On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

I sigh, suddenly mentally and physically exhausted. “I feel like Damien’s punishing me, too,” I admit. “Making me be the one who fires him.”

“No,” Nikki says firmly. “I don’t think so. I think it’s his way of making sure that you still want the job and all the shit that comes with being the project manager. He knows you two are together, and that means that he knows you might not want to stay if Jackson is gone. Do you?”

My stomach twists, because yes, I do. This resort is my baby—my project. I’d suggested it to Damien. I’d put it together. And I’m so damn grateful that he’s given me a real chance to move up in the company by letting me split my time between being his assistant and being the project manager for the Cortez resort.

So yes, I want this job. I want the resort. I want Jackson.

God help me, I want it all.

And I have no idea if I can even come close to getting—or keeping—any of it.

four

Where R U?

I glance down at the text I sent to Jackson as I wait for Joe to check the computer logs that record vehicles entering and leaving the garage.

It’s been well over three minutes, and still no reply.

I tap out another note—???—and am rewarded with only cyber-silence.

“Anything?” I ask Joe.

“Nothing,” Joe says, frowning at his monitor. “He didn’t use his key card to access the garage today.”

“That doesn’t make sense. I know he drove here.” And I also know how much Jackson loves his sleek, classic black Porsche. I can’t imagine him simply parking it on the street in downtown LA after dark.

“Maybe he parked at the subway station and walked down the hill?”

“Why do you think that?”

“I chatted with him before he went up to see Mr. Stark. Came in right there,” Joe adds, pointing toward the glass doors that open onto the building’s front plaza and South Grand Avenue beyond that.

I consider that tidbit of information. “Well, did you see him leave?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Brooks. I haven’t seen him since he arrived.”

I frown, wondering if maybe Jackson didn’t leave the building, after all. I’d expected him to want to get far away as quickly as possible—I know I would. But Jackson isn’t me, and I draw in a breath as I debate whether I should go up to his workspace on the twenty-sixth floor. On the one hand, he didn’t wait for me, and he hasn’t returned my texts. All evidence suggests that he wants to be alone, and I get that.

On the other hand, what he wants may not be the most important factor. I’d been royally pissed off at him not long ago, and I’d wanted to be alone, too. But Jackson had followed me to make sure I was okay.

And right now, I’m terribly afraid that Jackson is a long, long way from okay.

I thank Joe for his help, then park myself on one of the chrome and leather benches that provide seating in the lobby. I tap out one more text, then actually cross my fingers.

It doesn’t help, and after forcing myself to sit and wait for a full five minutes, I make a decision. Maybe it’s selfish, but I want to see him. No, I need to see him. I need to know he’s okay.

More than that, I need to know that we’re okay. That despite all of this shit, Jackson and Sylvia are going to be just fine.

It’s dark when I get off on twenty-six, the only illumination on the floor coming from the city lights streaming in through all the windows. The floor is only half built-out, so there are very few offices and cubicles. It’s essentially a giant square with walls of glass, and because of that, the space is reasonably well-lit, like walking beneath the glow of a full moon.

I turn the last corner, and see the newly erected glass walls that define Jackson’s workspace. He is standing by the window, and I’m struck by the similarity between his stance and Damien’s earlier position as he’d looked out over the city.

I see Jackson only in silhouette. His shoulders squared, his body rigid. I cannot see the reflection of his face from where I stand, but I can imagine it with perfect clarity. His black hair gleaming in the reflected light. His sculptured jaw tight with anger. And his blue eyes as cold as ice.

I start to walk toward him and then change my mind. Instead, I pull out my phone one more time.

If you need me, I’m right outside your office.

I hesitate, not entirely certain I’m doing the right thing. And then, once more, I press send.

I hear his phone chirp almost immediately. I watch as he pulls out the phone. As he reads the text. As he slides the phone back into his pocket.

But he doesn’t come, and as the seconds tick by, that iron band is tightening around my chest again, and I am afraid—so terribly afraid—that we are not going to survive this. Because if he can’t come to me now, how much worse will it be when I have to render the deathblow?