of those trash magazines you used to like."

"Nope," she said, glancing up. "I've been on the cover of most of them every other week since Miami, so I avoid them like the plague." She shrugged. "I don't enjoy reading stories about myself, because most of them are lies."

"I get that," he replied.

She snorted.

"You still do that."

"What?"

"That sound that tells me that you think I'm full of s.h.i.+t."

"Y'all need a sound to get that?" Her voice. It was sugar sweet.

"Jesus, Donnie. Can't we agree on something as simple as the media?"

"Your situation with the media is a h.e.l.l of a lot different than mine, and you know it." Suddenly angry, Donovan tore off her gla.s.ses and sat up. "They sensationalize my life. Every little stupid detail. Last week they wrote about my trip to the G.o.dd.a.m.n gynecologist. The gyno for Christ sake. Half of the United States thinks I'm pregnant."

"Are you?"

"What? Pregnant? I'd have to be having s.e.x to be pregnant."

Oh. My. G.o.d. She did not just tell him that. Rus.h.i.+ng forward, she tried like h.e.l.l to cover up her slip.

"They write about the most ludicrous things. Apparently I've had plastic surgery. Even my mole isn't real, and uh, what woman would want a big ol' black mole on her face? Oh, and all I do is drink vodka. I hate vodka."

"Whiskey is your drink of choice."

"And drugs? I smoked a joint once when I was skipping math cla.s.s in high school. Once. And I hated it because it made me paranoid. I've never snorted c.o.ke or tried heroin or anything else for that matter. Never. I've never slept with any Dallas Cowboy and certainly not one named Hank and I sure as h.e.l.l haven't slept with that actor from that show. s.h.i.+t, if I had s.e.x with every single man the rags have said I did, I'd never have time to do anything else besides-"

"But you're not," he interjected.

"Huh?" She was so caught up in her tirade that she paused to catch her breath.