“Careful,” Jackson said, his voice low and dangerous.
“Or you’ll do what, Steele? Bloody me? You think I don’t know about your crimes and misdemeanors? Everything that went on in Santa Fe? The people you hurt to keep that tell-all movie off the screen?”
Damien met Jackson’s eyes, saw the heat building on his brother’s face. He didn’t know all of it, but he knew Jackson’s temper matched his own. And he also knew that Jackson had done what was necessary to shield his daughter, Veronica, from the prying eyes of the press.
“If you know that,” Jackson told Breckenridge, “then you know that it isn’t wise to push my buttons. Mine or my brother’s.”
“Fuck you both,” Breckenridge said. “I know enough to bury you.”
“Then try.” Damien pushed back his chair and stood up, looking down at the man still resting his greasy palms on Damien’s desk. “But right now, I want you out of my office, you sniveling, misogynistic fuck.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Well, that was bracing,” Jackson said later as he kicked back on the leather sofa in Damien’s sitting area. “It’s almost four. Too early for something stronger than coffee?”
“Tempting,” Damien said, pouring himself a cup from the carafe Rachel had left on the sidebar. “I think I’ll save the hard stuff for after my next appointment.”
“Christ, that’s right. You’re seeing Claymore in a bit.”
“We are,” Damien confirmed. “I’d appreciate it if you and Sylvia would come, too. If you can get away. I know Nikki would like—we would like—to be with family.”
Jackson didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned over and pushed the intercom button on the phone next to the sofa. “Yes, Mr. Stark?”
“Steele, actually. Could you call down to my office and have them clear the rest of my day. And ask Sylvia to do the same then meet me up here. Tell her it’s important.”
“Of course, Mr. Steele,” she said, her voice tinny through the speaker.
Jackson leaned back, and without missing a beat, said, “So why do you think the jackass wants to see you?”
Damien met his brother’s eyes in a silent thank you, then settled into the chair across from him. “Absolution, I’m guessing.”
“Will he get it?”
Damien looked at Jackson’s face, so like his own. Hard lines and angles and eyes that missed nothing. “What do you think?”
“Hell, no.”
Jackson nodded slowly. “Jeremiah called me after the girls’ party. Well, he called Sylvia. Probably assumed I wouldn’t be interested in taking his calls. He was right, but I wasn’t going to make my wife suffer for it, so I spoke to him.”
The shift in conversation didn’t surprise Damien. They were talking about absolution, after all. And neither of Jeremiah’s sons felt particularly forgiving to their father. “What did he want?”
“Said he was concerned about Anne. I guess he heard about it on the news. He wanted to know if he should call you.”
“No.”
“And that’s what I told him.”
Damien nodded, then looked at his coffee. “Maybe it’s time for a drink after all.”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
He crossed the room to the wet bar, then returned with a half-full bottle of 25-year Macallan and two glasses. He poured, then handed one to Jackson, whose brows rose. “Nice to know I rate the good stuff.”
The words were light, but Damien heard the truth behind them. That Jackson was just as glad as Damien that they’d overcome the past thrust upon them by their father.
He lifted his glass. “To family,” he said. “The kind that’s forged from more than blood.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
He was still enjoying the smooth burn of that first incredible sip when Rachel’s voice sang out over the intercom. “Your father-in-law is here. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he asked if you could spare a few moments?”
“Of course,” Damien said, then rose when the door opened to greet the older man, who had a kind but weathered face, brown hair that had gone gray at the temples, and eyes that telegraphed that he was Nikki’s father. “Frank, it’s good to see you. Drink?”
“Yeah, thanks. I could use it.” A travel photographer, Frank wore khaki pants, an army green T-shirt, and a utility vest full of pockets. Two cameras hung from straps around his neck. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his weight shifting from foot to foot.
Damien gestured to a chair as he crossed the room for a fresh glass.
“Good to see you again,” Jackson said. “Should I get out of your hair?”
“What? Oh, no. No. I was just taking some postcard shots of downtown LA. Always a good seller at stock sites. Figured I’d drop in. Say hi to my son-in-law. Consider yourself a bonus, Jackson.”
Jackson laughed. “I’m flattered.”
Frank took the glass Damien handed him, then settled into a chair. “And I, uh, wanted to check in. Make sure you and Nikki are doing okay after … everything. And Anne.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “I wanted to check in on Anne, too.”
Such a difference, Damien thought. He didn’t believe in Jeremiah’s motives for calling Jackson about Anne at all. But Frank…
Well, he was dead certain that Frank was ripped up inside. Not just because of the trauma that had happened to the people he loved, but also because he knew that he’d botched the handling of it completely.
He’d come here today to prostrate himself before Damien in silent apology for that failure. And Damien respected the hell out of him for it.
“She’s doing well,” he said gently, intentionally being vague about which Stark female he was talking about.
Frank met his eyes, then nodded, his lips tight with suppressed emotion. “Thank you.” T
hough almost inaudible, it was clear the words were heartfelt.
“She’s avoiding me, you know,” Frank said. “She hasn’t returned my call. I know—” He looked between Jackson and Damien. “I just…I mean, I never—I guess I never figured out how to be a father.”
“I’m not sure you ever do,” Jackson said. “You just do the best you can.”
“I don’t want to make it worse for her. With her mother…”
Damien flashed a wry grin. “I understand. But you’re not Elizabeth. As long as you’re there for Nikki—and you’re genuine—you’ll do just fine.”
Frank put his drink on the table in front of him, then bent over, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. That was the last thing I wanted. But damned if I didn’t mess everything up.”
Damien saw the signal light flash above the door. “I think she’s the one you need to tell.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“And,” Damien added, standing as the door opened and Nikki stepped in, “I think now’s the perfect time.”
He watched as Nikki’s brows rose. “Perfect time for what—oh. Dad—I mean, Frank. I didn’t realize you were here.”
Frank was standing now, his hands shoved into his pants’ pockets. “I came to see Damien. I thought he might have advice.”
“Business advice?”
“Ah, no. Actually, I was looking for guidance on how to claw my way out of the doghouse.”
“Apparently, your father thinks I have some experience with that.”
As he’d hoped, she laughed. “Not that much,” she said, coming up beside him and hooking her arm through his. “But if Damien told you to say that, I think he’s given you some good, solid advice. And,” she added with a tentative smile, “I think the fact that you came to ask was a good first step.”
It was as if her words worked magic, eviscerating the layer of anxiety that had wrapped around Frank like a cloak, so palpable that Damien could see every fold and crease.
“We should talk,” he said. “Do you think we could sit down and talk? Maybe we can go grab a drink at the Biltmore,” he added, referring to the hotel down the hill from Stark Tower.