Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

“I’m sorry,” he rushed to say. “I shouldn’t have told you. Shit, I shouldn’t have said anything. That’s why she’s with Betty now, because of course I don’t really expect you to—”

“You’re such a fool.”

Her voice was thick with tears, and for a moment, Jackson was certain he must have misunderstood.

“Do you have any idea what that means to me? That you have that much faith in me? That you’d trust me with the most precious thing in your life?”

He stared at her, a little bit shell-shocked. Had he heard her right? Did she understand what she was saying?

“I haven’t got a clue how to play Mommy,” she continued. “But I love you, Jackson—those aren’t just words, and they sure as hell aren’t temporary.” She brushed her hand over his cheek. “Whatever you need, remember? And those aren’t just words, either. For better or worse, we’re getting through this. And we’re doing it together.”

He didn’t answer. Not yet. All he wanted to do was look at her. To breathe her in and let her words fill his head. Because they were damn good words.

For better or worse . . .

Someday, he thought. Someday she’d say those words to him again and he’d put a ring on her finger.

But first, they had to survive everything that was yet to come.

five

Our destination—the office of Bender, Twain & McGuire—takes up three floors in 2049 Century Park East, one of the two iconic triangular shaped towers that comprise the Century Plaza Towers in Century City. They rise up ahead of us, shining against the night sky, as Jackson maneuvers his beloved black Porsche down Santa Monica Boulevard, cutting a straight path from my condo to our destination.

I’ve always loved these towers—the sleek, clean lines and the soft gleam of the aluminum facade. The towers truly shine when they are set against the backdrop of the blue California sky. But even after dark, they stand like monuments, reflecting the power and prestige of the area and the people who live and work here.

“He’s on my regret list,” Jackson says, pointing to the towers.

“He? You mean Yamasaki?”

Jackson grins. “I should have known you’d be familiar with him. Along with Frank Lloyd Wright, Minoru Yamasaki is one of the people I always invite to dinner when I play that game.”

“Who you’d have at your table, either living or dead?”

“Exactly. Wright passed away before I was born, and I think I would have been about four when Yamasaki died. I was building things with my Legos back then, but even if I had clued in to my desire to be an architect, I don’t think he would have taken my call.”

I can’t help my smile. “Probably not. He’s on my list, too,” I admit. “There’s such an elegant majesty to his buildings, you know?” Minoru Yamasaki may have been the original architect for the towers in Century City, but he’s most well-known for the original World Trade Center.

We stop at a light, and Jackson turns to me. “I haven’t taken you on an architectural tour of Los Angeles yet. We should do that soon. Maybe next weekend.”

“Don’t,” I snap, my voice harsher than I’d intended. “Don’t try to keep my mind off what’s going on around us. Don’t try to pretend that everything is fine. Like it or not, this is reality now.”

“Syl . . .” The light changes, but he doesn’t move forward.

“No, I mean it,” I say, as a car behind us honks. I turn around and glare at the idiot in the convertible—some overly made-up blonde who looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world, then I turn back to Jackson, even more irritated than I was before. “Go,” I say, but he’s already moving.

We drive in silence for another block. Jackson’s got both hands on the wheel, and an uncomfortable tension has filled the car, completely obliterating the sense of normalcy that had been between us just a few moments ago.

Good.

Because this isn’t normal. Nothing is normal. And we have to remember that. We have to fight it.

Except, dammit, how do you fight the evidence? The police? A horrible reality that’s edging closer and closer?

“Do you think I don’t understand the stakes?” Jackson’s voice is level, but firm.

“I think you’re trying to make it better for me,” I say. “And you can’t. Not like that.” I kick off my ballet flats and pull my legs up onto the seat, then rest my chin on my knees as I hug myself. “You need to do what they say, Jackson. Evelyn. The attorneys. I mean it. Exactly what they say.”