Stark International: Under My Skin Part 9

I whisper the words, but I know that he has heard me when his arm tightens almost imperceptibly around me. "When?"

"In Santa Fe. You were outside with Ronnie. I'd just taken a shower."

"Why didn't you tell me before? Wait," he immediately amends. "I know why. I was being an a.s.s."

I roll over, because I need to see his face. "No," I say, then kiss him gently. "You were trying to protect me. In a boneheaded way, sure," I add, drawing a small smile from him. "But the thought was there. And I didn't tell you because you had enough on your plate with Ronnie and the news about Reed."

He flashes an ironic grin. "So you were trying to protect me, too. Aren't we a pair?"

My smile is wide and easy. "I like to think so."

He continues to stroke my shoulder, and I sigh, simply enjoying the sensation. But after a moment, I prop myself up on my elbow, frowning. "Why did Jeremiah not want the connection between you and Damien revealed? I mean, it made a little bit of sense back when Damien was the golden boy with his face on cereal boxes. But now?"

Jackson shakes his head. "I don't know. To be honest, I wonder if he might be the one who leaked it."

"The father doth protest too much?"

"Something like that."

"But why?"

"No idea," Jackson admits. "And right now, I'm not interested in thinking about it." He draws me close and I tuck my head against his chest. "Sylvia, tomorrow at the"

"I don't want to talk about tomorrow. Please. Can we just not?"

There is silence for a moment, and then he says, "All right. But it's coming whether we want it to or not."

I know that. I do. But for a few more hours I want to hold tight to the illusion.

And maybe, if I wish hard enough and hold Jackson tight enough, I can make the fantasy real.

nine.

As police stations go, it probably doesn't get much better than the Beverly Hills Police Department. I'm no expert, but I've watched enough cop shows to know that most police stations sport walls with dull gray paint that probably used to be white, Plexiglas barriers that are so clouded they're no longer transparent, and lots and lots of faded, crumpled notices tacked to walls.

Not so this station. I'm sitting on a polished wooden bench in a long hallway. It's not travertine tile, but the flooring is clean and polished. For that matter, everything is clean and s.h.i.+ny, from the building to the people who work here. And right now, I'm focusing way, way too much on all of it. Because if I spend my time noticing the way the light from the window makes a geometric pattern when it hits the opposite wall, then maybe I won't completely freak out about the fact that Jackson has been in an interview room with Harriet and two detectives for almost an hour.

They'd arrived before I did at eight this morning. Jackson had told me not to come. "You can't go into the interview, so you'll be sitting by yourself worrying. Go to work. Do something. Don't think about it. And I'll be with you before you realize any time has pa.s.sed at all."

It was a great plan in theory, and when Jackson dropped me by my condo on his way to Beverly Hills, I was totally on board. But then my car decided it had other plans, and I ended up on Rexford Drive at the art decoinspired building.

Now I'm doing exactly what Jackson said I would be doingworrying instead of working.

And, yes, I know that he won't be saying anything except, "On the advice of my attorney, I refuse to answer," yada yada yada. But what if they arrest him? What if the last moments he had free were last night?

What if today is the day that I lose him?

I pull out my phone to call Ca.s.s, but on Mondays she doesn't open the studio until two, and so she tends to sleep in. I know she won't mind if I wake her, especially under the circ.u.mstances, but she and Siobhan haven't been back together that long, and I hate to interrupt. Especially since I'm so happy that Siobhan is back in Ca.s.s's lifeand Zee is so very out of it.

I stroke my thumb idly over the surface of my phone, debating. But in the end I slide it back into my purse. I'm a big girl, after all. I can go it alone.

Oh, G.o.d.

Those words slice through me, because I do not want to go it alone. Not now in this hallway and certainly not for the rest of my life.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I do, and that's my mantra for about ten minutesjust breathe. But as each minute ticks by, my fear is ratcheting up, too. And when I can't stand it anymore, I yank my phone out of my purse and am just about to dial when I hear my name from the wrong end of the hallway.

I glance automatically toward the doors through which I expect Jackson to emerge. He's not there, of course, and when I turn in the other direction, I see Orlando McKee striding toward me.

"Ollie?"

Ollie works as an a.s.sociate 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 wellthe only truly close friend I've ever had is Ca.s.s. But I think it's a friends.h.i.+p 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 Ca.s.s?" he asks. "Has she decided what she's going to do?"

"She wants to go forward," I say, referring to Ca.s.s'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 relations.h.i.+p 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 h.e.l.lo 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 gla.s.ses have been replaced by contacts. Basically, Orlando McKee has gone from hippie to hot.

"I decidedwell, I decided it was time to grow up a bit."

I smile in response, but the truth is that I've surpa.s.sed 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 himunfettered and striding toward me with his usual confident airI can't help myself. I race to him and launch myself into his outstretched arms.

"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, relis.h.i.+ng 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 faceat the tension there, at the exhaustion. And worry swirls in my gut. "Oh, G.o.d. 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, G.o.d." 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 s.h.i.+rt, hold him close, and cry.

Because I have spoken the truth: I will always be there for him.

But if he's arrestedif he's convictedthe 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 Rachelwith the jobI'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 impossibleDamien 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 mywell, today it's hercomputer 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 filea small piece from the Was.h.i.+ngton 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?"

"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 manno, no, it's not the resort." She hurries to rea.s.sure 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 happenson 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 groundall 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 h.e.l.l 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.