Jackson's Trust Read online

  Jackson’s Trust is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Violet Duke

  Excerpt from Bennett’s Chance by Violet Duke copyright © 2016 by Violet Duke

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Bennett’s Chance by Violet Duke. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9781101887240

  Cover design: Okay Creations

  Cover photograph: Dean Drobot/Shutterstock

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Violet Duke

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Bennett’s Chance

  Chapter 1

  What a beautiful little liar.

  Jackson Gray kept his face neutral as he continued to listen to the introductions going on outside of his office between the other analysts on his floor and DBC Sports Network’s newest on-screen talent—the same memorable new member to their team he’d first caught sight of yesterday, not long after she’d been hired.

  Leila Hart.

  The glimpse he’d gotten of her yesterday had been just that. A brief, second-long glance. But that infectiously cute smile she’d been wearing at the time had stuck with him for quite a while after.

  Even through his date last night.

  Sure, the fact that he’d been out with one woman and distracted by the mere smiling memory of another had made him feel a tiny bit guilty at first—he wasn’t a total asshat. But honestly, it had been such a god-awful date that after about ten minutes in, he’d stopped feeling bad altogether.

  Truth be told, his brain’s random instant replays of that one freaking adorable-as-hell smile had been the equivalent of a survival kit for him. It was the only thing that had saved his sanity as he’d braved every cringe-worthy minute with the hot mess that had tornadoed all over his night, smelling like a distillery from the start and stumbling around in a painted-on mini dress so short, he was certain it was really technically a long halter top bedazzled to within an inch of its life.

  Sans any underwear whatsoever.

  That latter discovery was one he’d made early on in the night when his vodka-soaked date had actually lifted up the back and front of that “dress” to try to find her misplaced purse. Where on earth she’d thought she’d tucked the invisible accessory for safe keeping, he didn’t even care to wonder—particularly not when she also began rummaging around for the gum she’d apparently been chewing earlier as well.

  He shuddered through the traumatic flashbacks. At one point, she’d giggled in delight over discovering something down there, after which, he hadn’t just averted his eyes, he’d averted his whole brain as best he could.

  The worst part? They’d been a few steps from the crowded entrance of the restaurant at the time, heading in to start their meal.

  Lordy, that had been one long-ass, apocalyptic evening.

  To be fair, though, he couldn’t put all the blame on her. Hindsight was twenty-twenty and all—pun thoroughly intended. In the light of day today, he had to admit that despite his usual vigilance on such matters, he had, in fact, been completely ill prepared. His fault entirely. He imagined this was why the National Weather Service recommended a periodic inspection and update of all disaster readiness kits.

  His was clearly outdated.

  Evidently, he could no longer rely on just the two steadfast preparation procedures he’d always exercised before going out with a woman—a thorough screening for any I-want-your-kids-now vibes, followed by his diligent explanation about how he could not, and would not, offer anything more than a casual night of fun.

  Had he gotten the memo of these critical system updates, he would’ve been more prepared; he would never have agreed to any sort of let-me-make-it-up-to-you drinks with the woman who—he’d realized too late—probably should’ve been given a breathalyzer after she’d crashed her shopping cart into his at the supermarket yesterday evening.

  Stupid him for not having known to be on disaster alert for these sorts of things.

  Now he knew to also be on the lookout for: 1) women who started in on the tequila shots at home before going out man-hunting, and 2) women who treated grocery stores as their hunting ground of choice.

  Lesson learned. He detested games, and acts, and duplicitous subterfuge of all varieties, especially when it came to women. God knew he’d dealt with enough of that for a lifetime.

  Today, given all of that still fresh in his polluted memory banks, the jarring discovery he’d made twenty minutes ago that Leila Hart was standing out there lying through her teeth should have triggered the emergency broadcast system alerting him that a calamity not unlike last night’s was probably imminent. Strangely, however, he was more curious than anything else. Due entirely to the content of what the lovely enigma was lying about.

  The woman knew football. Yet, she was standing out there lying about that fact.

  He couldn’t help himself, he was intrigued.

  He’d first noticed the prettily packaged white lies after their network producer Lloyd had finished explaining to Leila how DBC Sports Network’s exponentially larger main operations consisted of sports-specific departments, a far different set-up from what she was used to. The Phoenix station she’d come up from, like their four other regional affiliates in Vegas, Denver, Albuquerque, and Salt Lake City, operated on a much smaller scale.

  That’s when he’d first caught it.

  Every time Lloyd emphasized how she’d been hired to work on just football, Jackson saw a tiny little sparkle dance around in her eyes. Along with that distracting smile again.

  That’s also when he saw that she was doing her best to hide both. It’s not like she was acting the part of a ditz or anything as over-the-top as that, but rather, she was doing little things here and there to play everything down, to encourage Lloyd’s football “teachings.”

  The poor thing probably hadn’t realized what she’d been getting into when she’d opened that ill-conceived door.

  It all started well enough. Lloy
d had begun describing what the coming months would look like for her, giving her remedial-at-best summaries of NFL drafting, free-agent contracts, and the off-season changes that the teams went through before pre-season. Jackson had watched Leila do a valiant job of looking like Lloyd wasn’t reciting the alphabet to her…slowly and loudly.

  Meanwhile, Lloyd couldn’t have been more unaware. His broad Southern chest had puffed up over her first extremely convincing you-big-smart-man smiles. And Jackson had given up working completely then to settle in for the resulting show.

  One of his favorite parts of the unfolding sketch comedy came early on with Leila’s jaw-slacked are-you-friggin’-serious look she’d smothered almost a second too late when Lloyd had asked her whether she knew which three NFL teams their network covered. It was all very exciting. Would the jolly green giant of a producer catch it, wouldn’t he catch it? A two-thumbs-up popcorn performance all around.

  Of course Lloyd, being Lloyd, had taken her subsequent inability to form words in response as his cue to “educate” the pretty little liar some more…by proceeding to verbally pat her on the head and coming up with a helpful Schoolhouse Rock–type earworm to aid her in remembering:

  “The Hawks fly proudly in Arizona, while Reno is notorious for their Outlaws, who Utah’s Miners are always scared of.”

  Jackson had almost pissed his pants laughing.

  It just got better from there. Completely oblivious to the flare of exasperation she was barely bothering to smother by that point, Lloyd later suggested oh so helpfully that she make some flashcards and spend a few minutes every night quizzing herself on which sixteen NFL teams were in the four NFC divisions, and which were in the AFC divisions. With a doting smile, his ignorant but well-intentioned producer added that she could give herself fun little rewards like pedicures or wine and chocolate if she managed to get most of them right.

  Oh, man. Jackson was almost certain she’d been counting to ten—or a hundred—silently to keep her cool.

  And then came the biggie. The spectacular flame ball of outright offended annoyance that Jackson witnessed igniting Leila’s catlike eyes. It blasted into orbit when Lloyd made a passing comment about her also having to learn little in-the-biz things, like how “the Miners had the best defense in their conference,” so she didn’t get too lost during the sideline interview questions they’d be feeding her on air.

  The Miners, riiight. Proof positive why Lloyd was never invited to play fantasy football with any of them at the office.

  From what Jackson could gather, the inadvertently condescending way that Lloyd was speaking to Leila wasn’t what had made her start to positively spark right before his eyes. Nope, it was the man’s just plain wrong assertion that the Miners had the best defense in the conference.

  Jackson had of course groaned inwardly upon hearing Lloyd make the ludicrous declaration. But while he’d heard enough of Lloyd’s bullheaded “expertise” over the years to know not to even bother trying to correct him anymore, this was Leila’s first time dealing with such blasphemy. Those berry-kissed lips of hers had parted, and incredulous disbelief had made her posture go rigid as she’d mouthed, “The Miners?”

  Call him the first caveman to have seen two palm trees as a potential goalpost in a prehistoric end zone, but that right there was sexy. In context, with her graceful jawline tensed in indignation, and dainty hands fisted into tiny little hammers, she was easily the sexiest woman alive as far as he was concerned. A woman full of fire and spice who shared his views on which teams had shitty defense? Lord have mercy.

  Rather than exploding like a Fourth of July lightshow as Jackson had expected, however, she’d somehow managed to reel it in, gifting Lloyd instead with an eye-crinkling—albeit tightly wound—smile that practically purred, “You’re so very wise.”

  Utterly fascinating.

  Okay, so maybe he was giving her a few extra points for simply having good taste in NFL defense. But even so, the woman was positively the most interesting person he’d come across in a long while, and definitely the sexiest one he’d ever had working under him.

  Shit. Poor choice of words. His imagination was already taking that last dangerously phrased thought and—

  “Hey, Jackson. Sorry to interrupt.” Lloyd popped his head in. “Just wanted to introduce you to our new sideline reporter.”

  Jesus. Talk about impeccable timing. Another minute following that runaway train of thought and Jackson wasn’t sure it would’ve been kosher for him to stand to greet the pair as they made their way over to his desk.

  “This is Jackson Gray.” Lloyd perched on the edge of Jackson’s desk and did a quick lasso motion with his hands to direct Leila’s attention around the room. “As you can see, he’s our in-house expert on all things football. He’s the man you’ll be spending the most time with over the next few months.”

  Jackson studied Leila’s reaction to the many random gifts he’d been given by various NFL players and coaches over the years. Most folks, men and women alike, usually fussed over the rare items in the locked glass case. If you didn’t recognize at least one of the names in there, really, you had no business being in the building.

  He waited for it then. The inevitable question prying into his celebrity friendships—which swanky bars he went to with this famous athlete, or whether the rumors were true about that NFL bad boy, or if he still kept in touch with any of the hall-of-famers.

  …But it never came.

  Surprisingly, other than a brief impressed nod over the autographed footballs and photos—which Lloyd was drawn to like a magnet as per usual—Leila’s undivided focus was lasered in on the one wall that had nothing but the whiteboard he kept in his office to scribble player stats and game notes on from time to time.

  Well, hell.

  Jackson was a secure enough guy to know that there were some women, on occasion, who were into other men more than they were into him. Shoot, even on an off night, his two best friends, Bennett and Donovan, could walk into a club in the dead of winter and take care of heating the joint with female lust alone. Likewise, his buddies couldn’t care less if a woman was into him more than either of them. There was always tomorrow night. New playing field, new odds. No big.

  Then again, it’s not as if any of them had ever lacked for female companionship. Not as far as he could remember, anyway. In fact, whenever they’d go to hang out at the brewpub in Cactus Creek owned by their friend Xoey, she’d insist that they take extra measures before arriving to—quote, unquote—“pretty themselves down” to limit how many phone numbers they’d each get from women throughout the night. Something about her saving on bar napkins that way.

  Her exaggerated words, not theirs.

  So yeah, he’d seen women making eyes at other guys right in front of him before. He never gave it a second thought. But he could honestly say he’d never once played second fiddle to an inanimate object. Never watched a woman stare, all hot and bothered, at his football stats the way Leila was doing right now.

  Damn.

  He was in trouble with this one.

  Chapter 2

  Jackson watched Leila quickly come out of her trance and shake away all visible traces of football lust before she returned to the version of herself that had been outside his office. She pivoted to face him fully with a bubbly, “Hi, I’m Leila Hart. It’s so great to meet you.”

  For a second there, he didn’t, couldn’t reply. Not with Leila’s simple act of coming a few steps closer with her hand held out for a handshake having the same effect as a speeding bus hitting him head-on.

  The woman was gorgeous.

  In an insanely sexy Marvel-freaking-comic imagined way.

  He wasn’t blind. Even with the multiple penalty flag deductions his brain had already factored in for the whole candy shell façade she’d had going on, he hadn’t been able to deny her beauty—obvious from a good twenty or thirty yards away. Up close, however, he made the dangerous discovery that she was pretty, too.

&
nbsp; It was a highly specific distinction he made that none of his buddies agreed with. But in Jackson’s book, “pretty” was almost always a bigger deal than beautiful, which in one way or another, all women were.

  While a beautiful woman could often draw a stare, a pretty girl could usually prompt a smile; in that sense, prettiness was more personal, more affectionate. Customizable.

  For Jackson, Leila was absolutely his kind of pretty. Country girl cute with carnivorous curves that hinted at her preference of steak over salad. Guileless eyes he’d already seen could turn into a lethal glare when needed. Wholly reactive expressions—when she allowed them to roam free on her face—so candid they seemed to feed directly from her heart.

  Her being unknowingly sexy, almost accidentally so, was an added bonus that made her all the more unforgettable.

  In a word, pretty.

  Again, so much more than just beautiful.

  “Jackson’s the senior analyst in this department,” continued Lloyd, giving Jackson a quick once-over before his voice became markedly less genial. “He’s actually creating a bit of a name for himself behind the scenes with his whole football savant thing. Which is why he gets to make his way over to the occasional NFL ivory-ticket event once in a while, like the one he got all glammed up for today in that GQ getup.”

  Leila frowned and shot her gaze over to Lloyd, who was walking back from the memorabilia display case with an ill-disguised petulant pout forging the path before him.

  Yeah…Lloyd wasn’t exactly good at covering up his true feelings when the green-eyed monster was biting his ass. Jackson was used to it.