Текст книги "Under My Skin"
Автор книги: J. Kenner
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
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 shiver as I dig deep and acknowledge the real core of my lingering fear—it’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 screwing 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 prickle.
I’m about to say something—to ask just what exactly is he doing—when 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 hell are you doing?” I demand. “Shit, 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 in—anger, 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 fucked with my life? Who threatened my girlfriend? Who’s screwing 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 murder—and 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 shit 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 bastard 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. Hell,” 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. “Hell, 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 butterfly, 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 hell 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 goddamn minute of it—though I begged my father to make it stop—I 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 shift 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.
“Dammit,” Jackson says under his breath, and for a moment I actually think he’s commenting on my thoughts.
When I come to my senses, I’m absurdly grateful for the distraction. “What?”
“I completely forgot to call Ronnie at bedtime, and now it’s almost eleven there.” He slams his hand against the steering wheel. “Shit. So much for father of the year.”
“Text Betty,” I suggest. “Tell her not to answer her phone. Then call and leave a message for Ronnie that she can play to her in the morning.”
Jackson pauses at the road that turns into the marina where his boat is docked. Then he shifts in his seat and stares at me.
I squirm a little under his inspection. “Um, what?”
“Maybe you should get father of the year. That’s brilliant.”
A delighted laugh bubbles out of me. “I aim to please.”
He reaches over and slides his hand very slowly over my jean-clad leg. “And you do it very, very well.”
I’m still tingling from the sensual tone of his voice and the heat from his touch as we approach the entrance to the marina. It’s marked by a guard station with a gate that lifts and lowers to allow residents and their guests to enter. Never once, however, have I seen it down, and usually the guard who sits in the small station simply waves us through.
Today, though, the gate is lowered—and it’s easy enough to see why. Dozens of reporters line the drive—some are even perched on camp-style chairs or sprawled on the ground, as if they’ve been waiting for hours. But they rise to their feet as Jackson’s Porsche approaches, and rush toward us en masse, almost like a swarm of bees zeroing in on a target.
“Fuck,” Jackson says, and I silently second the curse, even though we both know that we should have expected this.
“Jackson! How long have you known Damien Stark is your half-brother?”
“Did you follow your brother’s trial in Germany?”
“Sylvia, did you know your boss and your boyfriend were related?”
“What’s the status of the Fletcher house movie, Jackson? Is it tabled now that Reed is dead?”
Jackson is inching the car forward, though I have a feeling he wants to gun it and maybe run over a few toes in the process. He reaches the guard station and rolls the window down to talk to the man inside.
“How long has this been going on, Charlie?”
“Couple of hours, Mr. Steele. The property managers are hiring extra security. We’ll keep them out of your hair.”
“I’ll pay for the extra men.” Jackson’s voice is tight.
“Well, sir, I guess that’s up to you. We’ve got the cameras on and there’ll be extra men walking the property tonight. But you be sure and lock the gate to your dock and the doors on the Veronica.”
“I will. Thanks, Charlie. And sorry.”
“Not your fault, Mr. Steele,” the guard says loyally, though I can tell from Jackson’s face he disagrees.
He remains tense all the way to his parking slot in front of his boat, and once he kills the engine, he turns to me. I shake my head and press a finger over his lips. I don’t know if he’s about to curse them or apologize for them, but I don’t want to hear either. Instead, I want to make him forget. And so I lean toward him as I lower my hand and press it over his thigh, just close enough to his cock to let him know that the paparazzi are the very last thing I’m interested in at the moment.
He says nothing, but I can feel the shift in his body. A different kind of tension forming. And when I drag my teeth over my lower lip, I see the heat build in his eyes.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Ms. Brooks?”
“Me? Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About a man I know.”
His brows raise. “Oh?”
“Mmm. He’s utterly gorgeous. Wildly sexy. The touch of his hands is like magic on my skin.”
The corner of his mouth twitches and a victorious trill runs through me. “I think I’m jealous.”
I slide my hand up, my pinky brushing lightly against his hardening cock. “It’s been one hell of a day. What do you say we go inside, get naked, and help each other forget?”
His eyes are like blue flames. “I think that sounds like an exceptionally good idea.”
The heat in his voice makes me gooey in all the right places.
I reluctantly pull back, then open my door. “In that case, mister, follow me.” We get out of the car, and I take his hand and lead him through the gate then down the dock to his boat. There’s a small gangplank permanently set up; it opens to a door onto the deck. I’ve been here enough to know the routine, and I take charge, leading the way.
I step carefully onto the sometimes slick deck, glance around the familiar area, see the man—and scream.
Jackson moves in front of me even before the echo of my scream dies away.
I’m breathing hard, my pulse pounding, my body ready for flight. But that’s just a lingering reaction. My fear has faded.
The man isn’t one of the paparazzi. For that matter, he’s not even an intruder. Or, at least, not the kind I’d imagined.
Then again, this kind might be even more dangerous.
This intruder is Jeremiah Stark.
seven
Jackson stared at his father, trying to convince himself that the man was only an apparition. Some sort of horrible revenant. Not actually Jeremiah Stark.
Not here.
Not today.
“About time, boy. I was just about to give up on you.”
Jackson didn’t move. He didn’t say a word. Instead he just stood there with Sylvia behind him, her scream still lingering in the air.
It took every ounce of Jackson’s willpower to keep his feet planted and his hands at his sides. Because right then he was certain that very little in this world would feel better than wringing Jeremiah’s neck.
When he was certain that he could move without launching himself at his father, he stepped sideways and then back so that he could slide an arm around Syl’s waist and pull her to him. It would look, he knew, as if he was comforting her. But that was only an illusion. He needed her in his arms right now. Needed to hold tight and let the feel of her steady him. Because he’d been pulled tight as a wire all day, and he was dangerously close to snapping.
He focused on his father’s face, his gaze unflinching. “You want to tell me how the hell you got on my boat?”
“Not hard,” Jeremiah said. He held up his phone. “Lot of pictures of me and my sons on the internet today. I just flashed one at your guard, told him it was urgent that I saw my boy, and he let me right through. I’m surprised you didn’t notice my car out there.”
“I’d say I’ll pay more attention next time, but there isn’t going to be a next time. Get the hell off my boat, Dad.”
“We need to talk,” Jeremiah said.
“You need to leave.”
“What I need is to convince my son not to be a goddamned idiot.”
“Your son? Is that what I am today? I’ve never really been able to keep that straight.” His entire life had been structured by the whim of a father whose focus was on another family—Damien’s family. Jackson had been forced to keep the truth of his paternity secret, because god forbid the public should learn that tennis superstar Damien Stark had a secret bastard half-brother squirreled away.
For years, Jackson had resented Damien, channeling the anger and frustration that rightfully belonged to his manipulative, narcissistic father toward the brother he didn’t even know. A brother who seemed to have everything in the world at Jackson’s expense. A brother who, Jackson was only beginning to learn, had also suffered at the hands of their father, and pretty damn brutally, too.
All of which meant that Jackson wasn’t inclined to play the good son simply because Jeremiah was wearing his daddy hat. As Jackson was learning the hard way, being a dad was about one hell of a lot more than biology.
“I did what I had to do so that you could have a good life, and now you’re about to toss it all into the crapper. Ms. Brooks,” Jeremiah said, turning his attention to Sylvia without warning, “you should go inside. Jackson and I have a few things to discuss.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She spoke with such bold finality that Jackson had to bite back a grin. He’d forgotten that she knew his father, of course. Jeremiah Stark might not be close to Damien, but Jeremiah was the kind of man who’d infiltrate himself anyway. And undoubtedly that meant that Sylvia’d had the dubious pleasure of dealing with him on more than one occasion.
“Suit yourself,” Jeremiah said. “I’ll say what I came here for and then I’ll leave. But, boy, you need to get in front of this thing. You need to publicly endorse that movie.”
The words, so out of left field, struck Jackson like a blow.
“What the hell are you talking about?” It was Sylvia who asked the question. Jackson was still reeling from the absurdity. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“Motive,” Jeremiah said. “Do you think I want to see a son of mine behind bars? You need to play this game smart, son. You need to make sure any argument they might have as to motive is soundly shut down.”
“That movie is not getting made.” When it had been a question of movie or blackmail, Jackson had made the choice to protect Sylvia. To stop fighting the movie and protect his little girl with love and care. To hold her close, keep her safe, and try to protect her from the glare of an unwelcome spotlight.
But Reed’s death had neatly solved the problem of the blackmail photos, and Jackson was no longer pulled in two directions. Now he was going to fight as long and as hard as he could to keep Ronnie out of such a scandalous spotlight. Hell, he’d fight it from a jail cell if he had to, but there was no way he was sitting back and allowing a film about all the tragedy in his little girl’s life to hit the screen.
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Jeremiah said. “Because that movie’s going to happen whether you try to stop it or not. You think you have that kind of power? Think again. And now that they know Damien is tied to you there’s going to be even more push to get it made. And what if you cause enough of a stink that they rewrite it as fiction? So what? Everyone will still know. The gossip will still be out there.”
Beside him, Syl was squeezing his hand, sharing her strength. And dammit, right then all he wanted was his father gone and his woman in his arms. Forget the photographers, forget the press, forget the man standing right in front of him. In that moment, Jackson needed nothing more than Sylvia. To take her hard, to bend her body to his. He craved the feel of her against him, and the desire to push her to the edge—to manipulate her pleasure—cut through him like a wild thing, fierce and demanding.
His pulse kicked up as he anticipated watching passion build in her eyes, knowing that he was responsible for taking her far. That if nothing else, he had control over this woman—her body, her release, her satisfaction.
So much around him was fucked up—spinning out of control. His father. Reed’s murder. Even the bullshit sabotage of the resort. His life was a goddamn tempest, and Syl was the eye of the storm. Right now, he needed her.
Hell, he fucking craved her. And it pissed him off that he couldn’t take her right then, right there, because the man who was his father was still standing in front of them, blathering on. “Say you support the movie, and you’ll have erased motive. No point in killing him if you don’t care about the damn film, eh?”
“You need to leave,” Jackson said coldly. “We’re going inside. You’re not invited.”
“I’m trying to look out for you.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Dammit, son—”
“Son? Are you sure about that? Because from where I was standing I was never your son. I was some obligation tucked off in a corner somewhere. The little boy no one was supposed to know about. God forbid Mom or I caused a scandal and messed up the flow of gold-flavored milk from your cash cow.”
He heard the fury in his voice—the decades’ old hurt—and he wished he’d said nothing. The last thing he wanted was to reveal himself to this man.
“I was only looking out for you and your mother.” His father was an attractive man with the air of a well-aged movie star. Now, though, he just looked red in the face and flustered.
But those words were empty excuses, and the look of disdain that Jackson shot at his father said as much.
“I was bringing money in,” Jeremiah continued. “Keeping food on the table.”
“Yeah. You’re a real saint.” Beside him, Syl shifted. The movement was almost imperceptible, but he knew what she was thinking. She wasn’t seeing Jeremiah, but her own father, and Jackson was struck by the similarity between those two men who played their children like pawns on a chessboard.
“Jackson—”
“What were you doing at my screening?” The question, seemingly out of left field, cut off the protest and had his father taking a single step backward.
“You know damn well I’m on the board of the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project with Michael,” he said, referring to Michael Prado, who directed Stone and Steele, the documentary about Jackson and his design of an Amsterdam museum. It had screened not long ago at the Chinese theater. That night was burned into Jackson’s mind not because of the film or because his father had shown his face, but because that night was the first step to getting Sylvia back. And for that, Jackson would happily declare the date a national holiday.
“But even if I weren’t, I still would have attended,” Jeremiah added in the face of Jackson’s continued silence. “I wanted to celebrate my son’s achievements.”
After a moment, his father shifted his weight from one foot to another as if trying to decide what to say next. When he didn’t come up with anything, Jackson casually asked, “Did you know Reed?”
Jeremiah’s mouth pulled into a frown. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“One I’d like an answer to.”
“No. Not really. I’ve met him a time or two.”
“About what?”
“What the hell, boy? Is this the third degree?”
“Maybe it is. You’re awfully interested in that movie.”
“I’m interested in saving your ass,” Jeremiah spat back.
“I can take care of my own ass, thanks.” He pulled Sylvia closer. “And now it really is time for you to go. Trust me when I say you’ve worn out your welcome.”
“Jackson, please. I’m your father.”
“I suggest you don’t say that again.”
For a moment, it seemed as if Jeremiah was going to argue, and Jackson felt the tension build in him. Hell, he almost hoped the bastard tried to stay, put up a fight. Any excuse. Any excuse at all.
So Jackson was disappointed—but reluctantly had to admit it was probably for the best—when Jeremiah turned and headed off the boat. He paused after a few steps though, then looked back to where Jackson stood with Sylvia at his side. “You shouldn’t have told Damien you’re his brother, but I guess it’s good you did before it came out. Less pain for both of you.”
“Do you really think I believe that you give a fuck about what’s best for either of us? Your focus has always been on Jeremiah Stark, and no one else.”
“That’s not true.”
“I don’t know what your angle is, old man, but I know you came here with one. And whatever game you expect me to play, I’m not biting.”
“No games. I’m your father. I’m concerned.” He drew a breath, then shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and for a moment he just looked tired, and a lot older than his sixty-plus years. “We’ve had a rocky relationship. But I care about you. I’m your father, after all.”
“That’s just a word,” Jackson said. “And right now it feels pretty damn hollow.”
