Take My Dare (Stark International Trilogy 4)

"That was part of it. There were other reasons. Things I learned about the man."

Jackson nodded slowly, his mouth tight. "I don't know what you heard. But if it was vile, then my guess is your information is one-hundred percent accurate."

Wyatt's brow furrowed. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Really."

Wyatt didn't look convinced. "I'm all done here," he said. "Why don't you go see your wife?"

"I would if she'd let me. I'm supposed to meet Terry here. Sylvia scheduled the meeting, and now she's pulling rank, telling me she's going to head home, but I have to stay put."

Wyatt chuckled. "Well, she is the project manager."

"Yes, she is," Jackson said, the pride in his voice genuine.

"I'll leave you to that, then." He glanced at his watch and frowned. "We got some great shots. And I know we're on a tight schedule, so I'll get them to you by tomorrow."

"Perfect." Jackson peered more closely at Wyatt's face. "You look a little pale. Feeling okay?"

"Just a bit of a time crunch," Wyatt said. "But trust me. Compared to the problems you're facing, I'm absolutely fine."

Chapter 9

++

I'm pacing so much that it's a good thing we have tile in the downstairs rooms, because if there was carpet I'd have worn a hole in it.

The purse with the photos is on the kitchen table, and I'm going back and forth between the kitchen and the great room, hoping the motion will calm my nerves. Trying to convince myself not to call Jackson.

I'd told him I could handle this, and I'd meant it. But now I'm home. I'm alone. And it's all just weighing down on me.

I don't want to call him back, because I know he'll drop everything and come to me. But I have to talk, and so I dial Cass, then curse when I get her voice mail. "Something happened. I'm okay. Or I'm not. I don't know. Anyway, just call when you can."

I end the call, and just seconds later, the doorbell chimes. For a second, I actually think it's Cass, but that idiotic thought is immediately replaced with a more worrisome one--that my visitor is the person who left the photos.

I calm almost immediately, though. Only friends and family on our permanent list can enter the neighborhood without being announced. Even messengers have to be cleared through. I don't know who it is. But I can't imagine it's my tormenter. And though I'm really not in the mood for company, since I'd sent Stella to the park with the kids, I head to the front hall to answer the door.

It's Wyatt, and he's standing on the front step looking so agitated that my concern for him almost overshadows my own fears.

"What's wrong?" I ask, then immediately backtrack to, "Come in, come in. Is something wrong? Is it Jackson?"

"No," he says, looking stiff and awkward as he comes inside. "I mean, he's upset. After your call ..."

He trails off, and I look sharply at him. "What did he say?"

"Just that Reed's reaching out from the grave. I'm sure he figures I'll assume it's about the movie. But Syl," he continues, his voice thin, "I don't think it's about the movie. I think it's about those pictures of you."

I think it's about those pictures of you.

My body goes clammy and I see more than hear his words. They're like red neon flashing on the ceiling. Like the walls in The Shining oozing blood. Like some horrible blunt weapon meant to destroy me.

Because there are only a very few people who I'm certain know about those pictures of me. My dad. Jackson. Me. And, of course, whoever left me that purse.

Wyatt?

Oh, dear god, no. It can't be Wyatt.

I take a step backwards, my head shaking in denial. For a moment, his expression is confused. Then his eyes widen and he steps toward me, his hand held out as I squeal and he says, "No! Oh, Syl, no, no! It's not me."

I freeze, uncertain, scared, totally freaked out.

He stops dead in front of me, his hands raised. "I swear. Christ, you know me. I would never--" He draws a harsh breath, clenches his hands into fists, and looks at me. "But the thing is, I think I know who is behind it."

"Who?" My voice is wary, but the truth is that I believe him. This is the man who's given me and Nikki photography lessons. Who's been a friend for years. Who I really can't imagine would ever hurt me like that.

"Mila. Mila Sanchez."

I stare at him. "What?" I finally say. "Are you kidding me? Why would you even--"

"She found the pictures at my studio." He holds up a hand to stop me before I can ask what the fucking hell those pictures were doing at his studio. "I bought fifty boxes of Reed's photographs at auction after his death. Blind boxes. Like a grab bag. I'd hadn't gone through them, but about a month ago, I decided I needed to sort them, keep what I wanted and toss the rest."

"What you wanted?"

"I'm a collector as well as a photographer," he explains. "Reed was a shit, but he did some amazing work, and I especially love the shots he took for ads. So I figured it was worth the investment. There weren't many bidders, actually, and so I ended up getting fifty boxes for under two grand."

I just nod, letting him continue.

"Anyway, I met Mila a while back when she working at Damien's desk and was ordering a print of one of my originals that hangs just outside his office. We kept in touch, went out a few times, but nothing serious. It'd been months since I'd seen her, actually, but I've been working on a project lately, and I've been shooting a lot of models."

He shrugs, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "To be honest, she's not on my favorite person list--especially not after the way she talked shit about you after you fired her. Kept saying she wanted to find a way to get you back. Vindictive, but I figured it was just talk. And since she has a particular look--a dark feline quality--I called and asked her to do a few test shots at my studio one Saturday a few weeks ago. We ended up talking about the boxes. She offered to help me catalog them."

"Go on," I say, beginning to see where this is going.

"Your photos were in one of the boxes. I saw them," he adds, not quite meeting my eyes. "And so did she."

"Oh." I lick my lips.

"I'm so sorry, Syl. For what that bastard did, and for the fact that I've invaded your privacy."

I try to speak, but my throat is too thick.

"I should have told you sooner, but I honestly didn't know what to say. And I had no idea that she'd t

aken the photos. I only know now because I put two and two together after you called Jackson."

"Oh, god," I mutter. I'm pacing. Agitated. "This is a nightmare."

"I know," his voice is calm, like he's talking to a caged animal. "Reed was horrible. When I saw those photos, I knew they had power. I wanted to--"

"Wanted to what, you goddamn sonofabitch?"

Jackson's harsh voice startles both of us and we turn toward the front hall to find Jackson barreling toward Wyatt. I suck in a breath, certain my husband is about to plow his fist into Wyatt's face.

"Jackson, no!" I hear the words in the air, and I'm honestly not sure if they're mine or Wyatt's, or the mingled sound of both.

Jackson has Wyatt by the collar, and I see Wyatt's fist tighten in defense. Then Jackson shoves him back before turning sharply, grabbing a small glass vase, and slamming it into the ground, touchdown style.

The glass shatters, and I scream. "Stop it! Stop it! It's not Wyatt. Dammit, Jackson, Wyatt didn't send the pictures."

The men are staring at each other and my heart is pounding, not only because of what just happened, but because of what might still be yet to come. Jackson's temper is a wild thing, and I've already come close to losing him once.

Before we were together, he punched the screenwriter assigned to the movie about the Fletcher house. And once he knew what Reed did to me, he beat the crap out of him. Not only was Jackson arrested for assault, but that breach of temper was one of the reasons he'd been the prime suspect in Reed's later murder. A crime he probably would have gone to jail for had my father not confessed.

Another fight--another arrest--and he might end up serving jail time for assault. And goddammit, I can't lose this man.

"Calm down!" I demand, my voice not yet calm. "It wasn't him! Wyatt came here to help. He knows who sent the photos."

"Who?" Jackson growls, still looking like he wants to beat the shit out of someone. But at least he's holding himself in check.

I draw a breath as I meet Wyatt's eyes. "Mila Sanchez."

"Bitch." He steps to the left, moving back toward the door, and I move quickly to take his arm.

"No," I say, certain that he was about to head right back out to go find Mila.

"The hell you say. We need to go have a little talk with Mila about her manners."

"Dammit, Jackson, no. Not yet. I want a plan. And, goddammit, I want you calm." Because there is no way we're walking into her apartment with Jackson as hyped up as he is. I want Mila to be the one getting into trouble. Not Jackson.