Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

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 despite 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.