Take My Dare (Stark International Trilogy 4)

And Jackson's strong arms are the only thing that hold me together and tether me to earth.

Chapter 8

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Sunday should be a lazy day, but since Jackson and I both took Friday off, we're playing catch-up before most people have taken their first sip of coffee.

The plan is to get all of our various ducks in a row for Monday, then get back home just after lunch so we can spend the afternoon with the kids at the children's museum.

We both work in Stark Tower--me on the twenty-seventh floor where Stark Real Estate Development is located, and Jackson on twenty-six, the floor he's sublet for the Los Angeles office of his own operation, Steele Development.

But he's not here now. He dropped me off, then continued on to Pasadena where he's meeting Wyatt, who's shooting the marketing photos for a office building that Jackson designed and for which I'm the project manager. The marketing plan has been moved up by two weeks, and so we need the images ready to go by early next week so we can start pre-leasing the property. They're going to do the shoot, and then Jackson is meeting with the leasing agent we've retained to walk her through the property and go over the various specs.

As for me, since I pretty much ate and drank my way through the weekend, I go first to the fitness center on twenty. I don't love running, but I figure twenty minutes on the treadmill followed by another half hour on the weight machines will do me a world of good.

I'm a sweaty mess when I finish, but I'm feeling pretty good about myself as I make my way through the gym to the women's locker room for a quick shower. There's only one other person in the gym today: Noah Carter, a red-haired tech genius who's been spending a lot of time in the offices lately doing some consulting work for Stark Applied Technology. He has the rugged good looks of someone who grew up on a farm, and a kind of silent aloofness that has the single women in the office speculating about him over coffee.

I don't usually play those games, but with Noah, I can't help but think that someone hurt him deeply. And considering the complete lack of interest he's shown in his speculating coworkers, I assume that the someone was a woman.

Today, he nods politely as I pass him on my way to get cleaned up. And although I consider asking if he wants to walk down to the coffee cart just outside the building, by the time I come back out, showered and dressed, he's gone.

I shrug, then head to my floor, passing the new weekend receptionist on my way. I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss her calling my name.

"Did you need me?" I ask, stopping just past her desk and turning around.

"I said that a messenger brought your purse. Apparently you left it at the Segel party last night." She sighs. "Was it amazing?"

"Yeah," I say with a distracted frown. "It was great. But I didn't leave my purse." I'm sure of it, because I popped over to Stella's bungalow this morning to see the kids, and I gave her a fifty so she could get a few extra things from the grocery store.

"Oh, you did," says the girl, whose name I don't recall. She lifts a beaded clutch from behind the desk and sets it on the desktop. I reach for it with a frown. "See? Your driver's license is even clipped to the outside."

Sure enough, someone has secured my driver's license to the purse with a giant black binder clip.

And that's especially odd because although that's not my purse, it is definitely my license. And how did my license get out of the little window in my wallet? I can barely get it out myself when I need to, it sticks so much to the clear plastic.

Definitely weird.

"Thanks," I say, my tone distracted as I take the purse and the clip and the license to my office. I open the clutch as I walk, thinking that maybe I fumbled my license after one too many drinks, and it fell near this clutch. The story doesn't ring true, however, not in small part because I didn't get drunk last night.

And even if I had dropped the license, why would someone deliver it to the office, instead of to the home address printed on it?

I'm completely baffled until I actually open the purse. That's when I see the envelope. In the envelope are photographs.

And the photographs are of me.

It was a joy to work with competent people, Jackson thought, as he watched Wyatt set up for a series of shots from a completely new angle.

Usually, Jackson had to be both architect and art director, but Wyatt knew his stuff, and Jackson had learned on the last couple of projects they'd worked on together to simply give Wyatt a general sense of what Jackson wanted, and then let the photographer run with it.

Each time, Wyatt came up with images even better than what Jackson had imagined.

Which was why Jackson was now simply letting the man work while he scrolled through his phone, answering key emails and shooting others to his assistant, Lauren, to handle.

He'd just lifted the phone to dictate a text when the sharp trill of his ringtone startled him. He glanced at the screen, saw it was Sylvia, and smiled as he answered it.

"I miss you already," he said without preamble. "I think we'll be done by lunch. Can you get away for a meal with your husband?"

"Jackson."

The tightness in her voice erased his smile. He stiffened, turning his back automatically to Wyatt for privacy. "What?" he demanded. "Sylvia, what's wrong?"

"They're back. Oh, god, Jackson. I told you I was afraid they'd come back, and now they have."

For a moment, he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Then reality hit him full force across the head, making him stumble backward. "The photos?"

"Dozens of them. Not the clean ones he used for advertisements. The ones he took between. When we were alone. When he--" Her voice broke, and Jackson realized his hand was so tight around his phone that he was on the verge of cracking the case. "When he touched me," she finished in a trembling voice.

"What? How?"

"They're vile, Jackson. Horrible and--" He heard her draw a breath and imagined her sitting up straighter. "No. Never mind."

"Dammit, Syl. How did you get them? Who sent them?"

"It's okay. I'm okay. I'll tell you later."

"I'll be right there. Half an hour. Maybe less." Traffic was light. Surely he could get from this part of Pasadena to downtown in thirty minutes.

"No, please. Don't." She sounded calmer. Stronger. "I'm fine. Really. I just needed to hear your voice."

"Bullshit. I'm on my way."

"Dammit, Jackson, listen to me. There's nothing you can do. They're just photos. I have no idea who sent them or why. They're here, and you coming won't change that. But today's the only day that Terry can meet with you about the marketing campaign. Come to me, and the entire project gets thrown off schedule. And for what?"

He wanted to say that the for what was her. Being with her. Holding her. Helping her.

But he also knew she was right. More than that, he could hear the growing strength in her voice as she shifted to work mode. Focusing on her job, her priorities, and shoving to the back the noise of those horrible images of her childhood.

Work was a balm--hell, he knew that better than anyone. Hadn't he thrown himself into his work when Syl had walked away from him, in those years before he'd fought to get her back?

And when he had gotten her back, hadn't he made it his utmost priority to help her fight the demons that had ripped her away from him in the first place?

Now she was once again fighting the battle, and from what he could hear in her voice, she was winning. And though he wanted more than anything to wrap his arms around her and hold her close, he also knew that if he really wanted to help her, he had to let her make the choice of what to do next.

"Jackson?"

"I'm here, baby."

"Just meet me at home after your meeting, okay? There's nothing you can do this second. And there's no reason for you to rush. What would be the point?" she added. "After all, you're already here with me. You're always with me."

He closed his eyes and breathed deep. "I love you."

"I know. That's kind of my point."

He laughed. How the hell could she be making him laugh now?

He forced his voice to stay even, then promised he'd see her at home before ending the call. Then he bent over, hands to his knees, as he drew in breath after breath and fought the urge to beat the living shit out of someone.

But who? Who the hell had done this? And why?

"Jackson?"

Wyatt's voice surprised Jackson, and had him spinning around, his body tense, ready to lash out or repel a blow.

Wyatt stepped back, hands up in defense. "Whoa, man. What's going on?"

Immediately, Jackson sagged, the fight leaving him, replaced by a bone deep frustration and an equally potent worry. "Sorry. I'm just a little on edge."

Wyatt's eyes dipped to the phone in Jackson's hand. "Everything okay?"

"That was Syl. Apparently Robert Cabot Reed is reaching out from his fucking grave," Jackson added bitterly.

"Come again?"

But Jackson just waved the question away. He liked Wyatt, but how the hell could he explain without mentioning the pictures? The only thing the public knew about Reed's murder was that--supposedly--Douglas killed Reed to stop the movie about Jackson, the Fletcher House, and Ronnie's birthmother. Sylvia's hell wasn't on the public's radar, and Jackson intended to keep it that way.

"Never mind," he said. "It's all okay."

Wyatt nodded slowly. "I used to admire the guy's work as a photographer. Even have some of the ad shots he took in my collection. But I lost all respect for the bastard not long ago."

"Because of his threats to make the movie?"