Say My Name (38 page)

I freeze on her sidewalk. “When?”

“Yesterday. He came by the studio after you left the Getty Center.”

“He did?”

“He wanted my help.”

“To find me?”

She shoots me a quick glance. “To figure out what to do.”

“I—really?”

She unlocks the door and we step inside. The place is small—only six hundred square feet—but cute. Cass believes clutter is the devil, so the place is as tidy as the stations at Totally Tattoo. Because I know her quirks, I put my duffel in the small coat closet before heading to the convertible sofa—currently closed—and taking a seat.

“Why are you so surprised?” Cass asks from the kitchen just a few feet away. She’s uncorking some wine, and she brings it over along with two glasses.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I guess because he’s so self-sufficient.”

She lifts a shoulder. “But he’s not,” she says. “From where I’m standing, I’d say he needs you.”

My heart twists a little, then a little bit more when Cass reaches out and grabs my hand. “He loves you, you know.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Nope. But I’ve got eyes.”

The truth is, so do I. And before all of this, I would have said he loved me, too.

Now, knowing what he kept from me, I don’t know what to think.

“He’s Damien’s half-brother,” I blurt, surprising myself with my words.

“I know,” she says, and that surprises me even more. “He told me.”

She hands me my glass of wine. “He screwed up, Syl, I’ll grant you that. With all the stuff that happened between you two, he should have told you about his dad when you asked if he knew him.”

“He really did tell you everything.”

“Yeah, well. Like I said, he’s gone on you.” She plops down on the couch. “And since I happen to know it’s mutual, I figured I should be a good little intermediary.”

Mutual.

She’s right, of course. It is.

“He hurt me,” I say. “He should have told me. Should have trusted me.” But even as I say the words, I think about the things I’ve yet to tell him, and I know that I’m not being fair. True, he hasn’t asked me point-blank, but that’s just my own stupid justification.

The secret was his to keep, and it was huge. And how arrogant is it of me to believe that just because I ask, he has to shift his entire life around and spill everything to me?

“I need to see him,” I say softly. “I do need to talk to him.” I look at Cass. “He hurt me, and he pissed me off, but you’re right. I love him. And I want to fix this.”

Even as I say it, I know that there are things that may not be fixable. This isn’t a secret that I can keep—and that, of course, is another reason Jackson kept it to himself. Because this secret affects my boss, and their father is a man who just may be screwing with Stark International.

Damien has to know the truth—and when he does, I’m not sure if Jackson will still have the project.

For that matter, when I think about the breadth and scope of Damien’s temper, I’m not sure that I will, either.

But I can deal with that. So long as I’ve got Jackson, we can figure out the rest together.

“Is he on the boat? Did he say?”

An odd expression flits across Cass’s face. “Um, listen. I should tell you something first.”

I say nothing, but my stomach is twisting. Because Cass is nervous—and that’s just not typical Cassidy behavior.

She clears her throat. “Right. So, when we talked, I realized you hadn’t told him about Robert Cabot Reed. And I thought he needed to understand why you were so freaked out in the first place. I mean, it wasn’t really the best time for you to learn about a secret.”

“So he knows?” I feel anger spiking, and I want to make sure I’m absolutely clear on my facts this time. “He knows that I came face-to-face with the man who repeatedly raped me for over a year and yet he didn’t come to me? Call me? Do any goddamn thing other than nurse his wounds because I walked away from him at the Getty Center?”

I’d seen confusion bloom on Cass’s face when I’d raised my voice. Now I watch it clear, only to be replaced with something I can only describe as trepidation.

“What?” I demand. “What the hell is going on?”

She reaches for the section of newspaper that sits on the coffee table, then flips it over, revealing an image of a handcuffed Jackson standing beside a uniformed officer.

“Jackson beat the shit out of Reed,” Cass says. “He’s been arrested for assault.”

I pace the length of my condo, from patio to door, then back again, waiting for Jackson to show up, or Charles to call, or anything at all to happen so that I know what is going on.

I’d called the police station as soon as Cass had told me about the arrest, but since it’s Sunday I was told that bail wasn’t an option.

I’ve worked for Damien Stark long enough to realize that there are times when “not an option” means “not an option without money or power,” and so I gave Charles Maynard a call and begged his help.

Fortunately, he was home.

Also fortunately, I’ve gotten to know him well enough over the years that he was willing to give up a few hours on a Sunday.

Charles told me to go home, and that, assuming he was able to get Jackson released on bail today, he would drop him by my place rather than the boat.

So far, no Jackson.

I pull out my phone, pull up Charles’s number, and for the eight millionth time that day, force myself not to dial. He will call when he has news. That is my new mantra.

I hate my new mantra.

I pace three more lengths, and am about to just say “fuck it” and go to the station myself, when I hear the knock at my door.

I practically fall over myself getting there, and when I yank open the door and see Jackson standing there, his hair mussed, his beard scruffy, and his face battered and bruised, I am certain that I have never seen anything more beautiful.

I practically yank him into my apartment, then wrap my arms around him and we both sink to the floor.

“Sylvia. Oh, god, Sylvia.” He repeats my name over and over, and I am lost in the sound of it, holding him tight, rocking him. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you who I was.”

“No.” I stroke his hair. “I was being bitchy and selfish. I don’t have a right to your secrets, Jackson. And I did more than just get my feelings hurt. I threw a tantrum, and I’m so, so sorry.”

He lifts his head and kisses me. “I’m the one that’s sorry. You were confused and hurting and I didn’t even see it. I had to find out from Cass, and all this time that son of a bitch has been the man who’s been crawling up my ass, too.”

“You shouldn’t have gone after him,” I say softly. “But, Jackson, I’m really glad you did.”

He meets my eyes, and I see relief in his.

“Did you think I would be angry?”

“Not exactly the civilized approach to problem-solving,” he says with a wry grin.

“No. Not at all. Why did you do it?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me.”

“Because of what that bastard did to you. Because he stole from you. Because he used you and he hurt you. And because I will always protect you.”

I blink to clear my vision, then manage a watery smile. “That’s why I’m not angry.”

He brushes my cheek with his thumb. “I thought you didn’t cry.”

“What?” I am certain I haven’t heard him right, but when I lift my hand to my cheek, it is wet. My breath hitches, and my throat fills with tears. I barely remember the sensation it’s been so long. “I guess—I guess you matter to me.” And those are all the words I can get out before the sobs come in earnest and I shake with the force of them.

Jackson picks me up and carries me to the couch, then holds me as I cry for the past, for him, for the future that I’m suddenly afraid of. Mostly, though, they are tears of relief and joy, because Jackson is back in my arms, and somehow, someway, we’ll figure out the rest of it.

When the tears finally subside and I have emptied an entire box of tissues, I curl up against him, exhausted but happy.

Happy, but also afraid.

“I’m not angry,” I say, my voice raw. “I’d go so far as to say I’m glad. But you shouldn’t have done it. He’ll press charges. That’s the kind of guy he is.”

“I’ll protect your secret, baby. You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not. I didn’t even think of that.” I truly hadn’t. I know with absolute certainty that Jackson will take my secret to the grave if I ask him to, and that sure knowledge warms me. “I was thinking of you.”

He cocks his head, looking at me sharply. “The movie.”

I nod. “If no one knows about me, they’re going to assume you attacked him because of the movie, and everyone is going to start poking into it. And all those secrets are going to be harder to keep. I’ve seen the way the press vultures work with Nikki and Damien. So far you’ve only had good press. Bad press can sting.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, and I can see that the thought troubles him. “I’ll do what I have to do,” he says. “But whatever happens, my promise to you stands.”

“I know. Really.” I draw a breath, because there’s more. And although I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, I have to say it, just in case he hasn’t thought of it already. “This may screw up the resort project, too. When Damien gets back, I promise you he won’t be happy that his architect is now in the gossip rags. Especially when he already isn’t sure he trusts you.”

He says nothing, and so I decide to soldier on. “And you have to tell him the rest of it, too. Or I do. And he may not be too happy about the fact that you didn’t say who you were up front. I’m sorry,” I add. “But that’s not the kind of thing I can keep from him. Not if I expect to keep my job. Or the resort, for that matter.”

“I would never ask you to lie for me,” he says. “And I know the risks. But I will make you a promise—no matter what it takes, you won’t lose the resort. If I have to, I’ll go head-to-head with Damien.”

He looks like he’d enjoy the prospect.

“Do you understand?”

I nod, though I don’t really. Because in a contest between Jackson and Damien over whether or not I keep my job, I can’t imagine a scenario where Damien doesn’t have the final word. He’s the one giving the job, after all.

The rather unpleasant thought that Jackson is Jeremiah Stark’s son slides into my mind. And I am quite certain that Jeremiah knows many things that Damien would want to keep secret. Which means that Jackson may know those things, too.

But the thought that Jackson would blackmail Damien on my behalf is so disagreeable that I shove it aside. He hasn’t said that, and my mind is simply spinning tales. And the truth is that Jackson doesn’t really know Damien at all.

“Your brother’s not such a bad person, you know.”

“Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. At the moment I don’t care about Damien or the resort. The only thing I care about is you. The only thing I want is you. Tell me I didn’t fuck this up. Tell me I didn’t lose you.”

“How could you lose me when we just found each other again?”

His eyes stay on mine for a moment, and then he pulls me close and kisses me gently. “I’m going to make love to you now,” he says, then lifts me in his arms and takes me to the bedroom.

He undresses me, tending to me and stroking me as he removes each piece of clothing until I am naked and on fire, wanting nothing more than the feel of this man upon me and inside me.

He doesn’t wait, and we make love slowly and sweetly, but with no less passion than when he has taken me wildly. There’s a tenderness to his movements. A precision in the way he thrusts inside me. And never once do his eyes leave mine.

When I see the tempest rising in that vibrant blue, I arch up, seeking more contact, wanting to go over with him, wanting to spin off into time and space with this man who has made me feel awake and alive and found. And when the explosion does come, I shatter with him, every piece of us coming together in a perfect union before we drift back down, gasping as we return to reality.

“Sylvia,” he murmurs, and my name on his lips is as sweet as honey, and as potent as making love.

I kiss him, then stretch with satisfaction, content when he pulls me close and I cradle my head upon his chest.

I feel safe and warm. And though he has never spoken the words, I feel loved.

I tilt my head up so that I can look at the face of this man who fills my heart and head. Who stands like a warrior to protect me from the demons of my past.

He looks back at me with such tenderness that I fear I will cry again, and when he bends to kiss my forehead a small tear of happiness really does trickle down my cheek.

I smile, satisfied.

I may not know all his secrets. And I cannot know the future.

But I do see the now.

And for me, for Jackson, right now is enough ….

Jackson stood beside the bed and looked down at her. At the woman who made his heart beat faster and his blood burn.

She calmed him. Centered him. She filled his heart and his world.

She made him a better man—he knew that. Believed it. Hell, he cherished it.

And god help him, he cherished her, too. He’d been dead those five years without her, and he hadn’t even realized it. But he was alive again, and it was because of her.

Careful not to wake her, he slid into bed. His heart twisted as she moved in sleep to seek him out, then nuzzled against him, skin to skin.

Christ, what she did to him.

He brushed his hand over her hair, then played his fingertips over her shoulder. She’d pushed the sheet down in sleep, and he could see the tattoos that marked her breasts, just a few of many. Remnants of past pain, and some for which he bore responsibility. The thought twisted inside him, dark and unpleasant, and not for the first time he wished that he could carry her burdens.

She’d put her trust in him, shared her deepest secrets with him. And he knew that he had to do the same. But damned if the thought didn’t rip him to shreds.

He wanted to stay like this forever, lost in the dark, in the place between dusk and dawn, where reality felt like a dream, and he could believe that everything was possible, and that all stories had happy endings.