The Billion Dollar Pact. Sheri WhiteFeather

of them. He treated women with the same reverence and vigor. But Carol wasn’t his lover, and he had no business being here. Still, he’d decided to stop by because he knew that she was meeting with the stylist today. He figured the appointment was over by now. Of course, he’d timed it that way on purpose. He was curious to see what Carol had chosen.

      He was curious about all sorts of things about her. Jake had been having some crazy fantasies about his assistant.

      Carol was a fascinating woman, with a sinful body and modest values. An enigma, if there ever was one. And damn if her good-girl nature didn’t turn him on. It was weird, too, because proper girls weren’t his usual type. He’d never had the urge to pull someone into the fray, not the way he was doing with her.

      Maybe it was because they shared similar backgrounds. Maybe that was why he was daring her to let down her guard and have a good time. Whatever the reason, he needed to curb his desire. He couldn’t seduce her when they were on their trip. He absolutely, positively couldn’t, no matter how tempting the thought was. Jake knew better than to cross that line with a woman who worked for him. Besides, she prided herself on being well-behaved and corrupting her would be wrong.

      He glanced toward Carol’s apartment. He’d never actually been inside her place before; he didn’t make a habit of visiting his employees at their homes. He did own this building, though. It was one of his favorite properties. He gave her a discount on the rent, a perk that came with her job. But regardless of the deal they’d worked out, he wasn’t her landlord, at least not directly. A management company ran the day-to-day operations and collected the rent.

      Jake got out of the car and strode to Carol’s door. She lived in a unit on the ground floor surrounded by foliage. Built in the 1930s, the complex boasted Spanish-style architecture and was within walking distance to restaurants, shopping centers and farmers’ markets.

      He rang the bell, and she answered the summons with a surprised expression.

      “Jake? What are you doing here?”

      “I just thought I’d check on how the fashion meeting unfolded.” He gestured jokingly to his ensemble. “Not that I’m the epitome of style today.” He was attired in a plain white T-shirt, jeans and scuffed leather boots. “These are snazzy, though.” He removed his sunglasses. They were the pair she’d given him last Christmas, similar to the kind James Dean used to wear. They were even trademarked with the actor’s name.

      She looked him over. “In that getup, you really could be him.”

      “Oh, sure.” He mocked the comparison, even if he was flattered by it. “Maybe I should get a Porsche like his, the one he smashed himself up in.”

      She sucked in her breath, as if the wind had just been knocked out of her. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

      “I was just goofing around.” And being stupid, he supposed. He should’ve known that she wouldn’t think his comment was funny. “It was a great car, a 550 Spyder that he was driving on his way to a race. That’s a pretty good reason for me to get one.”

      She stared at him, unmoving, unblinking. “I’d prefer that you didn’t.”

      He leaned against the doorjamb, trying to ease the tension.

      “Are you going to invite me in to see your clothes?” For now, she was wearing shorts and a loose-fitting khaki shirt, with her strawberry blond hair fastened into a ponytail at her nape. He imagined undoing the clip and running his hands through it. She had the silkiest-looking hair, with each piece always falling into place. Not that he should be thinking about messing up her hair. He was supposed to be keeping those types of thoughts in check.

      “Yes, come on in.” She stepped back to allow him entrance. The brightly lit interior featured hardwood floors and attractive window treatments. She’d decorated with art deco furnishings from the era of the building, mixed with crafty doodads. He noticed a patchwork quilt draped over the sofa. He knew she liked to sew. Sometimes she gave the quilts she made to the other women in the office, for birthdays and whatnot.

      “You’ve done a nice job with the place,” he said.

      “Thank you.” She had yet to relax. She still seemed bothered by what he’d said earlier.

      Now he wished he could take it back. Not his interest in the Porsche, but the way he’d joked about it. He hooked his sunglasses into the V of his shirt, and she frowned at him.

      “Do you race cars because you have a death wish?” she asked, rather pointedly.

      Cripes, he thought. She had it all wrong. “I do it to feel alive.” Everything he did was for that reason. “I don’t want to look back and regret anything.”

      “I hope that’s the case.”

      “Believe me, it is.” After waiting for the smoke to clear, he gestured to the quilt. “When I was a kid, we had one sort of like that hanging on our living room wall that my paternal grandmother made.”

      Carol inched closer to him. “You did?”

      He nodded. “She died before I was born, but the design was associated with her clan.”

      “Do you still have it, tucked away somewhere?”

      He shook his head. “It disappeared when I went into foster care. It was sold, I suppose. Or given away, or whatever else happened to my family’s belongings.” He glanced at the fireplace mantel, where he spotted a framed photograph of what he assumed was her family: three towheaded girls and a forty-something mom and dad, posing in a park.

      He picked up the picture and quietly asked, “Are you in this?”

      “Yes,” she replied, just as softly. “I’m the older sister. I was about ten there.”

      He studied the image. Everyone looked happy. Normal. Like his family had been. But he didn’t keep photos around. He couldn’t bear to see them every day.

      Jake was lucky that he’d bonded with Garrett and Max. They’d been a trio of troubled boys in foster care who’d formed a pact, vowing to get powerfully rich and help one another along the way. The goal had ultimately allowed them to become the successful men they were today. Without Garrett and Max, Jake would’ve wanted to die, for sure.

      He wondered if anyone had helped Carol get through her grief or if she’d done it on her own. They rarely talked about their pasts. Jake didn’t like revisiting old ghosts, his or anyone else’s, but he was doing it with her now.

      “It’s a nice picture,” he said, placing it back on the mantel. “It must have been a good day.”

      “It definitely was. It was taken at my dad’s company picnic.” Her voice remained soft, loving. “We all had a great time that day, especially my sisters. They were only a year apart and were really close. Sometimes people mistook them for twins, and they always got a kick out of that.”

      “I had two sisters, too. Only, they were older. I was their pesky little brother.”

      Her light green eyes locked on to his. “How old were you when...?”

      “Twelve. How old were you?”

      She let out her breath. “Eleven.”

      His heart dropped to his stomach. He knew that her family had died from carbon monoxide poisoning from a faulty appliance in their home. But he didn’t know the details. “How did you survive when the rest of them didn’t?”

      “I wasn’t there. I was at a neighbor’s house. It was my first slumber party. I was younger than some of the other girls, so my parents were hesitant to let me go, but I begged them, so they gave in.” She breathed a little deeper. “Not being home that night saved my life.”

      “It was different for me. I was in the car when it crashed. The impact was fast, brutally quick, but I remember it in slow motion.” It had been like an out of body experience that never ended. “I have a scar.” He pushed back