The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 28-C

Yet I can't stop. It's addictive as he's pulling me tight, and I've no defenses. He unclips my seatbelt, and it slides loose; I'm against him, his arm around my waist pulling me hard into his body over the central controls, any awkwardness of the car's confined space ignored.

I fear he will drag me onto his lap, and then what?

What if we cross the line, and I start to feel more for him? I don't think I can trust him not to hurt me; it's what he does: sex and casual affairs, meaningless hookups. I'm just a challenge to him, a new toy that holds his interest because I've been evasive, and once he has me, what then? This will change everything; this could ruin my career, life, mental state, and relationship.

I can't. I just can't.

I start recoiling from him, my passion burning out, replaced with genuine fear, suffocating terror. My hands sag, and I start pushing against him. He feels the change in me and lets me go coldly, without real hesitation. We inhale heavily as he harshly sits back in his seat, glaring at me.

"That's exactly what I mean." His voice is cold and angry. Rage brews in the depths of his green eyes. Tapping my temple with his finger, he says, "This is your biggest enemy, Emma, not me."

"Why did you do that?" I spit, my body still reeling and out of whack from the assault on my senses, lungs struggling to self-regulate, my lips on fire from his kiss. I am in free fall.

"To prove a point," he snarls and turns away coldly.

"What point?" I almost cry at him. I'm so overwrought with emotions, so confused. He scrubs his hands through his ruffled hair and exhales; for a moment, I think he's going to jump out of the car again and walk off, but he sits and sighs, grasping the wheel, pulling himself up to sit properly.

"What does it matter?" His voice is deflated, and he avoids looking at me, his aggression evaporating.

So? What? He's decided, screw it, we're not talking anymore?

How can he assault me with a kiss and then say forget it? What the hell?

I'm angry. I'm really, goddamn, seething angry.

How dare he!

"Fuck you!" It's out of my mouth before I contemplate screaming at my boss, and I'm out of the car. I'm raging. My eyes are stinging and blurry. He knows how to rip my head open, and I hate him for it. I hate that he makes me fall apart like this. I hate how he strips me of the control I've built up over the years.

He's fast out after me, spinning me around as he pulls me into him. I try to fight, but he envelopes me and buries his face in my hair, holding me in a vice-like grip so I can't struggle free. A bear hug to stop me from escaping.

"I'm sorry, Emma, stop. Emma, I'm sorry." His voice is raw and strained. I'm fighting but losing, as he knows how to hold me so I can't move, my body wrapped in his, almost suffocating me. He hugs me tighter, and I slump, anger dissipating in so much emotional pain when pinned to him this way. He's breathing into my hair, its warmth on my scalp. Overwhelmed, tears run down my cheeks as he slowly breaks me.

"I don't want to fight with you, Emma." His voice is sad now, close to my ear, his crazy mood taking a new direction again. I relax into his hold, no longer struggling, unable to hate him when he's this way with me and sounding this sorry when I am this upset.

"I don't want to fight either." I swallow a sob, slumping into him to let him heal my heart.

"Maybe we should go back to the boat?" He sounds tired. I don't know how to navigate this version of Jake; it's more moods than I'm used to. It's exhausting, but I put it down to the scene with Hunter and the aftereffects of too much alcohol, lack of sleep, and stress. This isn't him.

"Maybe," I whisper; at least there, I can go to my room and some distance, some perspective. Let him alone to get a grip on his roller-coaster mood swings.

"No," he snaps, surprising me again with a U-turn in attitude. The way he says it causes me to bristle and look up. A sudden mood shift, again?

What the hell is going on with him?

He pulls away and stalks back to the car, stopping at the hood and leaning down to tense his arms against it, broody and aggressive in his stance, unapproachable. I just stare.

"I can't do this, Emma," he snaps, his gaze steady on the hood of the low, sleek car. For a moment, I think he may even hit it.

"Do what?" I'm beyond confused. I think A body snatcher has invaded jake. He's all over the place, and I can't keep up. I wipe my tears and pull myself together.

"This! Us!" He waves his hand, exasperated, and I'm dumbfounded; I blink at him. I don't actually know what else to do. There is no us! He glares at me haughtily, most likely because I'm still silent, and frowns. "You drive me crazy, and not in a good way," he snorts, facing the car again, his body emanating erratic, manic signals.

"I do?" My voice is tiny and unsure, like I'm walking on eggshells with him, yet he's accusing me of driving him crazy!

Well, it's goddamn mutual.

He sighs again, and his face tenses.

"You frustrate me on so many levels," he carries on, although he's lost all conviction in his tone.

Likewise.

"Sorry," I murmur sarcastically, rolling my eyes at his back while trying to process everything I am feeling.

Yes, Jake, I can do moody and sardonic too.

He throws me an unamused look over his shoulder, and I glance down to twiddle my fingers evasively. He's sighing again; I can hear him kicking the car wheel, funneling some of his rage onto the rubber, making me flinch.

"Why do you never talk about your childhood?" His tone changes again; a new tactic or a new mood? My head is dizzy with this swinging door version of him.

"What?" I pale, my face swept with icy cold, and my hands pause. My nerves flutter from low down at a topic I do not want to follow through on. "There's nothing to talk about. You know the highlights," I respond drily. The urge to clamp down and stop this direction of conversation kicks in; there's a mild warning in the back of my brain.

"I know bits and pieces, Emma, mostly from getting you drunk." He glares at me, and it's almost like another accusation.

Jesus!

"Where is this going?" I plead. I don't want to do this; I don't want to have this psycho-babbling conversation with Jake, especially when he's so weird and pissy.

How did we even get to this? Why is he so obsessed over this? Freaking Jekyll & Hyde Jake and his neck-breaking mood swings.

"It hurt you." His eyes rest on me, his face endearing and open; all anger is gone. But it only makes me want to cry, so I look away, crossing my arms around my body protectively. His expression claws at my heart.

"It's the past, and it should stay there." My eyes sting intensely, but he won't make me cry again. My heart aches with everything he is trying to pull out of me.

What's wrong with him? Is this what he's after? Tears, confessions?

I move away and turn my back on him; it's better when I can't see him or see that look in his eye.

"Your mom? You don't talk about her much either," he pushes, his voice gentle. Every part of me screams, "Leave me alone; let me be," but I hold it all in and close my eyes, my insides clawing desperately to escape this torment.

Just hold it together, Emma. Take deep, calming breaths.

"She's my mother; what else is there to say?" I say it coldly, hoping he understands that he should back off.

"Tell me about her." He ignores the silent plea and decides to go in for the kill.

Thanks, Jake.

I'm wary of his crazy mood swings; I don't want angry and irrational Jake back. I grit my teeth against the urge to tell him to mind his own business and try to appease his curiosity instead.

"My mother is a sucker for a sob story." My voice grates every word out painfully, laced with anger and warning. "That's about all there is to her."

So back off.

"She has bad taste in men?" His voice is closer, so I walk further off, slightly putting the distance back between us. I'm not too fond of these kinds of conversations, someone trying to lay me bare and uncover my pain. Every part of me is on high alert, my anger simmering to something more heart-wrenching.

"That's an understatement," I snap, shielding my despair with anger.

Control, Emma!

"Her boyfriends hurt you?" His question catches me off guard, his voice nearer yet again, despite my moving away. His fingers move into my hair near my ear, flexing into my scalp, making me lean into his touch; I close my eyes. I've no defenses when he touches me. So much pleasure from such a simple motion disperses my rage and hostility. His other hand slides over my shoulder and down my arm a little, his breath on the back of my neck between my shoulder blades before his mouth rests on the back of my head, and he sighs. I surrender to him, body and soul, my anger draining away. Jake knows how to get under my skin with so little effort. Just a touch.

"Some … some just wanted to …" I can't say it. I swallow hard. His hand leaves my arm, snakes around my waist, and pulls me into his body smoothly. His mouth moves to my neck gently as he snuggles in and surrounds me. His hair is against the side of my face as he pulls me snugly and close to him.

"She didn't protect you," he whispers against my collarbone, the gentle flutter of his mouth on my skin and the heat from his breath sending a thousand electric tingles through my body. I know I should pull away from him, but I'm mesmerized by how he's holding me, how my body is sagging into him, losing all control, floating away on a warm breeze without any pain. The memories of last night pull me back, and I cannot resist how he makes me yearn to be connected to him.

"She did what she could," I mumble, even though I know that's a lie. I'm too lost in how his nose is skimming my shoulder and neck, my skin erupting with goosebumps. The hand in my hair now trailed down my naked arm to my wrist and back up. He's clever with his seductive ways, lulling me into a sense of soft security, teasing my body so I'll open up to him. I don't have the energy to fight it; I'm his captive when he touches me this way.

"She didn't stop bringing men around her child, Cara Mia." His voice takes on hoarseness, and I stiffen. I've told myself the same thing a million times, repeatedly. He's not saying anything I don't already know, yet it still hurts, like he's thrust a knife into my chest to hear someone else say it.

"Why did you leave Chicago? Leave her?" His voice deepened, his hands trailing down my arms again, leaving gentle tingles on the surface. His face is back in my hair as he releases me a little. I want to melt into him and let him do with my body as he pleases. His touch sends searing pleasure wherever it lands, my eyes still closed and lost in the sensations. For once, the doubts slide away. He's bewitching me to open up, and I'm completely lost to him.

"I needed to walk away from all of it. I needed to save myself because no one else was going to." A tear courses down my cheek while saying it aloud for the first time. It's bittersweet, yet I sound pathetic, my heart gnawing with pain.

"I think you need to talk to someone about this, Emma, a counselor. I could …"

My eyes snap open, and I jerk away instantly, spinning to glare at him angrily, my mood changing with those simple words that wound me deeply and ignite a fire all over again.

"Not a goddamn chance," I spit, all venom returned, defensive and lashing out, "I'm not fucking crazy!"

"Emma, that isn't what I said." His voice is one of surprise at my reaction. He attempts to put his arms around me again, but I hold out a hand, stopping him, brimming with fury. He stays back, wariness in his narrowed eyes, my anger spilling out like a burst dam.

"Don't, okay," I snap. "You wanted to know? Now you know, and that's the end of it." The strength is back in my voice; PA Emma has returned. I stalk past him toward the car signaling the end. I can't look at him. My eyes are drying now, and that steel wall is building back up; I'm gaining control again.

To be looked at as some broken mental case is too much.

I don't need a shrink. I need him to stop prying.

"Don't do that," he snaps accusingly, following me back to the car close on my heels; he grabs my arm to turn me, but I yank it away.

He thinks I need therapy! He thinks I'm some broken, pathetic girl with emotional issues and wonders why I'm pissed. I knew this was a bad idea; I knew he would see me differently the more he knew.

"Do what?" I yell, deliberately looking anywhere but at him to get away. He grabs my arm again and tugs me around to face him harshly, this time succeeding.

"Don't shut me out again, clamping down like you always do, not after everything. I'm sick to death of this never-ending, fucking circle," he rages at me, fire meeting fire.

"I didn't want to tell you! You just keep pushing." I wrench my arm away; I'm back in fight mode, ready to push it back into the black box in my head and act like it never happened. "Let's go back to the boat. I'm hungry and tired," I spit, sending a very loud and clear message that this conversation is over.

I didn't know I could sound so cool amid the sea of emotions swirling around my head. He lifts his hands as if he's going to choke me, grits his teeth; his eyes burn, and paces away from me again, cursing and raging into the open air. I ignore him. I walk to the car and get in, slamming my door and buckling up in stony-faced silence.

Eventually, he angrily slides into the car, and I can tell he's given up; he knows it's pointless. My mask is well and truly back in place, and even though I can feel his mood coming off of him in aggressive waves, he doesn't look my way.

"Conversation fucking over!" he mutters and thins his lips. He's angry. He's sulking. I don't care; I don't want to do this. I glare at him, then turn away to stare out the window as he turns the car in the road, heading back to where we came from at a break-neck speed that makes me uneasy, but I bite my tongue and say nothing.

We don't talk as we drive; he turns the stereo up loud, indicating he won't attempt it, and I try and relax in my seat. Pretend to anyway. Hard to do when you're being driven around winding cliffs by a maniac in a temper with a sports car at his command.

His hand tugs mine out of my hair angrily, a stinging pain with it, and I throw him another furious glare.

"Stop fucking doing that!" he barks over the music, eyes glinting.

Nice.

"That hurt," I snap, reaching out to turn the stereo down again. I touch my head where I inadvertently yanked my own hair painfully, almost out at the root.

"I didn't mean to hurt you." He's talking through gritted teeth, glaring even though he's apologizing. "I'm sorry."

"I don't know why it bothers you so much," I spit at him childishly. "I don't know I'm doing it."

"It bothers me because it signifies you're anxious, nervous, or upset. I don't like it," he retorts with that same pissed tone and lousy mood.

"Oh, so you want me to unleash vulnerable Emma, but only if she doesn't act nervous or anxious; makes so much sense," I seethe. He glares at me, his jaw tensing, fury meeting fury. The sizzle of static between us causes the air to crackle. He turns away and focuses on the road, gripping the wheel so hard I'm sure it will come off.

I hope it hits him square in the face.

The journey back to the yacht is silent and quick.

Helps when your driver thinks he's Schumacher.