by J. Kenner
“I didn’t mean—” Trent begins.
“No. ” The word bursts out of me, red and ripe with panic.
“Syl. ” Jackson’s voice is soft and firm. “Tell him it’s time to get off the phone. We’ll be back in LA soon. You are not losing this resort. Don’t even think it. ”
Over the headset, I hear Trent clear his throat. “Syl?”
“I should go,” I say robotically.
“Yeah, well, there’s one more thing. It’s not only the Round-Up that’s got this. They were just the first. ”
“I know. You said. ”
“Yeah, but what I mean is that they’re not just repeating that he’s a suspect. They’re speculating about motive and all that shit. ”
My stomach twists and I immediately reach for Jackson’s hand. “Motive?” I fight the urge to bite my lower lip.
“The movie. The assault. Pretty much what you’d expect,” he says, and I can practically hear him cringing. Honestly, I feel like cringing, too. Beside me, Jackson uses his left hand to fumble my tablet out of the seat pocket. He taps it, then curses when a signal doesn’t magically appear.
“Listen, you can read it yourself as soon as you hit the ground, and Damien said to tell you that your meeting tonight will cover everything. ”
“Right. Fine. Sure. ”
“Are you okay?”
No. Not by a long shot. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Thanks. Thanks for watching my back. ”
There is a pause, and then he says softly, his voice full of rough emotion, “What did you think, Sylvia? That I’d throw you to the wolves?”
“I, no—” I begin, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already hung up.
“Tell me,” Jackson says, and I sum up the Round-Up article and tell him about Dallas.
“Fuck. ” The curse is heartfelt, and I silently second it. “And the rest? You said there was talk about motive. ”
“That’s all I know. The movie. The assault. That’s all Trent said. That, and the story’s spreading. ” I press my palm gently against his leg. “We’ll get through this,” I say. “The resort. The trial. All of it. ”
I want him to repeat the words back to me. To press his hand over mine and gently squeeze my fingers. I want him to put his arm around me and pull me close and tell me that no matter what, we are in this together. I want to feel closer to him, but what I want apparently doesn’t matter, because when Jackson lifts his head and faces me, it suddenly seems as if I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope and things that should be close are suddenly very, very far away.
“Jackson?” His name is a whisper, but also a plea. And for a moment it goes unanswered. He sits there, stiff and distant, his expression hard, his eyes like arctic ice. A riffle of panic rises through me, and I actually clutch the armrests tight in defense against it. He’s said nothing—done nothing—and yet I know with absolute certainty that Jackson is moving inexorably away from me. And I neither understand it nor know how to stop it.
I am about to cry out his name again, but then his shoulders sag and his posture relaxes. He glances at me, and I go weak with relief when I see that the ice in his eyes has melted.
He raises his hands, then drags his fingers through his hair as he bends forward so that his elbows are on his knees and his hands are on his head. “Christ, Syl, I’ve screwed everything up. ”
I freeze, just a little, as one possible meaning of his words slaps me hard across the face. Does he mean that he killed Reed?
And if so, where does that leave us?
I reach to press my hand against his shoulder, needing that physical contact almost as much as I need oxygen.
I don’t make it.
Instead, in the next second, I’m screaming and clutching at the armrest as the tin can we are flying in bounces as if we are on a trampoline. My tote, which had been on the floor by my feet, goes airborne, smashes against the ceiling, then falls to the floor, its acrobatics punctuated by my own shrill screams.
The sound of my voice is broken by a harsh crackling. It’s the intercom, and Grayson is speaking. “Sorry about that,” he says as the plane levels out. “We hit one hell of an air pocket on descent, but everything’s fine and we’ll be on the ground in about fifteen minutes. ”
When he’s finished, I gasp, then realize that I’ve been holding my breath. I try to let go of the armrest, but my hand is stuck fast. I’m still so flustered by our near-death experience, that for a moment I’m genuinely confused. Then rational thought returns, along with the realization that Jackson is holding tight to my hand. His thumb is gently stroking the back of my wrist, and he’s murmuring softly to me. “It’s okay, Syl. It’s okay. ” Page 10
I draw in a shuddering breath, so full of relief and hope that my head feels light. “It’s okay,” he repeats as I turn and meet his eyes. Gently, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers. “It’s better now. ”
I sigh and nod, my heart still beating a wild rhythm in my chest.
He’s comforting me, yes, and god knows I need it.
But that doesn’t mean I believe him.
three
“Have you heard from Mr. Stark?” I’m surfing social media sites while I talk with Rachel Peters, Damien’s weekend assistant. At the same time, I’m walking across the tarmac in front of Hangar J, one of Stark International’s private hangars in the north field of the Santa Monica airport.
The company actually has ten hangars, as well as the Rec Room, which is what we call the large, nondescript building that houses the flight crews’ offices, a kitchen and dining area, a well-stocked bar available to incoming passengers and crew, a huge recreation area with a pool table and giant television, and two private sleeping chambers that the crew has access to on an as-needed basis.
I’m heading that way now, a few minutes behind Jackson, who took off with Darryl on the promise of a drink. “It’s almost happy hour,” Darryl had said. “And frankly¸ you look like you could use one. ”
Since I needed to make this call, I promised to follow, and then walked more slowly as I did my multitasking thing. I want time to scope out the social media flurry before I talk with Jackson. Because frankly, I think we both need to be prepared for the storm that’s about to pummel us.
“I haven’t heard a word from him,” Rachel says in response to my question.
My work on The Resort at Cortez has taken me off Damien’s desk more and more frequently, and as a result Rachel’s weekend gig has spilled over into the week more than we’d initially expected. She’s doing a good job, though, and Damien has made clear that I’m supposed to be grooming her to take over my responsibilities if and when I move to a full-time management position in the real estate division.
Since that is absolutely my goal, I’m all about the training. And the most important thing Rachel needs to realize is that you can’t be Damien’s assistant and not have your finger on the pulse of what’s going on elsewhere in the company. Not have it and keep the job, anyway.
Which is why I prompt her with, “You haven’t heard a word, but . . . ”
“But,” she says, following my lead, “Dallas called about fifteen minutes ago asking if I could book him the suite at the Century Plaza. ”
“Did he? And what does that tell you?” I know what it tells me, and I mentally cross my fingers that Rachel understands, too.
“That he’s not pulling out. At least not yet. And even if he is thinking about pulling out, he hasn’t told Mr. Stark as much. But honestly, I think he’s in for the long haul. Because taking advantage of Mr. Stark’s hospitality and then cutting off the investment funds would only piss Mr. Stark off. And even a man like Dallas Sykes doesn’t want to be on Damien Stark’s bad side. ”
“Not bad,” I say. “What else?”
“Well, the rest is a bit more dicey. I may be completely off base. ”
“That’s the job, Rachel. A doormat assistant who can
only do exactly what Mr. Stark tells her is no use at all. ”
“Right. Well, I don’t think that Dallas is a very good barometer. About what the rest of the investors will do, I mean. ” Though her words are statements, her voice rises at the end, as if she’s asking a question.
“Okay,” I say, biting back a smile as I recall how nervous I was when I took over as Damien’s primary assistant. “Why’s that?”
“It’s just that he’s such a wild card. A tabloid fodder bad boy, you know? Which means the other investors might still pull out, especially in light of everything that happened today. Which means we’re still fucked. ”
I laugh out loud at that final assessment, and she sucks in air on the other end of the line.
“I so wouldn’t have said it that way to Mr. Stark. ”
“It’s okay,” I promise. “I get it. ” And frankly “fucked” pretty much sums it up.
I’ve got my earbuds in so I’ve been able to look at the web browser on my phone as we talk. And while I haven’t scrolled down to read any of the actual articles, I’ve seen enough to know that Trent is right. This shit is everywhere. It’s all doom and gloom, with everyone predicting that the investors are toast and the resort is doomed. And I’m certain that Jackson has seen it by now. Page 11
“Do you need me to send you Nigel’s statement?”
“Nigel?” I repeat. I only know one Nigel. He’s a friend of Damien’s who works at the Pentagon and was a helpful contact earlier in the year when Stark Vacation Properties purchased Santa Cortez island, where the resort is being built. “Nigel Galway?”
“About the land mines. ”
I come to a dead stop on the tarmac. “Rachel, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Trent didn’t tell you?”
“Trent told me about the leaks about Jackson. About the speculation on motive. If you’re referring to a metaphorical land mine, I’m right there with you. But otherwise, I need you to tell me what the hell we’re talking about. ” I’m speaking very slowly and very distinctly.
My stomach is tight and my skin is clammy, and I have the very unpleasant feeling that I know where this is going—and it’s not going anywhere good.
“The investors all got emails saying that Santa Cortez was seeded with land mines. Part of the military training operations. ”
“Shit. Fuck. Damn. ” The curses roll off my tongue. I take a deep breath. “Nigel made a statement?”
“Aiden and Damien talked to him about an hour ago—I can’t believe Trent didn’t tell you. I guess he figured it’s been handled. And it has. Really. I mean, there might be blowback, but—”
“I swear to god, Rachel, just back up and tell me what happened. ”
She does. Finally. Apparently the investors received a leaked copy of a Pentagon memo proposing to bury land mines on Santa Cortez island back when it was being used as a naval training facility. That proposal was rejected, and no mines were ever buried on the island, a fact which Nigel has put to paper and which Damien has relayed to the investors.
On the whole, it’s a minor blip, which was easily resolved.
But it’s a blip that’s indicative of a bigger problem—someone is still messing with my resort. And they really show no signs of stopping.
Since about the time Jackson came on board, The Resort at Cortez has been plagued with strange incidents. Security footage leaked to the press. Private emails taken viral. Nuisances, mostly. But troublesome enough that they’ve eaten into my time and into the investors’ confidence.
I’d thought that they were over.
Apparently, I’d been wrong.
I tell Rachel to forward me Nigel’s statement so that I’ll be up to speed, then I end the call and pick up my pace, both because I now have energy to burn, and because I want to catch up to Jackson.
As soon as I step through the doors of the Rec Room, I stop and scan the interior for him. The room is essentially empty—I happen to know that we were the only flight arriving on the property today, and the staff doesn’t normally work Sundays—so I expect to find him easily enough. But while Darryl is cooling his heels at the bar, there is no sign of Jackson.
“Is he in the restroom?”
Darryl looks up as I approach. He’s a thin man with a hangdog face that makes him look older than his twenty-eight years and perpetually sleepy. I know it’s an illusion; you only need to look at those sharp gray eyes to see that Darryl is as competent as they come, and I fully expect that he’ll inherit Grayson’s job one day.
“He just left. Asked if I could drive you home. Said he needed to take care of a few things before his meeting tonight. ” He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he studies my face. “I’m guessing that’s a problem?”
Hell yes, that’s a problem, but all I say is, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll use one of the company cars. I’ve got a few errands to take care of myself. ”
I really want to run, but I don’t want to reveal that I’m worried. So I calmly head behind the bar to the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of Perrier. Then I hitch my tote over my shoulder, grab my rolling bag, which Darryl has left by the side door, and walk slowly out of the room.
Once I’m out, though, I practically sprint around the corner to the row of covered parking spaces that abut the back of this building. These are cars that Stark International keeps for the use of clients, investors, consultants, and the like who arrive at this airport. I’m totally mangling company policy by snagging one for my personal use, but at the moment, I don’t much care.
Jackson’s been playing emotional hide-and-seek with me ever since the cops showed up in Santa Fe, and now he’s taken that to the next level.
Well, too bad for him that’s not a game I’m in the mood to play.
A lockbox is mounted to the side of the building, and I punch in the code, then grab the keys for a bright yellow Mustang. I hurry over to it and fire up the engine, gratified by the way the motor purrs as I back it out. It’s a responsive car, a hell of a lot spunkier than my five-year-old Nissan, and I hope that it’s got enough power to catch up to Jackson. Page 12
He can’t really lay on the gas until he’s off airport property, but I’m more than willing to break the rules and do exactly that. I hope he hasn’t passed the gates, because I’d never find him on the city streets. But surely he hasn’t been gone that long. Has he?
There’s a single road that winds its way through this Stark-operated section of the airport, and I’m certain that is Jackson’s path. But I know how to cut across on the service feeder that runs behind the Stark hangars and, hopefully, catch up with him by Hangar C, which is where the main road and the feeder converge.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do then, but I’m not above tailing him all the way to wherever the hell he’s escaping to. Because I know damn well that he’s not going home. He needs a fight—he needs to lash out. He needs to pummel the world into submission, until the universe rights itself again.
What he doesn’t seem to need is me, and the thought that he’s not just running from me but actually escaping out the goddamn back door makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. Fortunately, my anger has overshadowed that emotion. I’m fired up, riled by my fury. I’ll melt down later; right now, all I want is to find him, to shake him, and to tell him to get the fuck over it. Because he’s got enough problems right now, and dammit, I’m not one of them.
My temper has been rising with my thoughts and I realize that I’ve pushed the car up to almost ninety, which is completely forbidden on airport property.
I press harder, edging the speedometer up even more. I’m not worried about safety—this part of the airport is primarily used for storage of planes and parts, and even during the week there are rarely people around. But even if it were bustling, I’d still floor it. Because right now, the rules are the last thing on my mind. My descent into anarchy is rewarded when I pass a cluster of planes anc
hored on the tarmac just past Hangar D. They are on my right, and just beyond them I see the black streak that is Jackson’s Porsche.
I’m even with him, maybe just a little bit ahead, and I floor it, barely even slowing when I reach Hangar C and make the sharp right turn to take me up the building’s north edge, which will put me perpendicular to him right about the time he’s about to pass the hangar.
I pound on the steering wheel, as if that will force the car to go faster, and Jackson’s black Porsche comes into view on my right the moment I’m clear of the hangar. I slam on the brakes, bringing me to a dead stop in his path, with just enough room for him to hit the brakes.
I cringe as his tires squeal, and too late I realize that the consequences will be very bad if he hits me. Not just injury to me, but damage to his Porsche.
And that really won’t sit well with Jackson.
But it’s not the Porsche I have to worry about. He’s brought it to a stop mere inches from the Mustang, and he’s out of it and at my door so quickly it makes me gasp. His palm slams down hard on the roof and I jump, then have to fight the urge to lock the door and stay safe inside.
But this isn’t about being safe.
This is about getting into that goddamn thick head of his.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demands as I burst out of the Mustang.
But I don’t answer him. Instead, I surprise us both by lashing out and slapping him hard across the cheek.
four
“What the fuck?”
“You need a fight?” I demand, my voice harsh. My skin feels hot and prickly. I’m walking on dangerous ground, and I know it, but I can’t go back now. “You need to hit something? To lash out? I told you once, Jackson, and I meant it. Whatever you need. ”
“I need to be alone. ”
“Bullshit,” I say, even as I raise my hand to hit him again.
He catches my wrist, then twists, so I have no choice but to move where he wants me to go. Now it’s his back that is against the car, and I’m standing with nothing to support me except Jackson’s hand holding me up.
He releases me, backs away. Then slowly walks toward me, stalking me. His eyes are feral. Wild. And his face is all hard lines and angles, dangerous and edgy. The hint of copper in his coal black hair flashes like fire, a sharp contrast to the cold, hard blue of his eyes.
I lick my lips, then swallow as I take a corresponding step back. Then another and another as he just keeps coming.
“What kind of game are you playing, Syl?” His voice is a tight coil.
“Yours. ” I draw in a breath. “Dammit, Jackson. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you really believe I’d let you push me away? Tell me,” I demand. “Talk to me. Or if you won’t do that, then fuck me. Because we had a deal, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to go off on your own and beat the crap out of someone. ” Page 13