Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

Trent clears his throat and continues. “Now they’re saying that if the Cortez resort’s architect is a suspect in a murder, then maybe that’s not the kind of project they want to fund.”

“Fuck.”

I’m not sure when I sat back down, but all I know is that I am seated, and Jackson is leaning forward, his expression concerned.

Tell me, he demands silently.

And this time, I do. “It’s out,” I whisper. “It’s leaked. They know you’re a suspect.” I increase my volume for Trent. “How did this happen?”

“Best guess is some tenacious reporter has a mole in the Beverly Hills PD. If you’re looking to report hot celebrity gossip, that’s the place to flash a little cash and see whose pockets need lining.”

“Shit.” I draw a breath and try to stay calm. Beside me, Jackson looks like he could very easily put his fist through the plane’s hull. Since that thought really doesn’t jibe well with my fear of flying, I take one of his hands in my own and squeeze. What I want is to get off the phone. To toss this damn headset across the cabin and climb into Jackson’s lap. To hold tight to him and let him hold tight to me, and simply breathe.

But even that’s not true, because I want so much more. I want his mouth on me. His hands touching me. I want him to make me forget. To erase my fears.

And I want to do the same for him.

But this is not the place for that—a small jet with a thin door between the simple eight-seat cabin and the cockpit.

And, truly, what I fear even more is that Jackson would push me away. Gently, and with a soft touch and a kiss. But effective and painful nonetheless.

Frustrated, I stand again, too antsy to sit still, as Trent says tentatively, “Syl? Are you there? Did I lose you?”

“I’m here. Does Damien know?”

“He knows.”

At the mention of his half-brother’s name, Jackson rises, too. He brushes his fingers over my shoulder in a silent gesture of support, then goes to the back of the plane. He’s not pacing so much as imploding. As if all of his anger and energy is being sucked into himself. He needs to lash out—I know that he does. And I both fear and welcome the explosion when we finally do get the hell off this plane. He needs to explode, I think. And, dammit, so do I.

“So?” I prompt. “What’s Damien’s take?”

“He’s concerned,” Trent says. “He’s got reason to be. The investors pull out and you’ve got a mess on your hands. He’s trying to do damage control right now.”

“How?”

“Dallas is in town—the Round-Up actually contacted him.” Dallas Sykes is one of the resort’s primary investors. And any story that touches on the bad boy heir to the department store empire is bound to go viral. His dating escapades are constant tabloid fodder, and he’s been in the media spotlight since he was a kid. Everything from fights to over-the-top parties to reckless driving, not to mention more than a few times when he disappeared off the planet altogether, presumably holed up with some willing female.

“I should call Damien,” I say.

“No need. He’s already doing the drink-and-soothe routine. I told him I’d call you.”

“Is Aiden around?”

“I’m the one who spotted the article,” Trent says testily, and I cringe.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” I get why he’s touchy. Trent’s in charge of projects in the Southern California area. By rights, The Resort at Cortez should be his. But since the idea was mine in the first place, Damien put me in as project manager—and I report to Aiden Ward, the VP of Stark Real Estate Development, jumping over Trent entirely.

“Listen, I really do appreciate the heads-up.”

“Yeah, well, I figured you’d want to get ahead of it. The resort’s already on shaky ground, and I’d hate for you to lose it because of this. It’s bullshit.”

Lose the resort.

Lose the resort?

With an unpleasant jolt, I realize that I’ve had blinders on. I’ve been so focused on the possibility of Jackson ending up behind bars that it never occurred to me that the resort might slip through my fingers simply because Jackson’s a suspect.

A thick, cold dread swirls inside me. I have done everything humanly possible to get Cortez off the ground. I’ve lived it, breathed it. Risked my heart for it.

I shake my head, vehemently. “No way in hell am I losing the resort. That is not even an option.” But even as I say the words, I can’t escape a growing terror. Because I can’t control the media, and if the investors think Jackson is toxic, then all of my work just blows away, like so much dandelion fuzz.