Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

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?”