by J. Kenner
I want to protest. To point out how much this means to him. To beg him to believe that he’ll get through this. But I fear that saying those words will only highlight the extent of his loss. So all I say is, “I’m sorry. ” Page 5
“Me, too. ”
I want to slide into his embrace and hold him close. I want to lose myself in him. I want to breathe in his scent and let the feel of him erase all my fears.
But he is not reaching for me, and I can’t bring myself to move through this dark cloud and into his arms, because what if he pushes me away?
Instead, I do the opposite. I stand, then force a smile. “All right, then. So what’s the plan? You have to be in Beverly Hills in the morning, right? So what time are we leaving here?”
He looks almost relieved at the shift in conversation. “This afternoon. I want some face time with Charles and the new attorney before I walk into the lions’ den tomorrow,” he says, referring to Charles Maynard, his attorney back home, as well as the kick-ass criminal defense attorney that Charles has promised to retain.
“Have you told Grayson and Darryl?” I ask. Grayson Leeds is the head pilot for the Stark International fleet, and when Damien offered Jackson the use of one of the smaller jets, he also offered Grayson’s services as pilot, with Darryl, a new hire, coming on as co-pilot. Originally, the men were simply going to make the two-hour flight, drop us in New Mexico, and then return to California. But when the police showed up with the news that Jackson needed to return to Beverly Hills for questioning, Grayson and Darryl stayed. Now, they’re holed up in two of the guest rooms after having enjoyed a night of the Wisemans’ hospitality.
“I just told them,” Jackson says. “They’ll be ready when we are. I’m shooting to get out of here right after lunch. ”
“Then this room isn’t where you need to be. ” I glance toward the window, then offer him my hand and tug him to his feet. “Go spend some time with your daughter, Jackson Steele. ” I reach up and stroke his cheek, his beard stubble scratchy against my hand. “Just a bit today, but that’s okay. You’ll be spending a lot more time with her very soon. ”
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Then he nods. “Are you coming?”
“I’m going to shower first and get dressed. And,” I add, picking up the now-cold toast, “I can’t go out there until I’ve eaten the best toast ever. ”
He actually laughs a bit, and I’m proud of my rather lame joke.
I watch him go, then shut the door behind him before returning to the window and waiting for him to appear on the lawn. It takes a few minutes, but he finally shows, and as I watch, he calls to Ronnie. Both she and the puppy lope toward him, and he scoops her up and swings her around, his expression glowing.
My heart twists. Because I know that his happiness will be fleeting. And I fear it will get worse before it gets better.
More than that, I fear that it won’t get better at all.
My phone starts to ring just as I’m stepping out of the shower. I don’t recognize the number, and I almost let it roll to voice mail, but then go ahead and answer it, just in case it’s my best friend, Cass, calling from a friend’s line, or Charles calling from another attorney’s office. Or even my boss, Damien Stark, calling from a hotel with Nikki after a spur-of-the-moment getaway.
Of course it’s none of those people.
Instead, the voice on the other end of the line belongs to my father.
“Sylvia. Honey, we need to talk. ”
I cringe, his use of the endearment grating on me as much as his tone. Like he cares. Like he actually gives a shit about me.
I know better.
I know he’s only calling me because Jackson forced my dad to confront a truth that he’d avoided since I was fourteen—that Robert Cabot Reed had sucked the marrow out of me, and my father had handed me to the bastard on a platter and then looked the other way.
“Sylvia,” he prompts. “Sylvia, talk to me. ”
“This isn’t a good time. ” My voice is tight, and I can barely squeeze the words out.
“I’ve left at least a dozen messages. You haven’t called me back. ”
“And so you thought you would trick me by calling from an unfamiliar number?”
“What choice do I have? I need to talk to you. ”
“You need?” The words hang in the air, dark and twisted. Two simple syllables, and yet they seem to sum up my entire, horrible childhood.
“We need,” he corrects immediately. “We need to talk. About Reed. About what happened. About those photographs he threatened you with. ”
“I can’t. ” I’m shaking my head, wishing I could block out everything he is saying. Trying to push back the memories he is invoking. But it’s no use. The floor is shifting beneath me, and I reach for the counter to steady myself. Page 6
“You can’t keep ignoring me. ”
Yes. I can. But I can’t manage the words. Not then. Not with the way my throat is closing up and the room is turning gray and the floor is starting to angle sideways, as if to let those horrible memories roll more easily toward me.
“We have to talk, Sylvia. We have to. ” His voice sounds miles away, as if it is just a noise and has nothing to do with me. And I don’t want to hear it anymore.
I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
I’m not sure if I’m actually speaking those words or if I’m just screaming them in my head. Somehow, though, I manage to jam my finger hard against the proper button to end the call before the phone tumbles from my hand. My knees give out, and suddenly I’m on the ground, my legs pulled right up against my chest. I close my eyes and squeeze them tight and rock back and forth as I fight the panic and the memories that are rising fast to consume me.
I hate this—the terror. This sense of being lost. Of being out of control.
Of being thrust back into pain and memories without any warning at all.
If I’d known it was him, I could have prepared. Could have steeled myself.
Could you? Would you? Or would you have just hid from his words? From his voice?
My chest is tight with the weight of the truth. Because I would have hid. If I had my way, I’d hide from my father for the rest of eternity.
I take deep breaths and I tell myself to get a grip. He’s gone. It’s over. And I can handle this.
More than that, I have to handle this.
It hasn’t yet been a week since Jackson told my father what Robert Cabot Reed did to me. Not that my dad didn’t already have some idea. He was the one who’d set me up with Reed as a teen, after all. Who’d accepted exorbitant amounts of money from Reed in exchange for my services, supposedly as a model, but that damn sure wasn’t the extent of it.
And it was my father who’d ignored my pleas to stop the photo sessions.
So, yeah, my dad knew what went on in Reed’s studio, but he’d never really faced it. Not until Jackson forced him to not only acknowledge the past, but to look at the present. A present in which Reed was blackmailing me, threatening to release those horrible, ugly, intimate photos to the press if I didn’t convince Jackson to quit blocking his movie.
Since that night, my father has repeatedly called me, and I’ve repeatedly ignored him. And that’s not going to stop now. As far as I’m concerned, that man stopped being my father when he drove me to Reed’s studio the first time. And if he’s calling to apologize, I really don’t give a damn. And if he’s calling to ask for forgiveness, that’s not something I’m willing to grant.
I shake out my arms, then slap my cheeks lightly as if I’m a trauma victim who needs to be revived. Because when you get right down to it, that’s exactly what I am.
I have to get my shit together, because I cannot, cannot, cannot let Jackson see me like this. Not because I’m afraid that he won’t comfort me, but because I am certain that he will. He might be pushing me away from his problems and fears, but he won’t ignore mine. On the cont
rary, my pain would slide in and mingle with his own, and I can’t put this on him. Not now. Not today.
But even though I know that keeping silent about this call is absolutely the right decision, I can’t help but feel as if my silence is the first step on a dark path leading me away from Jackson. And if I don’t fight to keep him by my side, I’m going to lose him to the shadows.
two
“Ms. Brooks?”
Grayson’s voice breaks through the cotton that seems to fill my head and I sit bolt upright, my heart pounding in my chest as panic crashes over me. “What?” I demand. “Are we okay? Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be flying this thing?”
I don’t like air travel—it makes me queasy and nervous and unsettled. About the only thing I do like, in fact, is the moment after landing when I realize that I’ve miraculously survived being hurtled through the air in a giant steel canister. So when Grayson told us that there were storms over New Mexico and Arizona, I’d succumbed to pressure from him and Jackson and taken a couple of motion sickness pills. Normally, that would just make me a little bit sleepy. But at lunch Stella had brought out a pitcher of sangria, and since I was already hot and sweaty from playing in the yard with Jackson and Ronnie, I’d gulped down more than I should have.
Which meant that I was already drowsy when we’d climbed on board. Once the pills hit my system, I was a goner. And being startled awake only fed my phobia.
“It’s okay. Everything is fine. ” Jackson’s voice is soft and soothing, and I force myself to relax. We’re in the jet, and I’d been sound asleep. Now Jackson eases me against him, and I gratefully comply, thinking that maybe air travel isn’t such a bad thing if it means that Jackson will hold me close and safe, his arm tight around my shoulders. Page 7
I sigh, cherishing the comfort that he’s offering. I have said nothing to him about the grayness that seems to fill the space between us. Instead, I am clinging like a beggar to each and every subtle connection. Every brush of his fingers against mine. Every press of his hand upon my back as he guides me. Every soft glance, every gentle smile.
It’s not enough, though. We have always fit together, Jackson and I, like pieces in a puzzle. But now it feels as if someone has bent the pieces and the fit is awkward and slightly off, and that disconnect is making me crazy. I don’t think I can stand it much longer, and soon I’m going to have to confront him. To grab him hard and pull him back, and then demand to know why the hell he’s so far away from me—and then hope that he doesn’t run even further.
Not now, though. Right now, I just need to know why the pilot is crouched in front of me instead of in the cockpit where he belongs.
“Seriously,” I demand as I narrow my eyes at Grayson, “why aren’t you at the wheel or the stick or whatever they call it?”
“Darryl has it under control,” Grayson assures me. “And I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s a satellite call. ”
“Damien?”
“Trent,” Jackson says. “I offered to handle it, but he insisted he needs to speak to you. ”
That’s odd, and I force down the rising worry and tell myself that this isn’t necessarily a big deal. After all, I call Damien all the time when he’s flying. It’s just one more method of communication. He probably needs a contact that Rachel can’t find. Or wants me to run interference for him on one of his projects if he ended up double-booked. Something mundane and easily handled.
Something not a crisis. Because honestly, at the moment, my crisis quota is all filled up.
Grayson returns with a headset for me and I put it on, then wait for him to return to the cockpit and patch the call through.
A few seconds later, I hear Trent Leiter come on the line. “You sitting down?”
“I’m in a plane, Trent. What do you think?”
“Sorry. Sorry. ” His words spill nervously on top of each other. And since Trent isn’t easily rattled, that alone is enough to make me stand up and start to pace the length of the cabin.
What? Jackson mouths.
But all I can do is shrug. “Dammit, Trent. What’s going on?”
“Oh, hell,” he says, and I can practically picture the way his shoulders slump. Trent’s not a bad-looking guy, but neither is he the type who commands a room. His asset is a boyish charm that takes clients by surprise. He knows how to work it, too, getting friendly with them in sports bars and at Lakers’ games. Reeling them in with a few beers and the latest player stats.
So the fact that I can actually hear the nervous discomfort in his voice lets me know that whatever he has to say is bad. More than that, I’m positive that this is about the resort, and my brief fantasy that he was calling so I could hold some investor’s hand during a walk-through in Century City has flown completely out the window.
So, yeah, I stand. “Trent,” I demand as I start to pace.
“It’s out,” he says. “One damn leak, and it’s everywhere. ”
I’m almost to the closed cockpit door, and now I turn back, my eyes immediately meeting Jackson’s. He starts to stand, obviously concerned by the look on my face, but I shake my head. “What?” I ask, my voice tense and tight. “What’s out?”
“It was an article in The Business Round-Up,” he says, referring to a small local paper that serves downtown Los Angeles. “I don’t know how they got the story, but it was on their website this morning, and the tabloids picked it up a few hours later, and now it’s pretty much everywhere. ”
“What is?” I repeat. “Come on, Trent, just spit it out. ” But even as I’m talking, I’m hurrying back to my seat, then rummaging in my bag for my tablet so that I can check out the Round-Up myself. I try to get a connection, then remember that we told Grayson not to worry about booting up the wifi—the flight’s only a couple of hours, and we’d plummet headfirst into reality soon enough.
“The article says that the investors are worried. They were already antsy because of Lost Tides,” he says, referring to a competing resort that is being developed in Santa Barbara, just a few hours away from my resort on Santa Cortez. It’s a huge thorn in my side because the developers are keeping the details under wraps in anticipation of a big PR event as they get closer to opening. But I know enough to know that the resort was inspired by my idea for Cortez. And, frankly, that pisses me off. Page 8
Trent clears his throat and continues. “Now they’re saying that if the Cortez resort’s architect is a suspect in a murder, then maybe that’s not the kind of project they want to fund. ”
“Fuck. ”
I’m not sure when I sat back down, but all I know is that I am seated, and Jackson is leaning forward, his expression concerned.
Tell me, he demands silently.
And this time, I do. “It’s out,” I whisper. “It’s leaked. They know you’re a suspect. ” I increase my volume for Trent. “How did this happen?”
“Best guess is some tenacious reporter has a mole in the Beverly Hills PD. If you’re looking to report hot celebrity gossip, that’s the place to flash a little cash and see whose pockets need lining. ”
“Shit. ” I draw a breath and try to stay calm. Beside me, Jackson looks like he could very easily put his fist through the plane’s hull. Since that thought really doesn’t jibe well with my fear of flying, I take one of his hands in my own and squeeze. What I want is to get off the phone. To toss this damn headset across the cabin and climb into Jackson’s lap. To hold tight to him and let him hold tight to me, and simply breathe.
But even that’s not true, because I want so much more. I want his mouth on me. His hands touching me. I want him to make me forget. To erase my fears.
And I want to do the same for him.
But this is not the place for that—a small jet with a thin door between the simple eight-seat cabin and the cockpit.
And, truly, what I fear even more is that Jackson would push me away. Gently, and with a soft touch and a kiss. But effective and p
ainful nonetheless.
Frustrated, I stand again, too antsy to sit still, as Trent says tentatively, “Syl? Are you there? Did I lose you?”
“I’m here. Does Damien know?”
“He knows. ”
At the mention of his half-brother’s name, Jackson rises, too. He brushes his fingers over my shoulder in a silent gesture of support, then goes to the back of the plane. He’s not pacing so much as imploding. As if all of his anger and energy is being sucked into himself. He needs to lash out—I know that he does. And I both fear and welcome the explosion when we finally do get the hell off this plane. He needs to explode, I think. And, dammit, so do I.
“So?” I prompt. “What’s Damien’s take?”
“He’s concerned,” Trent says. “He’s got reason to be. The investors pull out and you’ve got a mess on your hands. He’s trying to do damage control right now. ”
“How?”
“Dallas is in town—the Round-Up actually contacted him. ” Dallas Sykes is one of the resort’s primary investors. And any story that touches on the bad boy heir to the department store empire is bound to go viral. His dating escapades are constant tabloid fodder, and he’s been in the media spotlight since he was a kid. Everything from fights to over-the-top parties to reckless driving, not to mention more than a few times when he disappeared off the planet altogether, presumably holed up with some willing female.
“I should call Damien,” I say.
“No need. He’s already doing the drink-and-soothe routine. I told him I’d call you. ”
“Is Aiden around?”
“I’m the one who spotted the article,” Trent says testily, and I cringe.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything. ” I get why he’s touchy. Trent’s in charge of projects in the Southern California area. By rights, The Resort at Cortez should be his. But since the idea was mine in the first place, Damien put me in as project manager—and I report to Aiden Ward, the VP of Stark Real Estate Development, jumping over Trent entirely.
“Listen, I really do appreciate the heads-up. ”
“Yeah, well, I figured you’d want to get ahead of it. The resort’s already on shaky ground, and I’d hate for you to lose it because of this. It’s bullshit. ”
Lose the resort.
Lose the resort?
With an unpleasant jolt, I realize that I’ve had blinders on. I’ve been so focused on the possibility of Jackson ending up behind bars that it never occurred to me that the resort might slip through my fingers simply because Jackson’s a suspect.
A thick, cold dread swirls inside me. I have done everything humanly possible to get Cortez off the ground. I’ve lived it, breathed it. Risked my heart for it.
I shake my head, vehemently. “No way in hell am I losing the resort. That is not even an option. ” But even as I say the words, I can’t escape a growing terror. Because I can’t control the media, and if the investors think Jackson is toxic, then all of my work just blows away, like so much dandelion fuzz. Page 9