Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

“Me, too.”

I want to slide into his embrace and hold him close. I want to lose myself in him. I want to breathe in his scent and let the feel of him erase all my fears.

But he is not reaching for me, and I can’t bring myself to move through this dark cloud and into his arms, because what if he pushes me away?

Instead, I do the opposite. I stand, then force a smile. “All right, then. So what’s the plan? You have to be in Beverly Hills in the morning, right? So what time are we leaving here?”

He looks almost relieved at the shift in conversation. “This afternoon. I want some face time with Charles and the new attorney before I walk into the lions’ den tomorrow,” he says, referring to Charles Maynard, his attorney back home, as well as the kick-ass criminal defense attorney that Charles has promised to retain.

“Have you told Grayson and Darryl?” I ask. Grayson Leeds is the head pilot for the Stark International fleet, and when Damien offered Jackson the use of one of the smaller jets, he also offered Grayson’s services as pilot, with Darryl, a new hire, coming on as co-pilot. Originally, the men were simply going to make the two-hour flight, drop us in New Mexico, and then return to California. But when the police showed up with the news that Jackson needed to return to Beverly Hills for questioning, Grayson and Darryl stayed. Now, they’re holed up in two of the guest rooms after having enjoyed a night of the Wisemans’ hospitality.

“I just told them,” Jackson says. “They’ll be ready when we are. I’m shooting to get out of here right after lunch.”

“Then this room isn’t where you need to be.” I glance toward the window, then offer him my hand and tug him to his feet. “Go spend some time with your daughter, Jackson Steele.” I reach up and stroke his cheek, his beard stubble scratchy against my hand. “Just a bit today, but that’s okay. You’ll be spending a lot more time with her very soon.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Then he nods. “Are you coming?”

“I’m going to shower first and get dressed. And,” I add, picking up the now-cold toast, “I can’t go out there until I’ve eaten the best toast ever.”

He actually laughs a bit, and I’m proud of my rather lame joke.

I watch him go, then shut the door behind him before returning to the window and waiting for him to appear on the lawn. It takes a few minutes, but he finally shows, and as I watch, he calls to Ronnie. Both she and the puppy lope toward him, and he scoops her up and swings her around, his expression glowing.

My heart twists. Because I know that his happiness will be fleeting. And I fear it will get worse before it gets better.

More than that, I fear that it won’t get better at all.

My phone starts to ring just as I’m stepping out of the shower. I don’t recognize the number, and I almost let it roll to voice mail, but then go ahead and answer it, just in case it’s my best friend, Cass, calling from a friend’s line, or Charles calling from another attorney’s office. Or even my boss, Damien Stark, calling from a hotel with Nikki after a spur-of-the-moment getaway.

Of course it’s none of those people.

Instead, the voice on the other end of the line belongs to my father.

“Sylvia. Honey, we need to talk.”

I cringe, his use of the endearment grating on me as much as his tone. Like he cares. Like he actually gives a shit about me.

I know better.

I know he’s only calling me because Jackson forced my dad to confront a truth that he’d avoided since I was fourteen—that Robert Cabot Reed had sucked the marrow out of me, and my father had handed me to the bastard on a platter and then looked the other way.

“Sylvia,” he prompts. “Sylvia, talk to me.”

“This isn’t a good time.” My voice is tight, and I can barely squeeze the words out.

“I’ve left at least a dozen messages. You haven’t called me back.”

“And so you thought you would trick me by calling from an unfamiliar number?”

“What choice do I have? I need to talk to you.”

“You need?” The words hang in the air, dark and twisted. Two simple syllables, and yet they seem to sum up my entire, horrible childhood.

“We need,” he corrects immediately. “We need to talk. About Reed. About what happened. About those photographs he threatened you with.”

“I can’t.” I’m shaking my head, wishing I could block out everything he is saying. Trying to push back the memories he is invoking. But it’s no use. The floor is shifting beneath me, and I reach for the counter to steady myself.