Say My Name (32 page)

“You’re very playful.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I had an extremely excellent night. I woke up beside a beautiful woman. And now I’ve been handed this exceptional canvas.” He sweeps his arm out to encompass the island. “Thank you,” he says, and the genuine sincerity in his voice makes my knees go a little weak.

“I always wanted you,” I confess. “Glau was a very poor substitute.”

“Hell yeah, he was,” Jackson says, and we both laugh.

He picks his rucksack up from where he left it by the security camera, then nods toward the path. “Show me our island.”

Our island.

I like the sound of that.

As it turns out, I’m right about it taking more than three hours to walk the circumference. Instead, it takes six. We spend the time discussing my vision for the resort. The section of the island carved out for couples, the area devoted to families. How the various recreational activities will be woven in. The number and type of restaurants I anticipate.

“This resort will be family oriented, but there should still be some areas that are private. I don’t want someone on a honeymoon or anniversary to feel this isn’t the place for them.”

We’ve made it back almost full circle, and now we’re on a sandy beach a few hundred yards from the dock. “Maybe one exclusive area with upscale bungalows and private beaches. The area with the inlet would be perfect,” he says. “Let me show you.”

He pulls out a notebook and sits in the sand, completely unconcerned about the way his pants are getting soaked or the water coming in to tease his feet, now bare since we tossed our shoes up by the dunes.

I watch his face and the sketch that is coming to life on the paper. He is completely absorbed, lost in this new world that right now lives only in his imagination.

His intensity is compelling, and I drop down beside him, then watch, enraptured, as he continues to put his vision on paper. Even as a sketch, it captures everything I’ve told him I want and yet makes it bolder, better.

He pauses and looks up, his eyes just a little glazed as if he has forgotten where he is. When he focuses on me, though, his eyes clear, and he lifts a brow in question.

“Perfect,” I say. And when I press a kiss to his cheek, I hope he understands that I mean so much more than the resort.

“I see what Glau was getting at with the consolidation of all the recreation facilities in one area,” Jackson is saying as the elevator doors open and we step into the office’s penthouse foyer. We’d spent the morning on the twenty-sixth floor in the previously empty space that Stark International has made available to Jackson and his team for the duration of the project.

Now, we’re on our way up for a meeting with Damien, but Jackson’s mind is still on the designs that he’d taped to the wall and then immediately started revising with bold blue pencil.

“It’s not only a terrible use of the natural space, but it also limits the flexibility of the resort as a whole.” He glances up, sees Rachel waving us over, and gives her a halfhearted wave as he flips more pages in the notebook he’s holding. “I also want to discuss the construction crew. Unless you’re contractually locked in, I’m more comfortable with my own team.”

“If we hit a snag, we can bring Aiden in, but you and I can work it out. Is Mr. Stark ready for us?” I ask Rachel as we reach her desk.

I glance down and can see by the light on the phone that he’s not. I glance at my watch and then frown. Damien is exceptionally prompt, and I can’t help but wonder why he’s still on a call when we’re scheduled to meet with him right now.

Not my problem.

The reminder isn’t easy to swallow. I’ve sat at this desk for so long that it’s strange not to be behind it on a weekday, even if the reason I’m not behind it is management.

“How’s the desk?” I ask Rachel, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“Busier than on the weekends,” she says. “Thanks for letting me pick up Monday and today.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m thrilled, too. Gives me more time on real estate.”

“Speaking of, guess who I had drinks with last night.”

“Aiden?” Rachel’s pretty and fun, and I’ve always thought they would make a cute couple. But she just shakes her head and says, “I wish! No, Trent.” From her smile, I can see that she does not consider Trent to be sloppy seconds.

And while I would be less than enthusiastic about him myself, I have to agree that Trent is both nice and competent, if rather dull. I keep my mouth closed about that last part.

“So?” I say. “Details, please.”

“No big deal, really,” she says, but her blush suggests otherwise. “But he was up here last night. I was, too, because Damien had one of his international conference calls from his house, and I was here in case he needed me to pull files or something.”

“Why was Trent here? Was the call about the Century City or Bahamas projects?” Those may not be my projects, but I’m hoping to be officially in that department soon, and if there’s something cooking, I want to know about it.

“Oh, no. He didn’t say why he was here, but since he asked me out, I think that was the real reason. And he hung out for the whole call. Even watched my desk when I had to run into the apartment to get some files that Damien left in the kitchen,” she adds, referring to the private residence that covers half of this floor. “After that, we split an entire bottle of wine down at the Biltmore’s bar. And I think that if we both hadn’t needed to get up early, I might still be on a date.”

My smile is genuine. “Good for you.”

“I know, right? It’s been forever since I’ve had s-e-x.” She glances at Jackson as she spells, as if that’s going to somehow keep him from picking up the thread of our conversation.

I’m about to ask her what happened with the last guy she was dating when the intercom buzzes.

“Are they here?”

I frown. Damien’s voice is rarely that tight, and I wonder what morning crisis he’s had to handle with Rachel at the desk rather than me.

“I was just about to send them in,” Rachel says.

As Jackson levers himself off the reception couch, I give Rachel a quick nod, and she pushes the button to open the door.

Damien is standing by the window when we enter, and as the door shuts behind us, he hits a button on the remote he is holding. Immediately, the automatic blinds that cover the wall of windows start to close, shifting the room into dark.

The projection screen begins to descend and a tabloid-style headline splashes onto it:

Sex, Sand & Starkalicious Scandal!

“Would one of you care to tell me what the hell this is?” Damien’s voice is taut to the breaking point.

I look at Jackson, who does not look at me. Instead, he studies the screen where an article is now scrolling beneath the headline, complete with hyperlinks to other
LA Scandal
website articles.

Damien Stark—whose place in the scandal firmament was assured by both his recent murder trial (the charges of which were dismissed—the scandalous Stark was
not
acquitted!) and the sexilicious deal he made with his now-wife Nikki Fairchild (more here)—just might be at it again!

Has he opened up his problem-plagued, not-yet-operational resort on the recently purchased Santa Cortez island to investors for use as their own private playground? A secret hideaway for illicit affairs? Take a look at this footage of scandal-magnet Dallas Sykes and “friend” Melissa Baronne and draw your own conclusions. We can guess what Ms. Baronne’s husband is thinking!

“Oh my god,” I say, as a looped image of Sykes in a lip-lock with a twenty-something bombshell starts to play. “How—”

“A very good question,” Damien says, his dual-colored eyes reflecting the tight grip he is keeping on control. His attention is laser-locked on Jackson. “We don’t even have plans from you, Mr. Steele, and we already have scandal. Not only does this play against the family resort atmosphere we’re aiming for, but this company now has a part in putting out gossip about one of our key investors. Not to mention a man with whom I’m currently in other negotiations.”

“Is that an accusation, Stark?” Jackson asks.

“There were a limited number of people at my house on Sunday when Nikki mentioned Sykes and his girlfriend.”

“Unless those cameras were designed during the Dark Ages, the images are sent digitally from the source to your security department. Probably also simultaneously copied to your server and backup server.” Jackson’s voice is as sharp and precise as a scalpel. As for me, I’m feeling rather sick.

“You have an oversight division that surely goes over incoming footage,” he continues. “And I’d bet money that reviewing the incoming feed from the island is the responsibility of at least one desk security guard. If you’re not going to monitor activity around all that expensive equipment, then why have the system in place at all?”

He looks around the room as if searching for something. “I wasn’t the only one at your party, Mr. Stark. And there’ve been a lot of eyes on that image,” he says. “And yet I’m the only one in here getting my ass bitten off.”

“And if I learn that any of those folks are displeased about a past business arrangement, I’ll be sure to call them in,” Damien says as he aims the remote and continues to scroll through the article.

I read the words that pop up and feel even more queasy.

Perhaps conflict with starchitect—or should we say “Starkitect”—Jackson Steele is adding some stress to the mix over at Stark International. Our scandal scouts say that Steele is the newest addition to The Resort at Cortez team, but that Steele is no fan of Damien Stark. Just a few months ago, Steele announced that he had no interest in working on a Stark International project. So what could have un-hardened a heart made of Steele? We smell scandal!

“Care to explain?”

“I said that to your wife several months ago,” Jackson says mildly. “And repeated it to you. What someone who overheard us prints or tells a reporter isn’t something I can control.”

“Are you unhappy about what happened in Atlanta, Mr. Steele?”

“What?” Jackson asks, his eyes darting immediately to me.

“With the Brighton Consortium,” Damien continues smoothly. “I’ve come to learn that if the project had gone forward, you would have been awarded the contract to design and build the complex on the full four hundred acres.”

I look between the two men. I hadn’t realized how much Jackson lost when the Brighton deal exploded.

“I wasn’t the only one hurt when you swooped in, Stark. The consortium had investors, and yet you pulled strings and got your hands on enough of the earmarked land that there was no way the complex could be completed. Everyone involved took a loss. Everyone but you.”

“Business is about opportunities, Mr. Steele. Not coddling.”

“I see. I must have been confused by the references to racketeering and fraud being tossed around at the time.”

I have my hand on the edge of Damien’s desk, using that to keep my balance. I may not know the details of what happened in Atlanta, but I do know that the vitriol in this room is beyond toxic.

“So you’ve been holding on to a grudge based on your skewed version of the facts for five years, and when the opportunity arose to shove a few barbs my way you jumped on it—and injured Ms. Brooks and the real estate department in the process.”

“Are you actually suggesting that I would harm a project that now bears my name simply to get back at you?”

Damien takes a single step toward Jackson. “I know my own mind. I know my own code, and I know how I value my work and what I have built over the years. But I know very little about you, Mr. Steele. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now. But if it turns out that you’re behind this, I promise I will bury you.”

“Understood,” Jackson says.

He turns to leave, and I move to follow. Because right then, I want to know what’s inside Jackson’s head.

“Stay,” Damien says.

Jackson catches my eye, nods a brief acknowledgment, then strides out the door with the cool and calm demeanor of a man who doesn’t have a care in the world.

“What did you notice?” Damien asks me the moment the door shuts.

I force myself to stand up straight and not panic. “He never denied it.”

“No,” Damien says as he takes a seat behind his desk. “He didn’t.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, afraid that I already know.

Damien surprises me by shaking his head just slightly. “Might mean nothing.” He meets my eyes. “If I’d been in his position I wouldn’t admit or deny anything, either. Why give some fucker who’s put you on the spot the satisfaction?”

I exhale, then sag a bit in relief. “I see.” My relief is short-lived, however, when I remember the one thing that Damien still does not know—the memory card that Jackson took from the island. I think of it—and feel anger and betrayal boil in my gut.

“But I’ll keep my eye on him and the project. He’s in a unique position to cause some real hurt. You should keep an eye out, too,” he adds, and something in his voice suggests that it’s not hurt to the company he means, but to me.

I conjure a generic smile. “I will. Of course.” I take a half-step toward the door, eager to get out, but Damien halts me with his next words. “There’s something else you need to see.”

Something in his voice fills me with dread, and I turn back to him slowly. “What’s wrong?”

He nods toward the screen. The
LA Scandal
article disappears, replaced by a single photograph.

I swallow as my cheeks heat with mortification. It’s an image of me and Jackson locked in an embrace. And not a sweet end-of-a-movie-type kiss, either. No, this was when Jackson had grabbed me, pulling me close, practically fucking my mouth with his tongue. One hand is in my hair, the other starting to slide under the waistband of the yoga pants to tease my ass.

Just looking at the image makes me squirm—in embarrassment, yes, but also from the memory.

“Mr. Stark,” I say, then have to clear my throat because that came out way too high and squeaky. “I’m—”

I give up, not sure if I should start by apologizing for being caught on tape or for being unprofessional. And not entirely sure how to phrase either.