Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

“I completely forgot to call Ronnie at bedtime, and now it’s almost eleven there.” He slams his hand against the steering wheel. “Shit. So much for father of the year.”

“Text Betty,” I suggest. “Tell her not to answer her phone. Then call and leave a message for Ronnie that she can play to her in the morning.”

Jackson pauses at the road that turns into the marina where his boat is docked. Then he shifts in his seat and stares at me.

I squirm a little under his inspection. “Um, what?”

“Maybe you should get father of the year. That’s brilliant.”

A delighted laugh bubbles out of me. “I aim to please.”

He reaches over and slides his hand very slowly over my jean-clad leg. “And you do it very, very well.”

I’m still tingling from the sensual tone of his voice and the heat from his touch as we approach the entrance to the marina. It’s marked by a guard station with a gate that lifts and lowers to allow residents and their guests to enter. Never once, however, have I seen it down, and usually the guard who sits in the small station simply waves us through.

Today, though, the gate is lowered—and it’s easy enough to see why. Dozens of reporters line the drive—some are even perched on camp-style chairs or sprawled on the ground, as if they’ve been waiting for hours. But they rise to their feet as Jackson’s Porsche approaches, and rush toward us en masse, almost like a swarm of bees zeroing in on a target.

“Fuck,” Jackson says, and I silently second the curse, even though we both know that we should have expected this.

“Jackson! How long have you known Damien Stark is your half-brother?”

“Did you follow your brother’s trial in Germany?”

“Sylvia, did you know your boss and your boyfriend were related?”

“What’s the status of the Fletcher house movie, Jackson? Is it tabled now that Reed is dead?”

Jackson is inching the car forward, though I have a feeling he wants to gun it and maybe run over a few toes in the process. He reaches the guard station and rolls the window down to talk to the man inside.

“How long has this been going on, Charlie?”

“Couple of hours, Mr. Steele. The property managers are hiring extra security. We’ll keep them out of your hair.”

“I’ll pay for the extra men.” Jackson’s voice is tight.

“Well, sir, I guess that’s up to you. We’ve got the cameras on and there’ll be extra men walking the property tonight. But you be sure and lock the gate to your dock and the doors on the Veronica.”

“I will. Thanks, Charlie. And sorry.”

“Not your fault, Mr. Steele,” the guard says loyally, though I can tell from Jackson’s face he disagrees.

He remains tense all the way to his parking slot in front of his boat, and once he kills the engine, he turns to me. I shake my head and press a finger over his lips. I don’t know if he’s about to curse them or apologize for them, but I don’t want to hear either. Instead, I want to make him forget. And so I lean toward him as I lower my hand and press it over his thigh, just close enough to his cock to let him know that the paparazzi are the very last thing I’m interested in at the moment.

He says nothing, but I can feel the shift in his body. A different kind of tension forming. And when I drag my teeth over my lower lip, I see the heat build in his eyes.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Ms. Brooks?”

“Me? Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About a man I know.”

His brows raise. “Oh?”

“Mmm. He’s utterly gorgeous. Wildly sexy. The touch of his hands is like magic on my skin.”

The corner of his mouth twitches and a victorious trill runs through me. “I think I’m jealous.”

I slide my hand up, my pinky brushing lightly against his hardening cock. “It’s been one hell of a day. What do you say we go inside, get naked, and help each other forget?”

His eyes are like blue flames. “I think that sounds like an exceptionally good idea.”

The heat in his voice makes me gooey in all the right places.

I reluctantly pull back, then open my door. “In that case, mister, follow me.” We get out of the car, and I take his hand and lead him through the gate then down the dock to his boat. There’s a small gangplank permanently set up; it opens to a door onto the deck. I’ve been here enough to know the routine, and I take charge, leading the way.

I step carefully onto the sometimes slick deck, glance around the familiar area, see the man—and scream.