Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

eight

I watch Jackson as he watches his father disappear into the night.

My whole body aches, and I realize that I haven’t relaxed since we arrived and found the paparazzi camped out.

For that matter, I haven’t really relaxed since we left Charles’s office. Since we left Santa Fe. Since the detectives arrived with the news of Reed’s murder.

Now we’re just hours away from Jackson walking through the doors of the Beverly Hills Police Department. And I’m so damned afraid that he’s not going to walk back out again.

Hell, maybe I should thank Jeremiah and the damn story vultures. Because for a few minutes at least, I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I was just angry. At the paparazzi. At Jeremiah. At my own father.

I take a deep breath. I don’t want either of those men in my head right now. I just want Jackson, but his back is still to me, his eyes on the now-empty dock.

“Jackson?” I say his name tentatively.

He turns and although the anger on his face fades when he looks at me, I can see that it still lingers behind his eyes. “I knew we’d have to deal with the press at some point, but he had no right coming here. He had no business interrupting us, coming unannounced, bothering us at all.”

“No, he didn’t. But he’s gone now.” My voice is soft. Right now, I want only to soothe.

He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He looks so tired, and I just want to pull him close and hold him. I reach for him and gently take his hand.

“You’re exhausted, and you have to be at the police station in the morning.” I give his hand a tug as I start to turn away. “Come on, you need to sleep.”

I lead him below deck to the area that serves as his office, then start toward the door that leads down to the stateroom.

Jackson pulls me back. “No.” The word is rough, and I turn back to see his face and the wild hunger that I should have expected. Because it is not sleep that Jackson needs now. Not when the world is crashing down around us.

He pulls me to him, giving me no choice but to stumble toward him. I crash against him, breathing hard, my body trembling with answering desire.

“How could I sleep when tonight might be our last night? When the goddamn guillotine is poised to cut off my head?”

“Don’t,” I beg. I know the truth too damn well, and I don’t want to hear it out loud.

“Don’t what? Don’t touch you? Don’t need you?” His lips brush my ear as he speaks, deliberately misunderstanding me. “Don’t take everything I need from you so that I can hold it close to me tomorrow, and the next day, and the next?”

“Please, Jackson. I don’t want—”

“The truth?” He pulls his head back so that he is looking straight into my eyes, and I look away, ashamed because that is exactly what I want to avoid. “I’m not hiding from reality, baby, and neither are you.” He trails his fingertip over the curve of my ear, then slowly down my neck. “I need you, Sylvia. I always need you. But tonight—if you pushed me away tonight—”

“What?” Already, I am limp with desire. Already, I am his to do with what he will.

His mouth curves into a slow smile, and I see a dangerous kind of heat flare in his eyes. “I’d just take what I want, however I want.” With a violent tug he slams my pelvis against his. He’s rock hard, his hand on my ass giving me no place to go, nowhere to shift, while his other hand cups my breast roughly even as his mouth crashes hard over mine.

It’s a full-on assault, startling in its swiftness, its heat, its power. “Yes.” The word is a groan, my body molding to his as electricity rips through me, filling me with spark and sizzle and making my body hum.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispers when he breaks the kiss. “To bend to my will. To hand me the key to your pleasure. To be the instrument of mine.”

With each word I am getting wetter, and my breasts are painfully tight inside my bra. I want to shift my hips and move in slow rhythmic motions until I find some satisfaction. I don’t. I force myself to remain still.

“Tell me, Sylvia,” he repeats. “Tell me I can take you. Whenever and however I want.”

I tilt my head up. I look him in the eyes. “No,” I whisper, as a wild, forbidden heat washes through me, soaking my panties and making my nipples so sensitive that even the slight motion from breathing is like a sensual assault.

He holds my gaze for a moment, and this time his eyes are flat. The twitch of a muscle in his cheek is the only evidence of any emotion that I see.

Then he roughly cups his hands over my breasts. He squeezes, his thumbs and forefingers finding my nipples and teasing them through the thin material of my blouse and the lace of my bra. “I’m going to fuck you so hard,” he says, as his fingers send wild currents of heat ripping through me.

Swiftly, he claims my mouth in a kiss that leaves me gasping once he’s moved on, brushing his lips over my neck, then over my blouse to tease my already sensitive breasts.

I try desperately to stay upright despite the fact that I’m feeling just a little dizzy. He drops to his knees and tilts his head back to look up at me. And though it is Jackson who is on his knees, there is no doubt that he is the one in charge. “Take off your clothes.”

I shake my head.

His brow quirks just slightly. “Take off your clothes.” This time, each word is stressed.

I lick my lips. “No.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he stands up slowly. “No?”

I meet his eyes defiantly. “I thought you were taking what you wanted.”

“I am,” he says. “What I want is your submission.”

“Oh.”

I see a flash of victory in his eyes before he starts to walk away. “Decide how you want to play the game, sweetheart. But know that I’m only willing to play by my rules.”

He is almost to the steps that lead back to the deck when I call out to him. He turns, his brow raised in silent query.

I slip off my ballet flats. And then, as he slowly walks back toward me, I peel myself out of my jeans, taking my underwear with them. He reaches down, then uses the tip of his finger to lift them off the deck of the boat. “Lace. Very nice.”

“I’m glad you approve.” My voice sounds breathy. I’m standing there in only a T-shirt and bra. The window facing the ocean is open, and the cool night air teases my already soaked cunt until I am right there on the edge, waiting to go over, and wanting that push so badly that I’m not sure I can survive the anticipation.

“No more,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he means the panties.

“I—what?”

“Don’t wear them.” He meets my eyes. “When I think of you, I want to think of you bare. But do wear the necklace. From now on. Until I say otherwise.”

“Oh.” Little tremors of pleasure course through me. The necklace is a chain with a small pendant that is actually a vibrator. It’s lovely and classy and deliciously effective. And I haven’t worn it since before we left for Santa Fe.

I nod. “Yes,” I say. And when he lifts a brow, I amend to, “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. But you’re still not naked.”

“Oh.” I’d gotten distracted. “Right.” I pull my shirt off and toss it on the deck, then drop my bra on top of it.

“You’re so beautiful.” He brushes a single fingertip up the curve of my hip. “It’s a rare thing to get to touch something of such beauty.” As he speaks, he draws his finger higher, the contact light but oh-so powerful. He traces a line beneath my breast. The touch is as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss, and yet so intense it sends shuddering waves of electricity rolling through me.

When he pulls his finger away, breaking the contact between us, I whimper.

“In museums, the rules are clear. Anyplace, in fact, where there is something of beauty, no touching is allowed.”

He bends to whisper in my ear. He is not touching me, but his breath as he speaks is as potent as a caress. “But those rules don’t apply to an owner. So tell me, Sylvia. Are you mine?”

“Yes. Oh, god yes.”

“Touching,” he repeats as if I hadn’t spoken. “Exploring and teasing.” As if in illustration of his words, he draws a single fingertip lightly over my body. My arms. My shoulders. The back of my neck.

There is nothing particularly sensual about any of the places he explores, and yet he fires my senses everywhere he touches, and threads of electricity stream from his fingertips all the way to my core, making me weak and wet and terribly impatient.

He drops to his knees, his hands now holding me steady at my hips. He tilts his head back and I look down and meet his eyes, and the desire and heat I see there humbles me.

He eases forward, pressing his mouth to my abdomen, then trails kisses down, lower and lower, following the landing strip of pubic hair to the soft skin at the juncture of my thighs. I am lost now, floating in some wild place where I have been reduced to little more than sensation and need, desire and demand. And when he uses his tongue to gently lave my clit, I arch back as crackling threads of pleasure shoot through me to converge at my sex.

I’m right there, floating on the edge, and all I need is one tiny push to send me over. Another flick of his tongue. Another stroke of his finger. I have been reduced to pure need, to desperate want.

Jackson, however, denies me.

He takes his hands from my hips. He pulls his mouth from my body. And then he rises slowly, his smug grin making clear that he knows exactly what he is doing to me.

“Go down below,” he says in a voice that promises all sorts of wicked pleasures. “Get on the bed. Spread your legs, and close your eyes.”

I hurry down to the staterooms below. I look back once to see if he’s coming, but he’s not there. I hesitate, but only for a moment. This is a game, I know. This is what we need. This is a way to get lost in each other. To forget what is coming. And, yes, to have something to hold on to later.

I settle myself on the bed and lay there spread open for him, my eyes closed, my imagination humming. He likes this. Me waiting for him. Me wet for him, wanting him. Laying here, wide open, for him to use however he wishes.

And the truth is, I like it, too. The anticipation that comes with being spread out naked and wet. The soft kiss of the air over my skin. The tease of the boat’s creaks and jolts, which keep my body thrumming because I am not sure if it is the sound of the boat or the sound of footsteps that I hear.

But what I like most is the pleasure of giving in to his demands. Of letting myself go completely and knowing that not only will he take me far, but that he will bring me back safely.

I don’t know how much time has passed when I feel a shift in the air. I turn my head to the side and my ear brushes his lips.

“Beautiful.”

That is all he says, but the heat in that word sends ripples through me, like a swarm of electric butterflies that settle between my legs, the lightness of their touch drawing me to the edge, but not quite over.

I catch the scent of mint on his breath and think that’s odd, because Jackson doesn’t suck on mints or chew gum as a rule. I don’t ask, though, as I know he doesn’t want me to speak. And, frankly, my curiosity is satisfied soon enough, because without any preamble at all, he runs his hands up my thighs spreading me wider, then closes his mouth over my clit.

Oh. My. God.

His tongue is teasing me in the most exceptional way, but that is not what has truly sent me reeling. It’s the mint. Icy and hot all at the same time, arousing and enticing with just a hint of pain.

I squirm, trying to escape this onslaught of sensation that threatens to overwhelm me, but Jackson holds me fast. I can go nowhere. I can only submit to pleasure. To pain. To the brilliant, fiery heat that thrusts me up and over until I am arched up in the bed, my hands tight on my breasts as Jackson’s tongue reduces me to nothing but ashes.

Only when all the tremors have passed do I actually breathe again. But even then I have no respite because Jackson grabs me by my hips and slides me down the bed so that my ass is right on the edge. He lifts me, then thrusts hard into me.

I melt with the pleasure of it. Of being taken. Of being fucked hard.

And when I slip my hand down to tease my so-sensitive clit, I hear Jackson’s soft growl of approval as his body slams into mine again and again and again.

I feel the tension build in him, and my muscles grab tight, wanting to heighten the explosion, to make it hard. To make it wild.

And when he finally explodes inside me, my body milks him until the last tremor of pleasure has swept through us both.

Once we are recovered enough to move, he tells me I can open my eyes. I find him smiling at me, his expression warm and satisfied. He slides up the bed, then holds out a hand for me to do the same.

I take a different route, though. I kiss my way up his body. His calf. His knee. His taut, toned thigh.

I see the newly inked tattoo that Cass gave him right beside his pubic bone—my initials, SB—and I gently kiss it. Then I gently lick up the length of his semi-hard cock, making him growl softly.

I glance up, grinning, and notice the tin of mints on the bedside table.

I start to reach for them, but he laughs and grabs my hands, sliding me up his body until I am balanced atop him and his arms are around my waist.

“No fair. I want to try them.”

“And I want to hold you.”

He rolls us over so that we are spooned side by side, his fingers idly stroking my shoulder and down my arm as I start to drift.

I am right on the verge of sleep when the words come. I don’t know what makes me say them—perhaps I want Jackson to know that we have exorcised not only the ghost of Jeremiah, but my father, too.

“My dad called me.”

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 ass.”

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 shiny, 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 passed 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 deco–inspired building.

Now I’m doing exactly what Jackson said I would be doing—worrying 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 Cass, 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 circumstances, 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 Cass’s life—and 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, god.

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 minutes—just 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 associate 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 well—the only truly close friend I’ve ever had is Cass. But I think it’s a friendship 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 Cass?” he asks. “Has she decided what she’s going to do?”

“She wants to go forward,” I say, referring to Cass’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 relationship 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 relationship 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 hello 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 glasses have been replaced by contacts. Basically, Orlando McKee has gone from hippie to hot.

“I decided—well, I decided it was time to grow up a bit.”

I smile in response, but the truth is that I’ve surpassed 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 him—unfettered and striding toward me with his usual confident air—I 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, relishing 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 face—at the tension there, at the exhaustion. And worry swirls in my gut. “Oh, god. 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, god.” 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 shirt, hold him close, and cry.

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

But if he’s arrested—if he’s convicted—the 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 Rachel—with the job—I’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 impossible—Damien 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 my—well, today it’s her—computer 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 file—a small piece from the Washington 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 man—no, no, it’s not the resort.” She hurries to reassure 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 happens—on 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 ground—all 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 hell 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.

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 us—getting 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 assumed. I had dinner with my old boss, and he mentioned that he’d bumped 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 shit, shit, shit 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 participants under wraps, with their early marketing documents 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.