Break Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 2) Page 18

  Cautiously, I approached him, leaving a few feet between us. “Jackson, I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I couldn’t tell you. They threatened me. Even now, I can’t leave. I know too much. I stay to try and do as much good with the software as I can and keep the wrong people from finding out about it and using it for their own purposes.”

  The wind whipped his shirttails behind him and I took a few more cautious steps until I could rest a hand on his arm. I took it as a good sign that he didn’t push me away.

  “That software was never supposed to see the light of day,” he said. “They promised me.”

  “Who promised you?”

  “Gammin. He said they’d keep it as a last resort, that only in a state of impending attack would they call it into play.”

  I wasn’t at all surprised Gammin had lied. He’d rob his own mother to save his skin. “Do you think Gammin could be using the DoJ to get rid of you? You’re no longer useful and you have information that could be damaging.” What a horrible thought that was. The last thing someone wanted to think as a private citizen was that the government was out to get you.

  “I don’t know,” he said with a sigh.

  “Jackson,” I said, waiting until he glanced down at me. “You can’t tell anyone about Vigilance. If it gets out, there will be a huge scandal and Snowden-like media coverage all over again. For sure Gammin will know I told you, which would put both of us in danger.”

  His jaw tightened and he shoved his fingers through his hair in wordless frustration. I dropped my hand to my side.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked. “When maybe I could have helped you?”

  “It wasn’t your decision to make,” I said. “And the less you knew, I thought the safer you’d be. After everyone that died at Wyndemere, I think the only thing protecting you is your high profile. And the only thing protecting me is that I know best how the software works. But neither condition is a permanent deterrent, not if we pose a threat.”

  “How does Clark figure into all this?”

  “I handle gathering intelligence and reporting red flags. Clark handles . . . operations. I guess you could say I’m the brains and he’s the muscle.”

  “You mean to tell me that Vigilance has the power to act without any government oversight at all? No one to report to and no one has to justify the legality of your actions?”

  Well, when he put it like that, it sounded really bad. And he looked pissed, his lips pressed into a thin line and his brows drawn together in a frown like a thundercloud. I felt the need to defend what we were doing, though I didn’t 100 percent agree with it myself.

  “The president of the United States is our authority,” I said stiffly. “We operate under his orders and knowledge. Since he’s the commander in chief, I didn’t see a reason to refuse.”

  “Do you have that in writing? A Get Out of Jail Free card?”

  I’d signed a contract, but the verbiage hadn’t been crystal clear on authority and protection in case the worst happened. At the time, I didn’t see that I had a choice, and I still didn’t.

  “What do you expect me to do?” I asked, throwing my hands up. “I made the best out of a bad situation.” I hesitated, then decided to come clean. “Though Lu found out about me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He threatened me. I think he wants me to be an informant and work for them.”

  “Jesus, China.” He shoved his fingers through his hair again, which I always liked because that left it just a little messy.

  “I’m not going to,” I said. “There’s nothing he can say or do that would make me turn traitor. But it’s as if he’s working with people in our government whose agendas aren’t in the country’s interest. It’s all cloak-and-dagger, and being responsible for something like Vigilance was never something I wanted to sign up for.”

  “The potential for abuse is massive,” he said. “Not to mention if other countries got ahold of it. I’d hate for the Chinese and North Koreans to get their hands on this, not only for our sake, but for their own populations.”

  “If you distrust the Chinese so much, then why are you cozying up to Lu?”

  “There’s an executive order in the works,” he explained, “that would give the treasury the ability to impose sanctions on any company, individual, or entity that harms national economic policy or national security by benefitting from stolen secrets and property.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have close ties to some congressmen,” he said. “I’ve been lobbying them to bring this issue up and give some teeth to the penalties. Now that it may finally be happening, the Chinese aren’t happy. Lu in particular.”

  “Why Lu?”

  “Because his company would be the first one sanctioned.”

  Oh. Well then yes, I could see why he’d be upset. “So why is he talking to you?” I asked.

  “Cysnet is actively being attacked by the Chinese. And we found out last week that they were in the process of recruiting Wei Sun to steal from Cysnet.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me?” Wei Sun was vice president of engineering at Cysnet. He’d worked there since Jackson had started the company. I’d personally worked with him on several projects and come away with a healthy dose of respect for his intellect and professionalism. “He was going to betray you? Betray Cysnet?”

  “Everyone has a weak spot.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  Jackson looked away. “We always monitor any employees with Chinese ancestry.”

  It was my second time to be stunned. “Seriously? That’s . . . that’s crazy. And illegal, right?”

  “It’s my company. I can monitor whomever I choose. Everyone’s monitored to some extent, but to ignore the aggressive recruitment of naturalized Chinese-Americans by the Chinese would be naive as well as dangerous. To the company, its employees . . .”

  “Yes, you’re right,” I said. “I was just . . . surprised. So you’re trying to work a deal with Lu?”

  Jackson nodded. “He ceases and desists his attempts on Cysnet, I use my connections to make sure his company isn’t one of those that are sanctioned.”

  “Not exactly fair,” I observed.

  “Fair is an illusion when it comes to money and politics.”

  We stood, side by side, staring into the waves. A quid pro quo of information between us, which I felt meant more than declarations of emotional attachment.

  “Jackson, how many women have you said that to before?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer, but it was too late to take the question back now.

  He didn’t answer at first and my heart sank. I shoved my bare foot into the sand, watching the silicon dioxide particles shift between and over my toes. They needed painting.

  “Is that what you think?”

  My attention was torn from contemplating the sand and my need for a pedicure as Jackson pulled me toward him.

  “You think I’ve said that to, what, a dozen other women?”

  He looked angry again, and . . . hurt.

  “I didn’t mean—” I began, but he interrupted.

  “Yes, you did. I know I may have dated a lot, been in the papers, but I don’t say those words to just anyone. The last time was years ago and she left me for an actor.”

  I winced at the bitterness in his voice. “Jackson, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You couldn’t, obviously. I’d just hoped you’d know that I wouldn’t tell you I loved you, China, if I didn’t mean it.”

  He turned away and I had the sudden panic that I was going to lose something I’d just found and hadn’t yet realized its full potential.

  “Wait!”

  Jackson stopped. His back was to me, looking stiff and forbidding. Still, I approached him and placed my hands lightly on his arms.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said, resting my head against his back. “This is all new to me. I’m as afraid of making the wrong move and getting hurt
as you are.”

  He turned and I held my breath, hoping I hadn’t completely ruined everything. Finding our way through this relationship felt as uncertain as the shifting sand underneath my feet.

  “I do care about you,” I said, reaching up a hand to cradle his cheek. “So much. It feels like falling in love . . . at least, that’s what it seems. I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before.”

  Lightly grasping my wrist, he turned his face into my palm and pressed a kiss there, then drew me into his arms. He rested his chin on top of my head.

  “I shouldn’t have pressured you,” he said.

  We stood like that for a few minutes, the breeze a balm as much as the sound of the waves were.

  “You know, if you’re marking off sexual positions,” he said, “maybe we should add a different list, too.”

  “What kind of list?” I liked lists. Checking things off them felt momentous and gave me a warm feeling of accomplishment inside.

  “Places. Such as on the beach. It’s on a lot of bucket lists.”

  I looked up at him, checking to see if he was serious. I couldn’t tell. “Coitus in the sand would be extremely uncomfortable, as well as unsanitary. And there is wildlife, too, sand fleas, spiders, crabs—”

  “Wow, talk about killing the mood,” he interrupted with a laugh. “I bet I can take your mind off all that.”

  “I seriously doubt it. I guarantee you that my vagina does not need exfoliating.”

  “Then you can be on top.”

  He lifted me up, making me squeal, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. I was tired of being tantalized with his unbuttoned shirt, so I pushed it off his shoulders and down his arms. He juggled me from one arm to the other so he could let it fall to the ground.

  His chest was bare and warm, the skin smooth underneath my fingers. I took my time touching his shoulders and arms.

  “You going to kiss me, or what?” he asked, his lips twisted in a half smile.

  As though I needed to be asked twice. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my lips to his, to the man who’d been the first to tell me he loved me. Nonrelation, that is.

  Our tongues tangled, the heat between us making the cool breeze seem nonexistent. His lips were soft, his arms holding me hard and strong. His hand slipped down the back of my panties to between my legs and he slid a finger inside me.

  I moaned against his mouth, something about the way he was touching me—and in a public place—made my libido go from Zero to Take-Me-Now. I had an exhibitionist streak, apparently. Huh. Who knew?

  Jackson knelt down and I tore my lips from his. “Don’t you dare put me in the sand.”

  “Have some faith.”

  He lay back on the beach and maneuvered for a moment. Sitting back on his thighs, I watched him undo the buttons on his shorts, freeing a very aroused Mr. Happy. The moonlight played on his skin, turning it silver and accentuating the definition of his rectus abdominus—more akin to an eight-pack than the much-renowned six-pack. He looked like some kind of pagan god, splayed on the beach to be worshipped and adored.

  “Take your shirt off.”

  The sight of what awaited me if I did had me hurrying to comply. If I was on top, there was a much smaller chance of sand getting places it shouldn’t.

  I took him in hand and his eyes slid shut. Mr. Happy was pleased at my touch, getting harder in my grip. I settled over him, positioning him at my entrance before sliding down. Jackson hissed between his teeth, his hands squeezing my hips.

  The squats I did to try to stay in shape proved very beneficial to this position, and the only place I got sand was on my knees.

  Granny was waiting for us when we got to the hospital the next morning.

  “They never did send in that Jose,” she said, looking disgruntled. “They tried to foist some old woman on me. I sent her on her way right quick.” Since Granny was over seventy, her calling someone an “old woman” was like the pot and the kettle. But she never saw herself as old. Age is just a number, she’d tell me.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so I changed the subject. “Ready to go home?”

  “As if you have to ask. This place smells and the food is bad.” She was decidedly grumpy as she picked up her purse and we headed out the door.

  She insisted on stopping at a Cracker Barrel on the way home, putting away a heaping plate of biscuits and gravy.

  “Granny, you probably need to dial back on the gravy,” I said. “You did just have a heart attack, you know.”

  She motioned away my concern with a flick of her hand as she sipped her coffee. “That was an incident brought on by the shock of a dead man in my bed,” she said. “Not my diet.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but trying to argue with her was like blowing wind at a brick wall. So I ate my blueberry pancakes and let it go. Jackson had already finished his Old Timer’s Breakfast and drank his black coffee without comment.

  “So tell me about you two,” she said. “Jackson, what do you do for a living?”

  I’d told her about Jackson and me weeks ago. Actually, Mia had let that particular cat out of the bag. She’d been thrilled and regularly quizzed me on how things were going. Now that she had him in her clutches, I realized he was about to be grilled—Granny Style.

  “I own a software company,” Jackson replied. “That’s how China and I met.”

  “Well, I’m usually one to say you don’t sleep with the boss,” she said with a wink at me, “but in this case, I think China breaking the rules turned out for the best, don’t you?”

  Jackson smiled at me. “I would have to agree.”

  “So have y’all talked wedding?”

  Pancake went down the wrong way and I choked, grabbing my water to try to get it down. I coughed and spluttered while Granny slapped me heartily on the back.

  “Granny,” I managed to croak once I’d stopped coughing. “We’re not getting married.” Talk about hitting a sore spot.

  She frowned. “Not ever? You know I don’t approve of living in sin.”

  “We don’t live together,” I said, skirting the “sin” part. “So you don’t have to worry. We just started seeing each other a couple of months ago. There’s no rush.” It felt incredibly awkward to be having this conversation after what Jackson and I had just gone through. Was it normal for everyone to think of marriage after only two months of dating?

  Jackson was watching this exchange with interest and now she fixed her beady gaze on him. “You do right by my girl,” she said sternly. “Or you and I are gonna have words.”

  Seeing my five foot four granny chastise a billionaire tech giant in the middle of the morning rush at Cracker Barrel was surreal. I inwardly cringed, since he’d already wanted to “do right” by me and I’d nixed the idea. For now.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jackson replied, his expression sober. “I will do my best.”

  She gave him a curt nod, as if it was all settled. “Let’s go out to the store,” she said. “I’d like to shop a little.” She burped delicately into her napkin.

  It was another forty-five minutes of shopping, oohing and aahing over the “cutest little things” she saw. Jackson had to step outside a few times for phone calls, dutifully carrying the things she picked up to buy.

  “Isn’t this just adorable?” she asked me, picking up a pillow that said This Ain’t My First Rodeo. I mumbled something agreeable as I followed her around the store. The only thing I liked shopping in an actual store for was bras, and Cracker Barrel didn’t have a lingerie department.

  When we finally checked out, Jackson insisted on paying, despite my objections.

  “Honey,” Granny said to me, taking me by the arm and leading me away from the register, “let the man pay. They like to do that. Makes them feel like they’re the provider. You’ll make him feel less manly if you keep wanting to pay.”

  I didn’t bother arguing with her, just followed her out to the car and waited for Jackson. Twenty minutes later, w
e were pulling into the Serenity Escape entrance. The drive was blocked by a gate and I gave Jackson the code to punch in the keypad. Granny’s place was in the farthest duplex, the second to last on the block.

  They were ranch-style duplexes—stairs were out of the question in a retirement community—with two or three bedrooms, a full kitchen, living room, storage area, and patio. Each had a privacy fence for their lawn and between the duplexes. Flowers bloomed in pots in front of doors all up and down the street, giving it a homey feel.

  When she’d first moved down here, we’d gone to a store that sold furniture by the room. All the pieces you’d need to decorate a living room, or a bedroom. Just pick the colors you want and choose from several options. Granny had decided on a tropical palette reminiscent of 1974, but she’d insisted that since she was moving to Florida, she needed to “not stand out like a country bumpkin.”

  We settled her inside, Jackson not even flinching at the chartreuse sofa and flamingo-print bedspread, though he did give a sideways glance to the fake palm tree. I fussed over her, getting her pillows just right and making sure she had the remote close at hand for the television.

  “Now, I’ve spoken to the staff,” I said, “and they’re going to send someone over to check on you tonight and for the next several days. I signed up for the in-home meal service too, for at least a month.”

  “I want to see that menu,” Granny said, reaching for the papers I held. I moved them out of her reach.

  “Forget it. You’re eating healthier, at least for a little while. Chicken, fish, high fiber, lots of fresh veggies.”

  She grimaced. “Lord, that sounds awful. Add fried chicken, and fried okra. And strawberry rhubarb pie. Jackson, talk some sense into her.”

  “I’m not getting in the middle of this one,” he said good-naturedly.

  The doorbell rang and I got up to answer it.

  “Sit down here and keep me company,” Granny said to him, patting the bed beside her. “I want to hear about how wonderful you think my granddaughter is.”

  I nearly doubled back, but the doorbell rang again and I had to hurry to the front.