by J. Kenner
“Ollie?”
Ollie works as an associate at Bender Twain, but I can’t imagine why he’s here. I leap to my feet, suddenly panicked. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I haven’t heard a thing. Nikki asked me to come. ”
“Really?”
I must sound as astounded as I feel, because he laughs. “I guess Damien told her you weren’t at the office, and she figured you were here. Worried. So she called me. ”
“That’s incredibly sweet. ” I’m genuinely touched. I like Nikki a lot, and we’ve become friends, but in the grand scheme of things we still don’t know each other that well—the only truly close friend I’ve ever had is Cass. But I think it’s a friendship worth working on, and the simple fact that she sent Ollie to hold my hand tells me that she feels the same way.
“How’s Cass?” he asks. “Has she decided what she’s going to do?”
“She wants to go forward,” I say, referring to Cass’s plan to franchise Totally Tattoo. “I’m sure she’ll call you soon about the next step, but right now she’s in that blissful new relationship stage. Renewed, actually, but why split hairs?”
“Good for her. I hope it sticks. ”
Since I happen to know that his attempts to renew a relationship were less than successful, I change the subject. “I’m having drinks with her and my brother tomorrow night. I’ll tell her you said hi. Maybe that’ll nudge her. ”
“Definitely tell her hello for me, but no need to nudge. She needs to take her time and be sure. ”
“You sound very lawyerly. ”
“I practice in the mirror every morning,” he deadpans, making me laugh.
“You’re looking very lawyerly, too. ” His long hair has been cut short, and his glasses have been replaced by contacts. Basically, Orlando McKee has gone from hippie to hot.
“I decided—well, I decided it was time to grow up a bit. ”
I smile in response, but the truth is that I’ve surpassed my small-talk quota. I turn away from Ollie to stare at the closed door at the end of the hall. The door that leads to the bull pen and the detectives’ offices and an interview room with Jackson in it.
“I’m starting to really get scared. ” My words are so soft that I’m not even sure that Ollie has heard them.
“I know. ” He hooks an arm around my shoulders and I lean against him. “But even if they arrest him, that’s not—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence because the door opens at the end of the hall. For the flash of an instant, my imagination runs wild, and I picture Jackson in an orange jumpsuit, his wrists bound in cuffs.
The image is so vibrant, so horrible, that it propels me to my feet. And when I really do see him—unfettered and striding toward me with his usual confident air—I can’t help myself. I race to him and launch myself into his outstretched arms. Page 34
“You’re here,” he says as Harriet moves away toward Ollie to give us privacy.
“Of course I am. ”
My legs are wrapped around his hips and he’s holding me up by the waist. Now, he releases me, and I slide down his body, relishing the sensation of being with him. Of being able to touch him. Of the world having righted itself.
When my feet are on the floor, I hook my arms around his neck and he bends forward, his forehead pressed to mine.
“How was it?”
“I’m not in a cell. I’m counting it as a win. ”
I frown. “Don’t joke about that. ”
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I’m not joking. ”
I look at his face—at the tension there, at the exhaustion. And worry swirls in my gut. “Oh, god. What do they know?”
He runs his hand over his hair. “Not much. Not yet. ” But then he meets my eyes. “My number on his cell phone. I called him on Halloween before I went to his house. ”
“Oh, god. ” I reach for the wall and then drop down onto the nearby bench. Jackson immediately sits beside me.
“No,” he says. “No. All they know is I called. And as Harriet says, why would I do that if I was going to kill him? Leave an electronic trail? That wouldn’t be smart. ” He tilts my chin up with the tip of his finger. “And we both know I’m smart. ”
I hug myself to ward off a chill, but I nod. He is. Smart enough to double back, create false leads. To plan a murder if he wanted to. Or angry enough to fly off the handle and let all that intelligence fly right out the window. Either way the cops play it, that’s a piece of a much larger puzzle. A piece that I wish didn’t exist at all.
Jackson’s hands twine with my own. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’m a free man right now. Let’s celebrate that, okay, and not the what-ifs?”
I nod, feeling raw and hollow and like I could use a good long cry. I’m overwhelmed, I know. Battered by emotions. But what I want to be is numb.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he tells me again. “I don’t think I could get through this without you. ”
I manage a tremulous smile, because I know that he needs to see it. “You won’t ever have to,” I say, and even as I speak, the horrible, awful reality that has been poking at my subconscious breaks through, and it is all that I can do not to bury my face in his shirt, hold him close, and cry.
Because I have spoken the truth: I will always be there for him.
But if he’s arrested—if he’s convicted—the same won’t be true for me.
I’ll be alone.
And I honestly don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive without Jackson at my side.
“This one is completely impossible,” Rachel says as she hands me an envelope addressed to Damien.
I’ve spent the last hour helping her sort through various pending items that have built up as she’s manned Damien’s desk. I’m glad for the work. Jackson and I had a quick celebratory breakfast on the way to the office, but just because the ax hasn’t fallen doesn’t mean it’s not still poised to do just that. And I can’t spend the day wondering what’s going to happen next.
With Rachel—with the job—I’m forced to focus. And that’s a good thing.
I pull a card from the envelope and see that it’s an invitation to Senator Robertson’s daughter’s wedding, and Senator Robertson is the kind of man with whom conglomerates like Stark International want to stay friendly. Considering the stress in Rachel’s voice, I realize that she knows that. I also know why it’s impossible—Damien will be in China, along with the heads of other multibillion-dollar corporations, to discuss all manner of business with Chinese government officials.
“Should I just decline and send a gift?”
“Yes, but Damien needs to send a personal note, too, explaining that he’ll be out of the country. And,” I add as I remember something, “there’s one more thing. ” I’m standing behind her desk so that we both have a view of my—well, today it’s her—computer monitor. I bend so that I can reach the mouse, then open up the file we keep on Senator Robertson. Then I lean back, smiling with victory as I point at the screen. “There. ”
Rachel skims the article that I’ve copied into the file—a small piece from the Washington Post about the senator’s wife and her involvement in a retired greyhound adoption program. “Check with Damien, of course, but that’s a cause he’ll support. ”
“Send a note to the senator along with a donation for his wife’s cause?” Page 35
“See how good you’re getting at this job?”
She makes a face. “I spent the entire morning rearranging meetings and dealing with Dallas. ”
“Sykes? Or the city?” Cold fingers of worry flicker up my spine.
“The man—no, no, it’s not the resort. ” She hurries to reassure me, and I realize my face must be revealing more than I want it to. “He’s throwing some party in San Diego to celebrate a new store opening and he wants Nikki and Damien to go, but both their schedules are insane, and—”
“Yeah,” I say, putting my hand on her
shoulder. “Believe me, I get it. ”
“Advice?”
“Learn the subtle art of saying no. ”
She scowls.
“Hey, if you want this desk . . . ”
“If we weren’t at work, I’d have to call you a nasty name. ” She smiles brightly. “But I’m at work and on my best behavior, so I’ll just leave that to your imagination. ”
I laugh, genuinely amused. The more time I spend with her, the more I like Rachel, and I’m glad that she’ll be taking over for me when I move full-time to the real estate department. If I move full-time, I amend. That’s not happening until the resort happens—on time, on budget, and with all the other trappings of success. But with land mines, scandalous photos, hacked emails, and murder trials, I’m having to fight harder and harder to get my resort off the ground—all at a time when I’m horribly distracted.
“So how are you doing?” Rachel asks, and I jump, realizing that I’d slid off into my own little world of anxiety. “I mean, the two of you, and all this stuff with Jackson’s arrest. Are you okay?”
I nod. I’m not okay, of course. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m terrified that Jackson will be taken away from me. I’m terrified of what it will mean if he is. Of what it will mean for me. For Ronnie.
Jackson and I haven’t talked about that since the one vague conversation on the airport tarmac. And that is scaring me, too. That uncertainty. If he goes to jail, do I become Aunt Sylvia? Do I become Mommy?
And if so, what do I do then? How the hell am I supposed to cope without him?
I give myself a solid mental shake, because those are the kinds of things that I’m not letting stay in my head. That way lies madness. Or at the very least, bone-deep terror.
So instead, I force a smile that I am certain looks lame. “It’s been hard. But we’re good. ” I lift a shoulder. Just one more martyr making it through the day.
“Oh, Syl. ” Rachel’s voice is full of genuine pity, and I really do appreciate that she cares.
I glance down at the floor, as if I can see through the carpet and concrete to where Jackson sits many floors below in his office, working at his drafting table. “The work helps, you know? It keeps him sane. ”
“You, too,” she says, and I have to nod. There are only two things that pull me out of the path of the nightmare that is barreling down on us—getting lost in Jackson and getting lost in my work.
“How about you and Trent?” I ask, because I want to change the subject. Her cheeks turn a little pink, and I grin. “Did you guys have a hot weekend in Santa Barbara?”
The pink fades and her mouth turns down and I want to kick myself.
“Santa Barbara?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I just assumed. I had dinner with my old boss, and he mentioned that he’d bumped into Trent in Santa Barbara. And I know you guys are going out, so I thought . . . ” I trail off with a shrug and a weak smile, a string of shit, shit, shit running through my head.
“Nope,” she says, her voice just a little thin and possibly a little hurt. “But maybe he was scoping out a place for a wild weekend. ”
“Probably. Or more likely it had nothing to do with anything. Maybe he has family there. ”
Her head tilts to the side. “Actually, I think he does. ” She nods firmly, as if she’s just solved a sticky problem and is ready to put it away. But there’s still a haunted look in her eyes, and I have a feeling that I may have just opened a nasty can of worms for Trent.
Honestly, considering how discreet I can be about Damien’s personal business, you’d think I would know how not to open my mouth and insert my foot.
Damien’s door opens and he steps out, and I swear I want to kiss him just for breaking up the moment. “Rachel, I’m going to meet Aiden at the Stark Plaza site before my meeting with Dallas. ”
I frown. “Should I come? Are you talking about his investment?”
“Not at this meeting, no. Dallas is still on board. ” He meets my eyes. “I’m sorry, Syl, but Tarrant Properties pulled out. I don’t have confirmation, but I think they’ve been courted by Lost Tides,” he adds, referring to the competing Santa Barbara resort that is my nemesis. Page 36
His voice is tight, reflecting my own coiling anger.
“Do you know who made the overture?” The developers of Lost Tides have been playing PR games, keeping the participants under wraps, with their early marketing documents claiming that it’s the resort that matters, not the names behind it.
To me, all that means is that they don’t have a name as big as Jackson’s.
Damien shakes his head. “Once they start actively signing investors, they’ll have to be more transparent. ”
“Good,” I say. Whoever started that damn resort copied the idea from me. Even if I can’t stop them, I want to know who it is I hate.
Damien’s expression is knowing. “Don’t worry about the competition,” he says. “Just worry about making Cortez the best it can be. The rest will fall into place. ”
“Assuming we don’t lose all our investors. ”
“No one else has bolted. ”
“But there’s no arrest yet. ” I don’t mean to say that. I don’t mean to shift the focus from the resort itself to Jackson. But the words slipped out—the worry that Jackson is going to end up behind bars is just too close to the surface with me.
“And if it comes to that, we’ll deal with it, too,” Damien says gently. “We’ll meet for an update after my lunch. ”
I nod, and he’s heading toward the elevator when the doors open and Jackson bursts out. “Have you seen the latest bullshit?” he asks as he thrusts his phone into Damien’s hand.
“Well, hell,” Damien says. “Though I can’t say that I’m surprised. ”
I hurry to them—and even Rachel abandons the desk to join us. I stand between the men, my hand on Jackson’s shoulder so I can rise up on my toes to see better.
All I can read is the headline—Another Alcatraz off the California Coast?
I look at Jackson, confused. “What—?”
“It’s a bullshit editorial. About Reed’s murder. The assault. And my alleged involvement in both of those and the Cortez project. And then, to milk the absurdity properly, the writer pulls in Damien, too. ”
“A murderous dynamic duo,” Damien reads, his mouth curving down with a frown before he looks up at Jackson. “You can be Robin. And I’m not wearing a cape. ”
I take the phone from Damien and start to skim.
“It’s not funny,” Jackson says.
“No. It’s not,” Damien says. “But it’s also not unexpected. ”
I’m barely listening to the two of them. Instead, my stomach is twisting more and more as I read. “This is another dig on the project,” I say. I look at both men in turn. “Like the land mine bullshit. This isn’t gossip about Jackson or your relationship or Reed or any of it. This is about shutting down Cortez. A tainted island,” I read. “Bathed in blood and tragedy. How much do you want to bet that every one of the investors will get this in their inbox?”
I see Jackson and Damien exchange glances. “She’s right,” Damien says.
A burst of fury cuts through me. “I swear I will strangle whoever is behind this. ”
Jackson reaches over and takes my hand, and I find the change in our positions both comforting and amusing. Usually I’m the one cooling his temper.
I glance at him, and see that he is watching Damien. “Listen,” he says, as he glances at his watch. “How’s the rest of your afternoon? Can I buy you a drink at happy hour?”
For a moment, I’m confused. Then I remember Jackson’s comment about doing his own investigation into Reed’s killer, and asking Damien for help. Unfortunately, I happen to know that Damien’s heading out to see Aiden, and after that his schedule is jam-packed late into the night, so that ball isn’t going to start rolling today.
“I’m busy,” he says evenl
y. “But it’s nothing that can’t be rescheduled. Rachel,” he adds, turning toward her desk, “Take care of it for me. ”
“Of course, sir,” she says, as Jackson shoots me a smug grin. My eyes, I know, are wide with surprise.
I’m still gaping as the two of them step onto the elevator, and when the doors shut, Rachel lets out a long sigh.
I laugh. “It’s not that bad. Just call everyone and tell them something came up. With a man in Damien’s position, it’s hardly unexpected. ”
“Oh, that’s not it,” she says. “It’s this. ” She taps her monitor and I hurry around her desk to stand behind her, dread building as I do.
The moment I see the screen, I exhale, my breath forming a single word—“Shit. ” Page 37
I’m looking at a scene from last night on the boat. It’s an image of the three of us, with me standing just behind Jackson, who is looking at his father with an expression of calm, contained fury. His stance conveys power and control, and though this must have been taken by one of the paparazzi with a long lens, the shot is so clear that the scar that bisects Jackson’s left eyebrow is in sharp focus.
The caption—Daddy Trouble for the Man of Steele?—is little more than a snarky irritation. But the photo itself scares me, and not just because of how closely the paparazzi have crept in, managing to take shots of conversations that should have been private.
No, what scares me is what I see in the image. What the entire world can see now.
Because the camera has captured a man who goes after what he wants, even if that means walking into battle. A man who will protect what is his. A man who will kill if necessary.
A man who, I think, has done just that.
And now I fear that the whole world knows it, too.
ten
Phil, the bartender at the Gallery Bar, slid two glasses of scotch in front of Jackson and Damien. “Anything else, Mr. Steele?”
“Thanks, no. We’re good. ”
The bartender hesitated, then nodded. “Well, if you change your mind,” he offered, before moving on to take care of a couple sitting close together at the far end of the long, polished granite bar. Jackson hid a smile. He’d been served by Phil a few times now, and he understood that the young man’s simple comment was more than just an offer of another drink. It was a sign of support as Jackson navigated the rough seas of the tabloid world.
“Friend of yours?”
“No, but he’s good at his job, discreet, and seems to be a good judge of character. He likes me, after all. ”
Damien laughed, then took a sip of his drink. They’d left the Tower together, then ignored the calls and questions from the flock of paparazzi that had taken to lingering on the grounds in front of the building.
Questions and camera clicks had followed them as they walked down the hill together. Jackson had felt his nerves twitching—all he wanted was to get out of that spotlight—but he had to admire the way his brother had blinders on, ignoring the shouted questions and demands for photos even as he continued to chat with Jackson as they walked. Damien had put up with this shit for a long time, and now that Jackson understood what it was like to dodge the press, his respect for the brother he was only just getting to know grew even more.