Chapter 3 — Who Taught Him to Beg?

Jamie pulled me against him and turned.

He caught a folded tablecloth from the service station as the soup struck. Most of it hit the fabric. Some splashed down his leg.

His breath caught against my hair.

I knew that sound would stay with me before I knew whether I was hurt.

"Vivian. Look at me."

His hands were on my face, checking.

"You're burned," I said.

"Did it touch your eyes?"

"Jamie, your leg."

Sloane lunged at us. He caught her wrist before her nails reached my cheek.

The change in him was immediate.

His face emptied of every expression I knew. He pushed her hand away, placing himself between us with a precision that made her stumble back.

"Come near her again," he said, "and you'll be explaining this to someone who won't let your uncle interrupt."

He wasn't shouting. She stopped anyway.

Tessa called security while I reached for Jamie's trouser leg.

"Don't pull the fabric," the restaurant manager said, hurrying over with cold water.

Jamie sat only when I put both hands on his shoulders.

"Stay there."

He looked up at me. The familiar softness returned, almost absurd after what I'd just seen.

"You sound worried."

"I am worried. Stop enjoying it."

Behind us, Sloane was trying to persuade security that we'd attacked her. The manager pointed to a camera above the service station.

Jamie's hand tightened once around mine. He didn't turn.

"Keep looking at me," he said.

"I'm not the one who needs attention."

"You were frightened."

I hated that he'd noticed. I hated more that, until he said it, I hadn't admitted it myself.

He moved his thumb across my knuckles.

"It didn't touch you," he said. "That's the important part."

"To you."

His gaze lifted.

I crouched beside him so I could speak without everyone else hearing.

"It touched you. That's important to me."

For the first time that evening, he had no reply. He looked at me with an expression so exposed I almost wished I'd said it somewhere private.

Then he lifted my hand and held it against his mouth, taking one quiet breath before letting it go.

Tessa watched from beside the door. Later, she would tease him about it. In that moment, she only moved closer and offered me a towel for my wet sleeve.

He took my hand while the manager helped cool the burn.

At urgent care, I sat beside him until the nurse finished the dressing. The injury was limited, but painful. He made no complaint until I stood to call Walter.

"It hurts," he said.

I turned back immediately.

His fingers caught mine.

"Stay another minute."

I sat down.

He leaned his head against my arm without looking at me, and I realized he wasn't asking about the burn anymore.

"I'm not leaving you here," I said.

He looked at me for another moment, checking whether I meant it. Then he leaned back, the effort finally leaving his face, and let me remain beside him.

His grip eased.

At home, he lay on my couch while I changed the dressing according to the nurse's instructions. He watched me with a seriousness that made me clumsy.

"What?"

"You're touching me like I'm breakable."

"You're injured."

"Usually you look at me like you'd enjoy making me less presentable."

Heat reached my face.

"You're imagining things."

He smiled. "Then let me keep imagining them."

The following morning, Grant Mercer came to my office.

Sloane's uncle controlled Mercer Media and most of the family's investments. He wore his authority as smoothly as his tailored suit.

"I'd like to resolve this," he said.

"Start with your niece."

"She'll be dealt with. Your boyfriend's threats are another matter."

"He prevented her from reaching my face."

"I hear he enjoys an audience."

"You came to my office to criticize a man she injured?"

Grant studied me. His irritation gradually turned into something I disliked more.

"You don't retreat easily."

"There isn't much room behind my desk."

He smiled as though I had flirted.

"You'd do well with someone who understood your ambition. Someone who could help you grow beyond this business."

He offered a partnership, then a marriage, then a percentage of his family holdings after the birth of a child.

I listened until he finished.

"You should put that proposal in writing," I said.

His expression brightened.

"Then show it to a woman who asked for it."

He left with his pride injured and his offer unanswered in the way he preferred to describe rejection.

Our lawyers negotiated a business settlement over the disputed payment and project disruption. Grant wanted a public announcement at his foundation's benefit. I agreed to give my own statement, with Owen and security present.

Jamie wanted to accompany me.

"Your leg needs another evening on the couch."

"My leg can sit beside you at a dinner."

"I won't be sitting much."

He looked at the dress laid across my bed, then back at me.

"That's the dress?"

"Yes."

"Then I'd prefer not to be left alone with my imagination."

I put a hand against his chest and kissed him until he stopped making arguments.

"Stay home," I whispered.

He closed his eyes.

"That was unfair."

At the benefit, Grant apologized publicly, then ruined the moment by presenting an emerald necklace that had belonged to his mother.

"An expression of my regard," he said.

"Your settlement expressed it adequately."

He stepped closer. I stepped away.

Sloane rose from her seat beside Ethan.

"She already has a man hanging around her house."

"He has a name," I said.

"Jamie? The bartender?"

"Also answers to boyfriend," said a voice from the aisle.

He came toward us carrying one rose, his limp slight but visible.

I wanted to be angry. Instead, relief warmed me so quickly that I had to look down.

He took my hand on the stage.

"You forgot something at home."

"Your sense of self-preservation?"

"Me."

Grant stared at him.

"Five million dollars. Leave her tonight."

Jamie glanced at the emerald necklace, then at Grant.

"Is that your final offer?"

My hand went still in his.

Grant smiled.

"Ten million."

Jamie let go of me, took out his phone, and made a call.

"Miles. Come to the stage."

I recognized the man who rose from the back table before he reached us.

Richard Ashford's private assistant.

Grant recognized him too. His smile vanished.

Miles stopped beside Jamie and waited.

Jamie held the phone out to him.

"Mr. Mercer would like to spend ten million dollars," he said, in a voice I had never heard him use. "Show him what his money actually buys."