Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

“One I’d like an answer to.”

“No. Not really. I’ve met him a time or two.”

“About what?”

“What the hell, boy? Is this the third degree?”

“Maybe it is. You’re awfully interested in that movie.”

“I’m interested in saving your ass,” Jeremiah spat back.

“I can take care of my own ass, thanks.” He pulled Sylvia closer. “And now it really is time for you to go. Trust me when I say you’ve worn out your welcome.”

“Jackson, please. I’m your father.”

“I suggest you don’t say that again.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Jeremiah was going to argue, and Jackson felt the tension build in him. Hell, he almost hoped the bastard tried to stay, put up a fight. Any excuse. Any excuse at all.

So Jackson was disappointed—but reluctantly had to admit it was probably for the best—when Jeremiah turned and headed off the boat. He paused after a few steps though, then looked back to where Jackson stood with Sylvia at his side. “You shouldn’t have told Damien you’re his brother, but I guess it’s good you did before it came out. Less pain for both of you.”

“Do you really think I believe that you give a fuck about what’s best for either of us? Your focus has always been on Jeremiah Stark, and no one else.”

“That’s not true.”

“I don’t know what your angle is, old man, but I know you came here with one. And whatever game you expect me to play, I’m not biting.”

“No games. I’m your father. I’m concerned.” He drew a breath, then shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and for a moment he just looked tired, and a lot older than his sixty-plus years. “We’ve had a rocky relationship. But I care about you. I’m your father, after all.”

“That’s just a word,” Jackson said. “And right now it feels pretty damn hollow.”

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—”