Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

I sigh, cherishing the comfort that he’s offering. I have said nothing to him about the grayness that seems to fill the space between us. Instead, I am clinging like a beggar to each and every subtle connection. Every brush of his fingers against mine. Every press of his hand upon my back as he guides me. Every soft glance, every gentle smile.

It’s not enough, though. We have always fit together, Jackson and I, like pieces in a puzzle. But now it feels as if someone has bent the pieces and the fit is awkward and slightly off, and that disconnect is making me crazy. I don’t think I can stand it much longer, and soon I’m going to have to confront him. To grab him hard and pull him back, and then demand to know why the hell he’s so far away from me—and then hope that he doesn’t run even further.

Not now, though. Right now, I just need to know why the pilot is crouched in front of me instead of in the cockpit where he belongs.

“Seriously,” I demand as I narrow my eyes at Grayson, “why aren’t you at the wheel or the stick or whatever they call it?”

“Darryl has it under control,” Grayson assures me. “And I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s a satellite call.”

“Damien?”

“Trent,” Jackson says. “I offered to handle it, but he insisted he needs to speak to you.”

That’s odd, and I force down the rising worry and tell myself that this isn’t necessarily a big deal. After all, I call Damien all the time when he’s flying. It’s just one more method of communication. He probably needs a contact that Rachel can’t find. Or wants me to run interference for him on one of his projects if he ended up double-booked. Something mundane and easily handled.

Something not a crisis. Because honestly, at the moment, my crisis quota is all filled up.

Grayson returns with a headset for me and I put it on, then wait for him to return to the cockpit and patch the call through.

A few seconds later, I hear Trent Leiter come on the line. “You sitting down?”

“I’m in a plane, Trent. What do you think?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” His words spill nervously on top of each other. And since Trent isn’t easily rattled, that alone is enough to make me stand up and start to pace the length of the cabin.

What? Jackson mouths.

But all I can do is shrug. “Dammit, Trent. What’s going on?”

“Oh, hell,” he says, and I can practically picture the way his shoulders slump. Trent’s not a bad-looking guy, but neither is he the type who commands a room. His asset is a boyish charm that takes clients by surprise. He knows how to work it, too, getting friendly with them in sports bars and at Lakers’ games. Reeling them in with a few beers and the latest player stats.

So the fact that I can actually hear the nervous discomfort in his voice lets me know that whatever he has to say is bad. More than that, I’m positive that this is about the resort, and my brief fantasy that he was calling so I could hold some investor’s hand during a walk-through in Century City has flown completely out the window.

So, yeah, I stand. “Trent,” I demand as I start to pace.

“It’s out,” he says. “One damn leak, and it’s everywhere.”

I’m almost to the closed cockpit door, and now I turn back, my eyes immediately meeting Jackson’s. He starts to stand, obviously concerned by the look on my face, but I shake my head. “What?” I ask, my voice tense and tight. “What’s out?”

“It was an article in The Business Round-Up,” he says, referring to a small local paper that serves downtown Los Angeles. “I don’t know how they got the story, but it was on their website this morning, and the tabloids picked it up a few hours later, and now it’s pretty much everywhere.”

“What is?” I repeat. “Come on, Trent, just spit it out.” But even as I’m talking, I’m hurrying back to my seat, then rummaging in my bag for my tablet so that I can check out the Round-Up myself. I try to get a connection, then remember that we told Grayson not to worry about booting up the wifi—the flight’s only a couple of hours, and we’d plummet headfirst into reality soon enough.

“The article says that the investors are worried. They were already antsy because of Lost Tides,” he says, referring to a competing resort that is being developed in Santa Barbara, just a few hours away from my resort on Santa Cortez. It’s a huge thorn in my side because the developers are keeping the details under wraps in anticipation of a big PR event as they get closer to opening. But I know enough to know that the resort was inspired by my idea for Cortez. And, frankly, that pisses me off.