Jack & Jilted Read Online Free PDF Page A

that she was naked and propping herself up that way wasn’t helping matters. She collapsed back onto the bed with a squeak.
    “I…I didn’t realize that you were the masseur,” she said in a low voice. “I thought—I guess it’s dumb, but I thought it would be a woman. Or somebody else. You know.”
    Jack felt that same sensation of guilt burn through his chest. “A common misunderstanding,” he said, hating his glibness. “If it’s too distracting, I can go away.”
    She bit her lip—a cute gesture, he thought, which made her look innocent and young and at complete odds with her provocative nudity beneath the sheet, a detail that simply would not be ignored. “I…hmm.”
    She wanted to de-stress, and this had seemed like a good idea, he thought. Now she was probably even more tense.
    Way to go, Jack.
    “If you don’t mind my staying,” he said slowly, “I promise to be completely professional. And you have had sort of a trying day. If anybody could use a bit of relaxation, it’d be you.”
    Then it struck him. Why are you convincing her to go through with it? What’s wrong with you?
    She chuckled at the understatement. “True enough,” she said. “I, er, guess it’d be okay.”
    He breathed out a silent sigh of relief, then realized: he was committed. He’d given plenty of back rubs in his day, but they’d hardly been anything someone would call “therapeutic.” They were generally designed to gain entry to a woman’s bedroom and, somewhat later, into her bed. They were seduction tools, not tools for relaxation.
    His anatomy started to shift into that mode until he sternly counseled himself to knock it off. This was business, not pleasure.
    He cleared his throat. “Do you like champagne?”
    “Sorry?” she asked, looking startled.
    “Champagne,” he repeated, getting the bottle from the minifridge. She hadn’t touched any of the alcohol, he noticed. “We offer it to the customers to celebrate, sure, but also to help them relax and unwind.” And maybe if she had a little alcohol, she wouldn’t be quite so critical of the amateur quality of her massage.
    “I don’t drink much,” she said.
    He raised an eyebrow at her. “I think today is a good day for an exception,” he said wryly.
    She chuckled at that, too, and he noticed her shoulders move almost imperceptibly lower—a good sign.
    He popped the cork and grabbed one of the champagne flutes from the fridge, as well, pouring the light amber liquid in and stopping before the bubbles frothed over the top. “Here you go,” he said, handing the glass to her.
    She propped herself up on her side, tucking the blanket around her torso—but not before he’d gotten another glimpse of her breasts. She was definitely a feast for the eyes, he had to admit. Maybe five foot five, with long cinnamon-brown hair that tumbled in waves past her shoulders and creamy white skin that suggested maybe Irish or British heritage. The faintest natural hint of roses in her cheeks supported that. She was on the thin side, making the curves of her breasts and hips that much more accented.
    She sipped at the champagne carefully, then she obviously understood he was waiting for her. He watched as she finished the glass and handed the empty flute back to him. “Thanks,” she said.
    “There. It’ll take a few minutes for that to kick in,” he said, “and I don’t want to do anything too strenuous and ruin it. Nothing too deep-tissue,” he clarified. He remembered when he’d hired Helen and she’d offered to give him a massage as a sort of interview. She’d done a “deep tissue” massage, and he’d thought he was on a medieval torture rack. The fact that he’d felt better the next day didn’t help the fact that the massage itself had been way too rough.
    Chloe sank down into the bed, shrugging slightly and groaning. “Whatever you think is best,” she demurred, turning her face away from him.
    He looked at the massage oil, opting to only use a