Stark International: Under My Skin Part 3

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 a.s.sistant 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 p.i.s.s 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 a.s.sistant 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 a.s.sistant. "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 f.u.c.ked."

I laugh out loud at that final a.s.sessment, 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 "f.u.c.ked" 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 s.h.i.+t 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.

"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 f.u.c.k 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 h.e.l.l 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 goingand 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."

"s.h.i.+t. f.u.c.k. d.a.m.n." The curses roll off my tongue. I take a deep breath. "Nigel made a statement?"

"Aiden and Damien talked to him about an hour agoI 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 G.o.d, 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 problemsomeone 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 emptyI happen to know that we were the only flight arriving on the property today, and the staff doesn't normally work Sundaysso 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?"

h.e.l.l 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 s.p.a.ces 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 h.e.l.l of a lot s.p.u.n.kier than my five-year-old Nissan, and I hope that it's got enough power to catch up to Jackson.

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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l he's escaping to. Because I know d.a.m.n well that he's not going home. He needs a fighthe 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 f.u.c.k 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 safetythis 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 pa.s.s a cl.u.s.ter of planes anch.o.r.ed 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n thick head of his.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" he demands as I burst out of the Mustang.

But I don't answer him. Instead, I surprise us both by las.h.i.+ng out and slapping him hard across the cheek.

four.

"What the f.u.c.k?"

"You need a fight?" I demand, my voice harsh. My skin feels hot and p.r.i.c.kly. 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."

"Bulls.h.i.+t," 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 f.u.c.k me. Because we had a deal, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if you're going to go off on your own and beat the c.r.a.p out of someone."

"Don't." He lunges toward me, startling me, and I try to take another step back. But there's nowhere to go. I'd parked the Mustang close to the hangar, and now we've reached the metal exterior.

He slams me back against it. The impact reverberates through my body and I'm thrumming with energy. With need. But this isn't about s.e.xnot yet. It's about communication. About getting through to him. Because I am afraidso terribly afraidthat I am losing the man who fought so hard to get me back.

We've walked through fire, he and I, and I can't stand the thought that in the end it will be Robert Cabot Reed who destroys us.

I'm breathing hard, and so is he. His arms are around me, caging me in place. And just then I'm thinking that this moment could go anywhere and that maybe I've made a mistake, because Jackson has a temper and sometimes he really does need to beat the s.h.i.+t out of something, and right now I'm a little scared that something might end up being me.

I watch his face as he forces himself to breathe. As he grabs on to control like a lifeline. "Don't push me, Syl. Not today. Not now."

"Screw that, Jackson. We had a deal. You want to run off and fight? Want to kick the s.h.i.+t out of something? You don't run to the ring, remember? You run to me."

"Not today." His jaw is tight, his voice equally so. He's trying to hold it together, but I am determined to break it. To force the explosion. To make him break through and lash out and to finallyfinallywork through all the s.h.i.+t that has been building up inside him.

"Why not, Jackson? Why not today?"

"Because, G.o.ddammit, I'm not running toward a fight. I'm running away from you."

His words are like a knife, and they slice through me, cold and unexpected. My eyes sting, and I look away, blinking furiously, not wanting him to see that he has hurt me. Because Jackson Steele is the one person in all the world who would never, ever hurt me. He's my warrior. My knight. My G.o.dd.a.m.n protector.

And that's when the truth hits me, as hard as the slap I'd laid upon his cheek. I get it. That's what this is about.

I turn my head so that I am looking at him, though he will not meet my eyes. I lift my hand and cup his cheek. A muscle twitches beneath my palm, and I feel the tightness of his jaw. He's doing everything he can to hold it together even as I'm doing the only thing I can think of to make him let go.

"You're a f.u.c.king idiot," I say gently. "I made you leave me once before because I was trying to protect myself. I'm not letting you leave now because you think you're doing the same thing."

"I'm the idiot?" His voice is low, with a dangerous edge. "You're wrapped up with a man who has a child. A man who might be going to jail. A man who is the reason the project you care most about in the world is going to fall apart, because you're going to lose your architect to a G.o.dd.a.m.n prison."

"You're wrong. You're what I care about most in the world."

He winces, just a little, and I continue on.

"You're scared," I say. "Do you think I don't get that? h.e.l.l, Jackson, I'm f.u.c.king terrified. I can't bear the thought of losing you. And I hate the universe for even threatening to take you from me. And I sure as h.e.l.l couldn't survive you leaving."

He looks at me now, his blue eyes boring straight into mine, and I can see everything, right to the heart of him. Frustration. Rage. Need. And, dammit, I can't just stand there and wait for him to make his choice.

I lunge.

The kiss is wild and hard. A sensual battle that I am determined to win. Teasing him with my tongue. Tormenting him with my teeth. At first his lips are hard, resistant. But then everything s.h.i.+fts and he's claiming, demanding. And the knowledge of this small victory spreads through me, lighting my body with a wild desire that I am determined to see satisfied.

I slide my hand to the back of his head, pulling him closer because I want the kiss deeper. Harder. I want him wild. I want to break him. To push him past this thing that has been keeping us apart. This cold barrier that I couldn't get through.

But I'm getting through now, and that knowledge is the most potent of aphrodisiacs.

He pulls away, and I almost scream in protest. But then I see his face. The heat and power and ferocious need. There's danger, too, and I welcome it.

"Jackson," I whisper. And this time, that is all it takes.

He thrusts me back roughly, slamming me against the corrugated metal. "Is this what you want?" he growls. "You want to be f.u.c.ked? Used? Because you're here and I need it?"

The words are harsh, designed to make me back away. But I hear what he is really sayingBecause I need you. And dear G.o.d, I need him, too.

I look him hard in the eyes. "Yes," I say. "Oh, please, yes."