Their destination was the Millennium Biltmore hotel and this historic bar, which was one of its showpieces, not to mention Jackson’s favorite bar in the city. Damien had headed automatically toward a table in the corner, but Jackson had demurred, then led them to the bar. He liked sitting there in the view of the carved wooden angels with the room behind him. He felt at home at the bar, whereas at a table, he felt like a guest subject to the whim of his host.
The thought of whims made him frown. “Do you think she’s right?”
“About the saboteur and the Alcatraz article? Probably. ”
“Fuck. ” Jackson punctuated that articulate sentiment by tossing back a long swallow of eighteen-year-old Macallan. “We need to know who’s screwing with us. And,” he added, keeping his eyes off his brother as he set his glass back on the bar, “I need to know who really killed Reed. ”
He turned to find Damien’s eyes on him. “Honestly, I thought you did. ”
Jackson hesitated, then covered the silence with another sip of his scotch. “There’s a lot of that going around. I need to know who else wanted that fucker dead, and why. It plays to my defense. And, frankly, I’d like to shake that man’s hand. ”
Damien studied him, and Jackson was certain his brother was weighing the truth in Jackson’s words. Was this for real? Or was Jackson manufacturing new pieces of the puzzle, so that if the police asked, Damien could honestly say that Jackson asked for help finding the real killer, so surely that killer wasn’t him.
He was silent for so long, that Jackson began to fear his brother was going to tell him to fuck off. “Arnold Pratt,” Damien finally said. “He’s a private investigator I keep on retainer. He works primarily for the company—Ryan sends him all our background checks to handle—but he’s done some work personally for me. A few matters that required both digging and finesse. If he has the time, he’ll take the job. And if he doesn’t have the time, my guess is that for the right fee, he’ll make time. Syl has his number. Why didn’t she just suggest him?”
“She probably would have. I told her I wanted to talk to you. ” Page 38
“A little brotherly advice?” Damien asked, with a hint of irony.
“Brotherly? I don’t know. But you trade in information. And when I need help, I search out the best. ”
Damien lifted his glass as if in a toast. “Touché. ”
“Speaking of brotherly, have you asked Pratt to look into who leaked our relationship?”
“I haven’t. ”
“Any reason why not?” As far as Jackson was concerned, that question and the identity of the saboteur were second only to the question of who killed Reed.
Damien tossed back the last of his scotch, then lifted his glass to signal Phil. “Because I don’t need Pratt to find the answer. I already know it. And so, I think, do you. ”
“I’ve considered that it might be Jeremiah,” Jackson admitted. “But it doesn’t make a lot of sense. ”
“On the contrary. It’s the only answer that does make sense. I know I didn’t leak it. You say that you didn’t, and I’m inclined to believe you. ”
“Thanks so much. ”
Damien’s mouth twitched, but he continued. “We both know that neither Sylvia nor Nikki said anything. ”
“There are others,” Jackson added. “Cassidy knows, and so do Jamie and Ryan. But I can’t imagine any of them telling. ”
“The only other person who knows is your mother,” Damien said. “And Penny’s not in a position to talk to anyone at the moment. ”
“You know about my mom?” Penelope Steele had developed early onset Alzheimer’s ten years ago. She lived now in a facility in Queens, a relatively easy jaunt from Jackson’s office in New York. He visited frequently. Most of the time, she had no idea who he was.
“As you said, I like information. You grew up knowing all about my family. I thought it was only fair I learn something about yours. ”
“You could have just asked. ” The idea that Damien had been poking around in Jackson’s life pissed him off. Not that this was a new sensation. He’d experienced the same sense of violation when Damien had found his petition to establish parental rights, along with the evidentiary DNA test results confirming that Ronnie was his daughter.
“Now I would. Back when I looked, I didn’t trust you. And, frankly, you didn’t trust me. I could have asked, but you wouldn’t have told. ”
Jackson didn’t answer; Damien was right. Instead, he finished his own drink, lifted his finger to signal to Phil that he should pour a fresh glass for him as well. As soon as the drink was in front of him, he took a long swallow, savoring it before speaking again. “He chewed me up one side and down the other for coming to work for you. And then he got in my face about telling you the truth. Doesn’t that cut against our assumption?”
“Do you think it does?”
Jackson sighed. “No. I think that Jeremiah Stark has and always will have his own agenda, and trying to second-guess that man is like trying to predict the lottery. ”
“Glad you get it,” Damien said, then he shifted on his stool so that he was facing Jackson more directly. “I want to show you something. ” He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen a few times, then handed the device to Jackson.
“Goddammit. ” The word burst out the moment he saw the image from last night—Jackson, Syl, and Jeremiah on the deck, right about the time that Jackson was telling his father to get the fuck out off his boat. He didn’t even bother to read the caption, just passed the phone back to Damien. “Those fucking pricks. ”
Honestly, it was just as well he hadn’t seen this picture before he and Damien walked down the hill, because he sincerely doubted he could have kept his temper in check.
He fought a shudder as he remembered what had happened after Jeremiah had left. He’d almost taken Sylvia on deck. Demanded she strip for him. That she stand naked under the stars as he stroked her, touched her, fucked her.
His stomach roiled at the thought that she’d come so close to having her privacy violated to the extreme, and he clenched his fists against his harsh and immediate reaction to move out. To stay at a hotel. To tuck tail and run because these lowlifes were messing with him.
Fuck that.
“You’re pissed,” Damien said mildly.
Jackson glared at him. “Some asshole I don’t know has a camera aimed at my home and is snapping pictures of me and my girlfriend. ”
He glared at Damien, as if the fact that his brother handed him the picture made him responsible for all this shit. “Damn right I’m pissed. ”
Damien nodded as if the response pleased him. “It’s a safe bet that Jeremiah’s not pissed at all. On the contrary, he’s soaking up the attention. ” He paused just long enough for the words to soak in past Jackson’s still-bubbling anger. “Don’t trust him, Jackson. Just a little bit of brotherly advice from me to you. ” Page 39
Jackson pushed down the lingering anger as he considered the other man. “You know, I used to wonder what happened between the two of you. I thought that you were such a shit to him. I mean, I had reason to hate him. He was always gone. Kept me and my mom hidden away. But you had him—and yet I looked at you and thought you were a complete prick. Demanding. A prima donna. Too goddamn full of yourself. ”
“So glad your impression has changed,” Damien said wryly.
Jackson chuckled. “About some things. Not others. But seriously, after I learned about Germany—after it all hit the press—”
He cut himself off with a small shudder, thinking of the things his brother had endured, all with their father’s knowledge and without his protection. He thought of Sylvia, who had suffered so similarly, and he had to fight a sudden rush of anger against Jeremiah, Reed, and Sylvia’s father. Not to mention a universe in which even one child had to endure such horrors.
He took a sip of scotch, blinking back a wave of emotion, because now Ronnie was at the forefront of his mind, and
he really couldn’t understand the way those men had sacrificed their children, because there was nothing—nothing—he wouldn’t do to protect that little girl.
“Anyway,” he finally said. “I understand why you set up your foundation. It’s a good cause. I’ll be back volunteering as soon as they let me. ”
Damien nodded, but didn’t say anything more. Jackson hadn’t expected him to.
“My point is that after all that shit hit the tabloids, I understood your issues. But I still thought you were a shit. I knew all about you after Brighton, remember? Or at least I thought I did. ” He’d recently learned, to his chagrin, that Damien’s last-minute land buy in an Atlanta-based development deal five years ago had saved Jackson’s ass, not screwed him. If Damien hadn’t swooped in and destroyed the deal, most of the key players in the Brighton Consortium would have been sucked into a RICO case, their fortunes and their reputations destroyed.
Most of the players, however, didn’t realize that Damien had saved their ass.
“As far as I was concerned,” Jackson continued, “you were heartless. Ruthless. You had to be. How else could you climb so far so fast?”
“I can be all those things,” Damien said easily.
“Can be, yeah. But it’s not who you are. ” He downed the last of his scotch. “I’ve seen what you’ve done for Syl’s career. I’ve seen how fiercely you watch after your wife, and I’ve heard about what you’ve done for her friends. And I know now that you weren’t trying to fuck me or anyone over on Brighton. ”
He flashed his most charming smile at his brother. “Make no mistake, I’ll call you out the second I think you’re doing something to fuck up Cortez, but as for Damien Stark the man? Maybe you’re not the devil I thought you were. ”
“Don’t spread it around,” Damien said. “I have a reputation to protect, after all. ”
“My lips are sealed. ” Jackson glanced down to check his watch. “Should we head back?”
“In a minute. Detective Garrison asked me to see him tomorrow,” Damien said flatly, referring to one of the two detectives who’d spent the morning grilling Jackson.
A cold, hard knot formed in Jackson’s gut. “Why?”
“Presumably because they think my half-brother committed murder. More specifically, because you also work for me, and as I think I mentioned once, I’ve met Reed a time or two. But all that is just speculation. ”
“Well, shit. I’m sorry. ”
Damien’s brows rose slightly. “Sorry?”
“That this mess is screwing with you, too. ”
“Murder isn’t the kind of thing that stays contained. ”
“So what are you going to say to him?”
“That I don’t think you did it. ”
Jackson studied him. “That’s not what you said a few minutes ago. ”
Damien didn’t smile, but Jackson saw the hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m not talking to the police right now, am I? I’ll tell them that I don’t know you that well, but I do know you’re not stupid. And killing him just a few days after beating the shit out of him would be very, very stupid. ” He waited a beat, then leaned closer, his elbows on the bar. “Jackson, stupid doesn’t run in our family. Jeremiah’s a shit, but he’s not stupid, either. If he did leak our relationship—he had an endgame. ”
“Like what?”
Damien leaned back. “I have no idea. But you wanted to know who else might want Reed dead. I say add him to the list of possibles. Jeremiah knew Reed. You said so yourself. ” Page 40
Jackson considered, then nodded slowly. “I’ll talk to Harriet. Have her keep an eye on him. Maybe he’ll end up being my reasonable doubt. ”
“You don’t have to do that,” Damien said.
“No, you convinced me. ”
“I mean, it’s already done. ”
Jackson narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Is it?”
Damien lifted a shoulder. “Like I said, Jeremiah Stark always has an endgame. I’d like to know what it is. Besides,” he added with a significant look to Jackson, “maybe he did kill Reed. ”
“Anything’s possible,” Jackson said dryly. “But what would he gain?”
“I don’t know,” Damien admitted. “If he were another man, I’d say maybe he was trying to protect you. Keep the movie from being made. Keep Reed from suing you for the assault. Maybe even protect his granddaughter. ”
“He doesn’t know about her,” Jackson said tightly.
“Are you sure?” When Jackson stayed silent, because, dammit, he wasn’t sure, Damien continued. “It doesn’t matter. My point is that Jeremiah Stark looks after one person and one person only. ”
He met Jackson’s eyes. “So watch your back, Steele. Because you may not see him coming. ”
eleven
Since it is already the end of the workday and I am still too riled about that damn photo to focus, I decide to grab a few files and head home to work there.
Home, of course, is the operative word. Because Jackson and I have been spending more and more time on his boat since his drafting table and other work tools are there. And as for me, I like to stretch out on his comfy lounge chairs with a glass of wine and relax to the sound and rhythm of the ocean. I’d like to do that tonight, in fact. But I can’t, and that pisses me off.
Because tonight, the boat isn’t my destination; my condo is. Not that I don’t love my condo—I do. But I’d rather be in my place because I’m craving my own stuff. Not because the damn paparazzi are messing with our lives.
And, yes, I trust that the property managers at the marina are doing their job. None of those cockroaches are getting access to the boat or even the parking lot. But that didn’t stop them from taking those pictures last night, and that was invasive enough for me.
Tonight, I sleep in my own bed.
It occurs to me as I reach Santa Monica that the press might be staking out my place as well, but when I pull my Nissan up to the entrance to the underground parking garage no one is there, and my shoulders dip in relief. It’s possible there are a few stragglers by the main entrance to the building, but that’s outside on the Third Street Promenade, and since I’m coming in through the garage, I don’t even have to see them.
As I head to the elevator, I shoot Jackson a text—Safe and sound in the condo. See you soon.
I still don’t have a reply by the time I get upstairs, but I’m not surprised. He’s with Damien, after all, and on top of everything that’s happened recently, they have a lifetime of catching up to do.
So do I, I realize, as I step into my condo. Or maybe not a lifetime of catching up, but at least several days’ worth.
I wrinkle my nose, because the place has that closed-up smell that is one part dirty laundry and two parts something left in the trash I forgot to take out.
I remedy that first, emptying the trash from all of the rooms, then shoving a lemon down the disposal and turning it on while I run the trash to the chute. I hit the button for the back door as I step into the hall, and by the time I return thirty seconds later, my garage-style door has almost completely ascended, letting in a nice, cleansing ocean breeze.
On a normal day, I’d be irritated with myself for doing something as stupid as forgetting to take the trash out. Today, however, is not normal. I want a distraction, and cleaning seems like just the ticket.
Within half an hour, I’ve gone through the pantry and refrigerator and tossed every bit of old food. An hour after that, I’ve vacuumed, added some essential oils to the potpourri I keep on a table in front of the couch, completed one load of laundry and started a second, and am telling myself that I wasn’t worried by Jackson’s lack of response two hours ago, and I have no reason to be worried now. We’d all left work early, so it’s only seven. For all I know, drinks turned into dinner. And if that’s the case, I should be happy. After all, I love Jackson and I respect Damien; I want them to get along.
But de
spite telling myself that, the sense of dread in my stomach doesn’t ease, and though I really don’t want to, I pull out my phone. This time, I’m not going to text Jackson. Page 41
This time, I’m searching social media.
And, dammit, there he is. Not just one picture, but several.
Jackson and Damien walking down the hill to the Biltmore, presumably taken by one of the photographers who’ve taken to camping outside Stark Tower just on the off chance another prime shot like the one of Megan kissing Jackson comes along.
Then there’s a shot of them entering the Biltmore, then several of the exterior of the hotel with the hashtag #StarkSteeleWatch.
Great.
Of course, there’s nothing inherently bad about any of these pictures. It’s just the fact of them that bothers me. That they exist at all, and that they exist because a layer of Jackson’s privacy has been stripped away.
Damien has always been news-fodder, of course, but for the most part, nobody camps out at the Tower anymore, primarily because there’s no Stark scandal at the moment. Or, at least, there wasn’t.
Now there’s murder and sabotage and sibling speculation, and the frenzy has started up all over again.
I sigh, knowing that it won’t die down until after Jackson is either cleared or tried. And so long as I’m tied to Jackson, I’m in the thick of it, too. Right now, the press is only interested in me as Jackson’s girlfriend and the resort’s project manager. Yes, they know that I was a model for Reed years ago, but those photos are so tame that they’ve died down on social media. But the more I’m caught in the spotlight that shines on Jackson, the more likely the press will dig.
And if they learn about the blackmail—if that goes public—
I shiver, because that is a thought that I really can’t let into my head.
With an effort, I force my mind away from all this. I plug my phone into the small speakers in my kitchen, and my favorite playlist starts blaring out Basket Case from Green Day. That’ll work, I think, as I crank the volume and then go to change the sheets. That, and then vacuuming, will keep me busy for another half-hour.
And if I haven’t heard from Jackson by then, I’ll call Nikki. If I can’t find my boyfriend, maybe she at least knows how to find her husband.
I strip the sheets, then ball them up and start to carry them from the bedroom to the small laundry closet that is just off the kitchen. But the moment I turn around, I drop them, and a small, startled “oh!” escapes me.
“Let’s go,” Jackson says. He’s by my breakfast bar tapping the key I gave him against the granite counter. He stands tall and straight, his eyes hard, his expression defiant. But what it is that he is defying, I really don’t know.
“Go?” I repeat. “Go where. ”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face. “Back to the boat. ”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not. No. ”