Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

At that, Jackson nods stoically. As for me, I can almost feel myself go pale.

“What can we do?” Nikki asks Jackson. “Whatever you need, just say the word.”

“Can you go with Syl to the airport? Stella’s bringing Ronnie in. Maybe help her get settled?”

“Of course,” Nikki says, and I don’t argue, even though I’m more than capable of doing those things on my own. The truth is, as much as I’d like to say I can handle this by myself, I don’t think I’m going to be able to.

“I need to find someplace else to stay, too,” I say. “The boat has a spare room, but it’s no place for a little girl. And my condo is only one bedroom. Even if I give that room to Ronnie, that still puts me in a bind while Stella’s here.” Stella is a saint as far as I’m concerned. She’s staying for at least a week to help Ronnie and me get to know each other better—and to teach me all the ins and outs of caring for a toddler.

Jackson had intended to look for a rental house, but he hadn’t had much time, and the few places he’d viewed just weren’t up to par.

I glance at Jackson. “I wish—” But I don’t finish the thought. He knows what I’m going to say, because I’ve already said it at least five times this morning.

“I know,” he says. “You wish they could have gotten here before. Believe me, so do I.”

“Harriet will get you out on bail,” Damien says firmly. “You’ll see your daughter soon enough.”

I catch Jackson’s eye. We both hope he’s right. We both fear that he’s not.

“You should stay at Stark Tower,” Nikki says, looking to Damien for confirmation.

“She’s right,” Damien says. “Stay at the Tower apartment. Nikki and I can stay at the Malibu house. We’ll be fine. And Syl will be closer to Ronnie during the day. You will be, too, once you’re back at your drafting table. And I’ll need you pulling a lot of hours,” he says wryly. “I want my resort finished on time.”

“Your resort?” Jackson repeats, and Damien just grins.

For a moment, everything is light, and it feels almost as if we’re just standing around talking. As opposed to standing around a police station talking while we wait for Jackson to surrender himself. To be incarcerated.

Jackson meets my eyes, and I nod in agreement. The apartment is completely tricked out. Best of all, it’s right inside Stark Tower.

“All right,” he says to Damien. He turns to Nikki. “Thank you both.”

“Well,” Damien says, “that’s what family is for, right?”

“I guess it is,” Jackson says. “I never really knew before.”

The conversation lags, and I’m about to fill the awkward silence with a question about which guest room Nikki’d choose for a three-year-old when the conference room door opens. I clutch Jackson’s hand as Harriet enters with Detective Garrison.

“Mr. Steele,” the detective says. “Thank you for coming.”

Jackson raises a brow. “I’m not sure I had a choice, but you’re welcome.” His shoulders rise and fall as he gathers himself. “Okay, let’s do this.”

“There’s nothing to do, Jackson,” Harriet says gently. Her face breaks into a wide smile. “You’re free to go.”

His hand tightens around mine, but otherwise, he doesn’t move a single muscle. As for me, I’m certain that I’ve lost my ability to process words, because what she just said makes no sense.

Slowly, Jackson asks, “What are you talking about?”

“We have a suspect in custody, Mr. Steele,” Detective Garrison says. “He’s made a full confession.”

Jackson’s other hand reaches out for the table, and he slowly lowers himself into one of the chairs. His mouth opens, but no words form. Instead, it’s me who says, “Oh, my god, it’s over? It’s really over?”

I squeeze his hand as Harriet confirms what Detective Garrison has said, and Jackson looks up, his eyes searching mine, as if this is a joke and he’s waiting for the punchline.

“It’s over,” I repeat, and for a moment we just look at each other, basking in this moment. And I wonder if maybe—just maybe—the universe has decided that it’s had enough fun with us. That the joke is all done and we can go on with our lives instead of playing some sort of cosmic game of dodgeball.

“Thank god,” Jackson whispers. “Thank god.”

“Who confessed?” Damien asks the question, and it’s only then that I realize that Harriet’s smile is not as broad as I would expect.