Stark International: Under My Skin Part 10

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 usgetting 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 a.s.sumed. I had dinner with my old boss, and he mentioned that he'd b.u.mped 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 s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t 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.

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 partic.i.p.ants under wraps, with their early marketing doc.u.ments 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 d.a.m.n 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 compet.i.tion," he says. "Just worry about making Cortez the best it can be. The rest will fall into place."

"a.s.suming 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 s.h.i.+ft the focus from the resort itself to Jackson. But the words slipped outthe 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 bulls.h.i.+t?" he asks as he thrusts his phone into Damien's hand.

"Well, h.e.l.l," Damien says. "Though I can't say that I'm surprised."

I hurry to themand 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 headlineAnother Alcatraz off the California Coast?

I look at Jackson, confused. "What?"

"It's a bulls.h.i.+t editorial. About Reed's murder. The a.s.sault. 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 bulls.h.i.+t. This isn't gossip about Jackson or your relations.h.i.+p 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 evenly. "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"s.h.i.+t."

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 captionDaddy 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 gla.s.ses 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 twitchingall he wanted was to get out of that spotlightbut 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 s.h.i.+t 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.

Their destination was the Millennium Biltmore hotel and this historic bar, which was one of its showpieces, not to mention Jackson's favorite bar in the city. Damien had headed automatically toward a table in the corner, but Jackson had demurred, then led them to the bar. He liked sitting there in the view of the carved wooden angels with the room behind him. He felt at home at the bar, whereas at a table, he felt like a guest subject to the whim of his host.

The thought of whims made him frown. "Do you think she's right?"

"About the saboteur and the Alcatraz article? Probably."

"f.u.c.k." Jackson punctuated that articulate sentiment by tossing back a long swallow of eighteen-year-old Macallan. "We need to know who's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with us. And," he added, keeping his eyes off his brother as he set his gla.s.s back on the bar, "I need to know who really killed Reed."

He turned to find Damien's eyes on him. "Honestly, I thought you did."

Jackson hesitated, then covered the silence with another sip of his scotch. "There's a lot of that going around. I need to know who else wanted that f.u.c.ker dead, and why. It plays to my defense. And, frankly, I'd like to shake that man's hand."

Damien studied him, and Jackson was certain his brother was weighing the truth in Jackson's words. Was this for real? Or was Jackson manufacturing new pieces of the puzzle, so that if the police asked, Damien could honestly say that Jackson asked for help finding the real killer, so surely that killer wasn't him.

He was silent for so long, that Jackson began to fear his brother was going to tell him to f.u.c.k off. "Arnold Pratt," Damien finally said. "He's a private investigator I keep on retainer. He works primarily for the companyRyan sends him all our background checks to handlebut he's done some work personally for me. A few matters that required both digging and finesse. If he has the time, he'll take the job. And if he doesn't have the time, my guess is that for the right fee, he'll make time. Syl has his number. Why didn't she just suggest him?"

"She probably would have. I told her I wanted to talk to you."

"A little brotherly advice?" Damien asked, with a hint of irony.

"Brotherly? I don't know. But you trade in information. And when I need help, I search out the best."

Damien lifted his gla.s.s as if in a toast. "Touche."

"Speaking of brotherly, have you asked Pratt to look into who leaked our relations.h.i.+p?"

"I haven't."

"Any reason why not?" As far as Jackson was concerned, that question and the ident.i.ty of the saboteur were second only to the question of who killed Reed.

Damien tossed back the last of his scotch, then lifted his gla.s.s to signal Phil. "Because I don't need Pratt to find the answer. I already know it. And so, I think, do you."

"I've considered that it might be Jeremiah," Jackson admitted. "But it doesn't make a lot of sense."

"On the contrary. It's the only answer that does make sense. I know I didn't leak it. You say that you didn't, and I'm inclined to believe you."

"Thanks so much."

Damien's mouth twitched, but he continued. "We both know that neither Sylvia nor Nikki said anything."

"There are others," Jackson added. "Ca.s.sidy knows, and so do Jamie and Ryan. But I can't imagine any of them telling."

"The only other person who knows is your mother," Damien said. "And Penny's not in a position to talk to anyone at the moment."

"You know about my mom?" Penelope Steele had developed early onset Alzheimer's ten years ago. She lived now in a facility in Queens, a relatively easy jaunt from Jackson's office in New York. He visited frequently. Most of the time, she had no idea who he was.

"As you said, I like information. You grew up knowing all about my family. I thought it was only fair I learn something about yours."

"You could have just asked." The idea that Damien had been poking around in Jackson's life p.i.s.sed him off. Not that this was a new sensation. He'd experienced the same sense of violation when Damien had found his pet.i.tion to establish parental rights, along with the evidentiary DNA test results confirming that Ronnie was his daughter.

"Now I would. Back when I looked, I didn't trust you. And, frankly, you didn't trust me. I could have asked, but you wouldn't have told."

Jackson didn't answer; Damien was right. Instead, he finished his own drink, lifted his finger to signal to Phil that he should pour a fresh gla.s.s for him as well. As soon as the drink was in front of him, he took a long swallow, savoring it before speaking again. "He chewed me up one side and down the other for coming to work for you. And then he got in my face about telling you the truth. Doesn't that cut against our a.s.sumption?"

"Do you think it does?"

Jackson sighed. "No. I think that Jeremiah Stark has and always will have his own agenda, and trying to second-guess that man is like trying to predict the lottery."

"Glad you get it," Damien said, then he s.h.i.+fted on his stool so that he was facing Jackson more directly. "I want to show you something." He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a few times, then handed the device to Jackson.

"G.o.ddammit." The word burst out the moment he saw the image from last nightJackson, Syl, and Jeremiah on the deck, right about the time that Jackson was telling his father to get the f.u.c.k out off his boat. He didn't even bother to read the caption, just pa.s.sed the phone back to Damien. "Those f.u.c.king p.r.i.c.ks."

Honestly, it was just as well he hadn't seen this picture before he and Damien walked down the hill, because he sincerely doubted he could have kept his temper in check.

He fought a shudder as he remembered what had happened after Jeremiah had left. He'd almost taken Sylvia on deck. Demanded she strip for him. That she stand naked under the stars as he stroked her, touched her, f.u.c.ked her.

His stomach roiled at the thought that she'd come so close to having her privacy violated to the extreme, and he clenched his fists against his harsh and immediate reaction to move out. To stay at a hotel. To tuck tail and run because these lowlifes were messing with him.

f.u.c.k that.