Stark International: Under My Skin Part 6

"Trust me," Harriet says. "People kill for the stupidest of reasons. The police know that, and they'll push. And who knows what they'll uncover if they investigate multiple angles." She looks hard at Jackson. "So if there's any other possible motive out there, I need to know about it now. Something pops out later and surprises me, it can destroy your entire case. I want you to be very clear about that."

I sit perfectly still, but I'm terrified that the room can hear my heart, because it's about to pound out of my chest. I don't look at Jackson, but I'm certain he's thinking the same thing. The photos of me. Reed threatened to expose them if I didn't get Jackson to agree to the movie.

And, yeah, that's definitely motive.

But all Jackson says is, "That's it. Nothing else."

I release a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. He's still protecting me. Even though this secret could land him behind bars, he's still protecting me.

Am I really such a coward that I will let him do that?

"All right," Harriet says. "Let's move on to"

"There's more." My whisper is so soft that the words are barely audible. I keep my eyes on the table, not on Jackson.

"I'm sorry, Sylvia?" I look up to see Charles peering at me. "I couldn't hear you."

I draw in a deep breath and squeeze my hands into fists.

"Sylvia." Jackson's voice is hard. Demanding.

I look at him, hoping he can see the apology in my eyes. Then I turn my attention back to Harriet and Charles.

"He was blackmailing me." I'm no longer whispering. I'm saying it flat out. "Reed. He had photos. I used to model for him andwellsome of them were explicit. II wouldn't want them coming out. I" I swallow. "I'm not sure I could handle that at all."

Very slowly, Harriet puts her notes on the table. "I see."

I turn just enough to see Jackson. To see the tiny shake of his head and the pain in his eyes. But I continue. "He said he'd release them if I didn't convince Jackson to quit trying to block the movie."

Charles and Harriet exchange glances.

"Well," Harriet says. "You're right. That definitely goes to motive."

I swallow. I know that she is right.

"Do you have these photos?" Charles asks.

"She doesn't." Jackson's voice rings firm. "We burned the ones he sent to her." That's a lie, but since I don't think it mattersand since I really don't want them to see the photosI don't challenge him.

"So presumably there are still copies?" Harriet asks. "Unless whoever killed Reed took them?"

I shudder, but nod.

"Anyone else know about this?" she asks.

"No." I blurt the word out before Jackson can mention my dad or Ca.s.s. I want the attorneys to know about the blackmail because that matters to Jackson, but I can't bear the thought of wrapping my dad up with us like that. "And pleaseplease don't let it leave this room."

This time, I look to Damien, who nods once, and I know that he understands what I am asking, and why it is so important to me that he keep this secret, even from Nikki.

When she speaks, Harriet's voice is gentle. "This isn't information we have to turn over. And with any luck, Reed buried his copies of the photos in his backyard under a rosebush and no one will ever find them. But thank you for telling us. It really does help Jackson's defense."

I nod. I know. Lord knows I didn't have any other reason for sharing.

The rest of the meeting dissolves into task a.s.signments and scheduling, and as soon as Jackson has worked out when he will meet Harriet tomorrow so they can drive together to the police department, he and I take our leave.

I can tell he's tense as we walk toward the reception area, and when he doesn't take my hand, I know that the tension is more about me than the meeting in general.

I sigh, and when I'm certain that we're far enough down the corridor to avoid being overheard, I say softly, "I had to."

"The h.e.l.l you did." There's a tightness in his voice. Maybe anger. Maybe sadness. I'm really not sure. "I told you I would protect your secret."

"Jackson"

He whirls on me. "No. G.o.ddammit, Syl. You should have waited. It might not even come out. And we could have dealt with it if the police found the originals."

"I can't be the reason this goes south for you, Jackson. Don't you get that? I love that you want to protect me, but right now it's my turn to protect you."

"f.u.c.k." He turns violently, and it's only when he smacks his fist against his own palm that I realize he's looking for something to hit.

"Jacks" I begin, but my word is cut short by the way he grabs me and drags me to him. His mouth closes hard over mine, and he holds me by my wrist pressed against my spine, my arm twisting uncomfortably. He pulls me up against him, our bodies pressed hard together.

I can feel him, hot and hard against me. It's not a kiss of pa.s.sion, but of claiming. Of demand. And when he backs away from me, gasping, his eyes are hard. And when he speaks, there is danger in his voice. "Do you think I don't understand what it does to you? Even thinking about what he did to you? About how much you gave up to even tell them that it happened?"

I press my lips together and nod. Because it had been hard. But it would have been a h.e.l.l of a lot harder before Jackson was in my life, and I tell him that. "You've made me stronger, Jackson. Don't you get that? I could tell them because of you. Because I know that if it gets badif the nightmares creep upthat you're there to help me fight them back."

My throat is thick with unshed tears. "As for what I gave upwell, I'll be giving up a h.e.l.l of a lot more if I lose you. And I'll do whatever it takes to not let that happen."

"You shouldn't have to protect me." He is still holding me fast, but his voice has lost its edge. "I'm the one who sucked you into this."

I only shake my head. I am breathing hard, aroused by the tension crackling between us. By his pa.s.sionate need to protect me. And, yes, by the hard length of his body pressed so enticingly against mine.

Finally, I force myself to speak. "We're in this together, Jackson. And I want to keep you out of jail as much as you do. Because I love you, dammit, and I can't bear the thought of losing you. But also because I need you to finish my d.a.m.n resort."

I stare at him, perfectly serious. And the b.a.s.t.a.r.d bursts out laughing.

"Oh, baby." He releases my arm, and this time when he kisses my lips there is such tender sweetness that I go a little limp.

"I can't lose it," I say. "And I can't lose you. So, yeah. If I can help you, I will. And if that p.i.s.ses you off, then that's just too d.a.m.n bad."

We're in the reception area. A wall of windows exposes the twinkling lights of the city and the ocean beyond.

He looks at me, his expression soft. Calm. He nods once. Just a simple incline of his head, but I see the apology in it.

I sigh, then walk to the window and press my palm to the gla.s.s. It's easy to see the line where the city meets the impenetrable depths of the ocean. But beyond that ribbon of black, I see the faint, twinkling lights of Catalina Island. And beyond that, unseen, is Santa Cortez.

Jackson comes up behind me and very gently reaches around to lay his hand atop mine. "We're not losing it."

I want to believe him, but I can't deny that I'm still scared. Scared of losing my island. Of losing him. Of having everything I've worked so hard forthat means so much to meripped away.

But just knowing that he understands me so wellthat he can see my face and read the direction of my thoughtscomforts me.

We ride the elevator down in silence, holding hands. I'm exhausted, both mentally and physically. It's been a very, very long day, and a hard one. And ending it on this meeting hasn't made it easier. There is no certainty for me. Nothing I can look at and say, yes, this is how it will end because no other result is possible.

I turn to him, knowing that he might not tell me. Knowing that I shouldn't even ask. But I'm grappling here, searching for something to hang on to. Something good to hold close. Something bad to fight against. Something. Because this uncertainty is killing me.

"I need to know," I finally say. "I need to know if you killed him."

Jackson looks at me, and for the first time I cannot read the expression in his eyes. For a moment, I'm afraid that he will argue. That he'll cite the rules and his attorneys' instructions. But then he simply sighs and shakes his head.

"I wanted to. Christ, I wanted to so much I could taste it." He draws a deep breath, then drags his fingers through his hair. "But no," he finally says, though he doesn't quite meet my eyes. "I didn't."

I nod, but I don't feel better. On the contrary, I feel strangely disappointed, as if by not killing Reed, Jackson has failed me in some perverted way. More than that, I'm not certain that I even believe what he has said.

In the end, though, it doesn't matter, and I s.h.i.+ver as I dig deep and acknowledge the real core of my lingering fearit's that even Jackson, a man to whom control is everything, is helpless. Because guilt or innocence doesn't really matter. It's not about reality. It's about evidence and motive and judges and juries. Twelve people who have their own beliefs and biases. And no matter how much I want to believe in the system, I can't quite seem to manage.

six.

I'm s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around on my phone when Jackson turns from Century Park East onto Santa Monica Boulevard. So it's not until he makes another turn in relatively short order that I look up, because unless traffic is a mess and he's searching for a shortcut, it should be one straight shot to the 405 and then down to the marina.

But there is no eighteen-car pileup. It's just Jackson, who for some reason is not only heading away from the beach but is now steering us into Beverly Hills.

"Are we taking the scenic route?"

"Something like that." He keeps his eyes on the road as he speaks, and while there's nothing inherently odd about that, I can't ignore the chill that flickers up my spine, making the hairs at the nape of my neck p.r.i.c.kle.

I'm about to say somethingto ask just what exactly is he doingwhen he makes a left turn. I see the house that dominates the end of the block, and the answer to that question becomes blazingly, horribly, obviously clear.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" I demand. "s.h.i.+t, Jackson, anyone could be watching."

"I just want to see it." He grips the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white. I'm looking at his profile, and his jaw is firm, but a muscle in his cheek twitches. He's trying to hold it inanger, fear, all of it. And dammit, this is not the place he needs to be.

"Jackson, I mean it. We should get out of here."

"It's a crime to drive by the house of a dead man? A dead man who f.u.c.ked with my life? Who threatened my girlfriend? Who's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with me even now that he's in the grave?"

"A crime?" I repeat, my voice rising. "I don't know. Is stupidity a crime?"

For the first time, he turns to me, his motion sharp and quick, and I see the fire of temper light his eyes.

I sit up straighter, because I know that I am right, and I am not backing down. "It's not a crime, but driving past the house of the man you're accused of killing just screams boneheaded to me. Especially when we already know you were here the day of the murderand that they just might be taking you into custody tomorrow." My voice breaks a little, telegraphing my fear.

"They're either going to arrest me or they won't." His voice is flat. "Where I drive today isn't going to change anything."

He's right. I know he's right. But that doesn't change the fact that I want to lash out at him. To pound some sense into him. Or maybe I just want to kick and scream and throw a tantrum, because nothing is going the way I want it to right now, and I hate this sensation of staring down a track at the headlight of an oncoming train. I force myself to breathe. To just breathe as I try to keep my s.h.i.+t together, if for no other reason than I need to be strong for Jackson.

Finally, Jackson puts the car in gear and starts to drive. He's silent at first, but after a few blocks, he pulls over and sighs deeply, his attention entirely on the house that faces us from the lot at the end of this cul-de-sac.

"They're on it, you know," I say gently. "Harriet's team is going to find out who really did this."

Jackson's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I know. If her team can bring in other viable suspects, it increases reasonable doubt. It's just that . . ." But he doesn't finish the sentence. Instead he trails off with a shake of his head, then leans back and closes his eyes in what looks like an expression of complete exhaustion.

A knot of fear tightens in my stomach. "Jackson" But like him, I don't finish my thought. What am I supposed to say? Are you scared they won't find anyone else because you're the one who did it? Or maybe, I hope you killed him because the b.a.s.t.a.r.d deserved it, but at the same time I'm terrified I'm going to lose you?

"Jackson," I begin again, but once more I lose the words.

This time, he takes my hand. "Oh, baby, it's okay. I'm okay." He hesitates, his eyes on me, as if he is feeling out my mood. "I just hate not being the one calling the shots. h.e.l.l," he adds, his mouth quirking up into the slightest hint of a smile, "maybe I should be the one investigating. At least then it will feel like I'm doing something. And who knows how many suspects I could track down?"

The knot in my stomach loosens. "I get that," I say. "h.e.l.l, I get you, and I know it's driving you nuts not to be in control. But you have to be careful, Jackson. You may look like a movie star, but this isn't a movie, and you can't traipse around like you're Sherlock Holmes or something."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't traipse," he says, and relief flutters over me, as soft as a b.u.t.terfly, because the cloud over him seems to be lifting.

"Fair enough. You don't prance, either. I'm going to say that's a good thing."

"I'd do both if I thought it would help me aim the cops' spotlight on somebody else."

I start to tell him that he can't control the whole world, and he needs to let his attorneys do their job. But the words just sit in my head, stale and stupid. Because this is Jackson, and if he can't control the world, who can? And frankly, if it were my freedom on the line, I wouldn't be able to sit still, either.

"Well, we can't risk having you prance or traipse," I say airily. "Do you want me to talk to Ryan?" I figure if anyone would know how to help with an investigation, it's Stark International's security chief.

But Jackson shakes his head. "No. I'll handle it."

I study his face. "Are you going to hire your own consulting detective?"

"Actually, I think I'm going to ask for a little brotherly advice."

"Really?" I can't help the way my voice rises in surprise.

"The guy knows how to get his hands on information." He glances sideways at me. "And I think it's fair to say he knows how to defend against a murder charge, too. If nothing else, he knows who to pay when he needs results."

"So maybe he's worth knowing, after all?"

"Well, you respect him," he says dryly. "So how bad can he be?" But he's grinning, and I know he means it. For the most part, anyway.

I settle back as Jackson maneuvers onto the freeway. Jackson and Damien may never be as close as I am with my brother, Ethan, but at least they've left epic acrimony and distrust behind. Then again, considering who their father is, maybe they'll bond over their mutually wretched childhoods. That would put them leaps and bounds ahead of me and Ethan, because as much as I love my brother, I haven't shared with him the h.e.l.l I went through during our youth. Not only because I don't want his pity, but because I don't want his guilt.

Ethan knows that I modeled, and that the money I earned went toward the medical treatments that saved his life. But he doesn't know how much those treatments cost or what exactly our father was selling to Reed. Not just my image, but me. To photograph, to touch. To use.

And though I hated every G.o.dd.a.m.n minute of itthough I begged my father to make it stopI never did the one thing that was always in my power to do. I never ran. Because I knew that we needed the money. That despite the horror of it all, somehow I was helping to save my brother.

I s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably in my seat, because now my father is in my head, and I really, really don't want him there. I'd pushed him out after he called me in Santa Fe, and I'm not at all pleased that I've let him back in.