Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

It was a great plan in theory, and when Jackson dropped me by my condo on his way to Beverly Hills, I was totally on board. But then my car decided it had other plans, and I ended up on Rexford Drive at the art deco–inspired building.

Now I’m doing exactly what Jackson said I would be doing—worrying instead of working.

And, yes, I know that he won’t be saying anything except, “On the advice of my attorney, I refuse to answer,” yada yada yada. But what if they arrest him? What if the last moments he had free were last night?

What if today is the day that I lose him?

I pull out my phone to call Cass, but on Mondays she doesn’t open the studio until two, and so she tends to sleep in. I know she won’t mind if I wake her, especially under the circumstances, but she and Siobhan haven’t been back together that long, and I hate to interrupt. Especially since I’m so happy that Siobhan is back in Cass’s life—and Zee is so very out of it.

I stroke my thumb idly over the surface of my phone, debating. But in the end I slide it back into my purse. I’m a big girl, after all. I can go it alone.

Oh, god.

Those words slice through me, because I do not want to go it alone. Not now in this hallway and certainly not for the rest of my life.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I do, and that’s my mantra for about ten minutes—just breathe. But as each minute ticks by, my fear is ratcheting up, too. And when I can’t stand it anymore, I yank my phone out of my purse and am just about to dial when I hear my name from the wrong end of the hallway.

I glance automatically toward the doors through which I expect Jackson to emerge. He’s not there, of course, and when I turn in the other direction, I see Orlando McKee striding toward me.

“Ollie?”

Ollie works as an associate at Bender Twain, but I can’t imagine why he’s here. I leap to my feet, suddenly panicked. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I haven’t heard a thing. Nikki asked me to come.”

“Really?”

I must sound as astounded as I feel, because he laughs. “I guess Damien told her you weren’t at the office, and she figured you were here. Worried. So she called me.”

“That’s incredibly sweet.” I’m genuinely touched. I like Nikki a lot, and we’ve become friends, but in the grand scheme of things we still don’t know each other that well—the only truly close friend I’ve ever had is Cass. But I think it’s a friendship worth working on, and the simple fact that she sent Ollie to hold my hand tells me that she feels the same way.

“How’s Cass?” he asks. “Has she decided what she’s going to do?”

“She wants to go forward,” I say, referring to Cass’s plan to franchise Totally Tattoo. “I’m sure she’ll call you soon about the next step, but right now she’s in that blissful new relationship stage. Renewed, actually, but why split hairs?”

“Good for her. I hope it sticks.”

Since I happen to know that his attempts to renew a relationship were less than successful, I change the subject. “I’m having drinks with her and my brother tomorrow night. I’ll tell her you said hi. Maybe that’ll nudge her.”

“Definitely tell her hello for me, but no need to nudge. She needs to take her time and be sure.”

“You sound very lawyerly.”

“I practice in the mirror every morning,” he deadpans, making me laugh.

“You’re looking very lawyerly, too.” His long hair has been cut short, and his glasses have been replaced by contacts. Basically, Orlando McKee has gone from hippie to hot.

“I decided—well, I decided it was time to grow up a bit.”

I smile in response, but the truth is that I’ve surpassed my small-talk quota. I turn away from Ollie to stare at the closed door at the end of the hall. The door that leads to the bull pen and the detectives’ offices and an interview room with Jackson in it.

“I’m starting to really get scared.” My words are so soft that I’m not even sure that Ollie has heard them.

“I know.” He hooks an arm around my shoulders and I lean against him. “But even if they arrest him, that’s not—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence because the door opens at the end of the hall. For the flash of an instant, my imagination runs wild, and I picture Jackson in an orange jumpsuit, his wrists bound in cuffs.

The image is so vibrant, so horrible, that it propels me to my feet. And when I really do see him—unfettered and striding toward me with his usual confident air—I can’t help myself. I race to him and launch myself into his outstretched arms.