Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

Bender Twain is one of the country’s top law firms, and the activity in these halls—especially so late on a Sunday—goes a long way to explaining why.

Charles’s office isn’t as large as Damien’s, but it’s still massive and easily holds Charles’s desk, a large oval conference table, a couch with two twenty-something men on it, and several comfortable chairs. Not to mention the bookshelves filled top to bottom with legal treatises, historical fiction, and stacks of files.

We’re the last to arrive, and before I can even get my bearings or scope out the room’s occupants, Jackson strides past me, my phone still in his hand. “What the fuck is this?” He’s aimed like an arrow toward Damien, and I doubt that he sees anything or anyone else in this room.

Damien is standing beside the conference table and barely even glances at the outstretched phone as Jackson approaches. But he does look up, his eyes cool and calm on Jackson’s face. “I didn’t say a thing,” he says evenly. “Believe me. I’m coming to terms with the idea of having a brother, but I wasn’t ready to go public yet.”

Damien glances at Evelyn, who is seated at the table with an open folio in front of her. “We’ve been talking about how to handle that announcement, and I wasn’t too happy that someone beat me to it.” He almost smiles. “I thought it might be you, but based on your reaction, I’m thinking not.”

“It wasn’t,” Jackson confirms, and when I see the way his body relaxes slightly, I know that he believes Damien.

“So how are you holding up?” Damien asks.

“Fine.” Jackson’s voice is clipped.

“Bullshit. You’re scared,” Damien says. “And if you’re not, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were, because you should be.”

I stand frozen next to Jackson, and despite my rant in the car about facing reality, Damien’s words are making my stomach twist so violently, I fear I might actually throw up.

“If you did it,” Damien continues, “you’re afraid that someone’s going to figure that out. If you didn’t do it, you’re even more afraid that you’ll end up in prison with a tight grip on the soap and your back to the wall, all because you told the wrong guy to fuck off, and that guy ended up dead.

“It’s a screwed up situation.” Damien’s voice, which had started out harsh, now takes on a more conciliatory tone. “And that’s why we’re all here. To make sure you don’t end up fucked.”

Jackson glances at me just long enough for me to see relief in his eyes. Then he turns toward Charles, who is approaching from where he’s been standing with a familiar-looking woman by the window near the bookshelf.

“Let me make sure you know everybody,” Charles says. “Damien and Evelyn are givens, obviously, and you’ve already met my paralegal, Natalie. Those two are UCLA law students,” he says, pointing to the sofa and giving us the interns’ names. “And this is Harriet Frederick,” he adds, and I have to stifle a little gasp as he gestures to the woman with whom he’d been talking.

Harriet Frederick is one of the most prominent criminal defense attorneys in California. Probably in the country. She’s poised and sharply dressed, but still has a semi-casual “working on Sunday” look about her. Her long hair is clipped back at the nape of her neck, and she wears minimal makeup. From what I can see, she doesn’t need much. She comes off as competent and sharp, and even if she’d just been one of the interns, I would be glad she’s on our team.

But I’m even more glad because Harriet Frederick has been all over the news, and I know she consulted a few times with Charles from stateside when Damien’s trial went forward in Germany with local defense counsel. I knew that Charles was bringing someone else on board for Jackson’s case—while he was more than capable of bailing Jackson out after the assault, his specialty is corporate law, not criminal. But I hadn’t anticipated we’d get Harriet, and seeing her here is more than a relief—it’s like getting a shot of undiluted hope.

She moves confidently across the room to shake Jackson’s hand. “Mr. Stark’s right. Being nervous is par for the course, but if you listen to me—if you’re honest with me—we’ll have a better chance of keeping you a free man.”

I lick my lips, hating what she’s not saying, but what I already know. That there are no guarantees. And even though she’s one of the most famous and well-regarded criminal defense attorneys out there, even Harriet Frederick cannot guarantee that I won’t lose the man I love to prison.