Stark International: Under My Skin Part 15

"So you want to designate a contingent guardian, and then set up a trust to use for Ronnie's daily care?"

"Exactly."

They talk for a few more minutes, with Jackson explaining that the trust will be funded with his share of the Winn Building, a retail and residential high rise in Manhattan, and also the first project he both designed and developedand kept a piece of the income stream. "I've got a forty percent interest and Isaac Winn has sixty. He's been looking to acquire a bigger percentage since day one. If we need the cash for Ronnie, he'll buy me out."

"I'll seed the trust with ten percent," Amy says. "You can add more if you need to."

"Fair enough."

"And the guardian?" she asks, after reminding Jackson that until his parental rights are established by a court order, he is not the one who can force this issue. "But I'm sure that Betty and the court will take your opinion into account."

"I want Sylvia," he says, as I press my hand over my mouth to hide my gasp. "And I want you to go ahead and set the paternity hearing."

"The hearing? Jackson, are you sure? What if"

"I want her to have a father. I'm tired of waiting. I want my daughter, Amy. And if the worst happens, then I want to know that the woman I love is taking care of her."

"And Sylvia will accept the role?" she asks as my heart thuds painfully in my chest and I hug myself, not sure what I'm feeling, only certain that I am numb. "The court will only offer guardianship. They won't force her to take it. If she says no, Ronnie could be looking at foster care."

"We've talked a little. And we'll talk more. But I think she will. I need this done, Amy. I'm living in limbo right now, and I don't know how much longer I can stand it. I need this to be handled. I need my daughter. And I need you to make it happen sooner rather than later."

"All right, Jackson," she says, her voice gentle. "I should be able to get a court date in a couple of days."

"Thank you," he says, and there is such relief in his voice that my eyes sting with unshed tears.

I don't actually notice when he ends the call. I'm lost in a world of maybes. A world where Jackson is gone, and where I am raising his daughter.

Oh, G.o.d.

A tremor of fear runs through me, because I am suddenly struck with just how real that possibility is. And I can't escape the overbearing reality that no matter how much I love Jacksonhow much I adore his little girlI have no idea how to raise a child. My mother has treated me as a zero ever since my brother became ill. And my fatheroh, G.o.d, I can't even think about my father.

I shudder, then stumble back to bedroom, my stomach in knots. I lurch into the bathroom and kneel in front of the toilet, certain that I'm going to throw up. I don't. But I clutch the porcelain until I feel steady enough to stand.

I meant what I said at the airportI do want to be there for Jackson, and I am humbled that he would trust me with his daughter.

But this?

Oh, G.o.d, this?

I stand, then force myself to breathe deep and tell myself that it isn't going to happen. Jackson didn't kill Reed. He's not going to be arrested. He's not going to prison.

Ronnie will be in our life, yes, and that's great. I can do this with Jackson at my side. I can handle being a mom so long as he's holding my hand.

I tell myself that again and again, then realize that even as I have been lecturing myself, I have been inching my T-shirt up so that I can once again see my tattoos in the mirror. Only this time, I'm not thinking about the battles that each one represents. Instead, I'm thinking about a new battle. I'm thinking that, if I'm going to manage this, I need the ink that marks the child.

I close my eyes, hating that I am so weak when Jackson needs me to be strong.

When I open them again, I see Jackson's reflection in the mirror; he is standing right behind me.

"I thought you were asleep," he says.

"I just woke up." My voice sounds guilty to my ears, and I have to fight the urge to cringe.

His brow furrows a bit, and I know that he is worried that the nightmares came for me, prompted by Ethan's confession. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I say. "No nightmares last night. You vanquished them all," I say truthfully. What Reed didwhat my father didwill always haunt me. And my father's confession to Ethan about the whole sordid business only adds another layer of shadows to the nightmares I already fight. But Jackson has convinced me that I can fight them.

I lift a shoulder then, the motion minuscule. "It's just that I woke up without you. I didn't like it."

I don't know what he sees when he looks at my face, but whatever it is, it's enough. He reaches for my hips, then tugs me to him, then presses his lips to mine. The kiss is soft, yet powerful. Deep, yet tender. I melt against him, all of my fears, my doubts, my angst swept away in a sensual fog, no match for the power that is Jackson.

The kiss is long and lingering, and with each pa.s.sing second, my pa.s.sion rises, my senses firing. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s rub against him, the sensation sending curls of pleasure swirling through me.

"It's morning," he murmurs as he pulls away. "We need to get to the boat and head to the island."

"Not just yet. Please," I say, that one word holding all my fears and insecurities. "Please, at least for a little while, just hold me."

He searches my face, then silently leads me to bed. He strips off his jeans and shirt, then slides under the covers beside me, tucking me in against him so that my a.s.s is snug against his semi-erect c.o.c.k.

I want moreh.e.l.l, I need more. I need his touch to soothe and center me. But as far as I know, Jackson has been up all night and I don't want to demand when he's tired. More than that, I want to be able to stand on my own, because I'm terribly afraid that there will come a time when Jackson won't be beside me to battle away my fears.

So I close my eyes, trying to be strong. Trying to simply enjoy the feel of his arms around me.

Jackson, thank G.o.d, has other plans.

Lightly, so that I almost do not even recognize the contact, he begins to stroke my thigh, making me squirm.

A thread of sensual heat curls through me, and I shift, parting my legs slightly so that he has better access. As I'd hoped, he takes full advantage, his hand easing down along the juncture of my thigh and torso, then to my pelvis, and then finding the nub of my c.l.i.t. I gasp, drawing in a stuttering breath as he makes his fingers into a V and slides along my now-slick l.a.b.i.a but avoids the touch that I am desperately craving.

"Jackson," I murmur. My hips are moving in their own rhythm now, trying to direct his hand, his touch. But Jackson foils me, and the release that my now-primed body seeks is just out of reach.

Frustrated, I press my rear back against his c.o.c.k, then close my eyes in satisfaction at his low, masculine groan of pleasure. Then his mouth brushes my shoulder, and his low, sultry words are sending ripples through me. "I need to f.u.c.k you, baby. Like this. Right now."

"Yes."

"Touch yourself," he demands even as he takes my thigh and pushes it forward. Now we are still spooning, but my legs are scissored as his fingers thrust inside me, making me wild with need. And only when I'm so d.a.m.n wet that I'm sure the sheets must be damp, does he ease his c.o.c.k into me and fill me with long, slow strokes that make me moan.

Slowly at first, and then harder, so that with each thrust we scoot a bit up the mattress. But I want it harder, deeper, and instead of teasing my c.l.i.t, I lift my hand over my head and press against the headboard to provide some resistance as he pounds into me, harder and harder, until he finally explodes inside me, and then falls limp against me, his body draped over mine.

I sigh and stretch with pleasure. I'm close, and I know if I touch myself, I will go over, but I do not want that. Not now, when I have the pleasure of being so close that even the touch of the air is a sensual caress. And so when Jackson reaches lazily over me, then starts to ease his fingers down to play with my c.l.i.t, I close my hand over his and shake my head, just a little.

"I want to stay here," I say. "I want to stay here on the edge."

"Why?" he asks.

How can I answer when I don't really understand myself? All I know is that I want to stay here for a little while, balanced precariously before I fall.

And so I give him the only answer I know. "Because you're the one who took me there."

Less than an hour has pa.s.sed when I slide out of bed and start to get dressed. It feels like an eternity, though. Like I have slept and healed and come out fresh on the other side, renewed and brave.

That fades, though, when I pull a long-sleeved T-shirt over my head, and see the way that Jackson is looking at me, propped up on the bed on one elbow.

"What's wrong?"

"I spoke with Amy this morning."

I concentrate on stepping into my shortsI'm dressing for the island, not the Towerthen look at him again. "Your attorney?" I ask, as if this is all news to me.

"I'm tired of leaving my little girl in limbo. I've asked Amy to get a court date. I want to bring Ronnie home."

I zip up the shorts, then go to sit on the bed. "Good," I say. "You're her dad."

I see the relief on his face, and know that I've said the right thing. "There's more. Do you remember what we talked about at the airport?"

"Sure." I'm proud of how normal my voice sounds.

"Did you mean what you said? Because I want to make it official."

"Official?"

He nods. "If something happens to me, I want guardianship of Ronnie to go to you. I want Amy to amend the guardianship papers. You, not Megan, if something happens to me."

"I" I swallow, wanting to kick myself for hesitating for even an instant.

He notices, of course. "Yesterday, when I was being an a.s.s about the paparazzi, what you said about believing I'd killed Reed. About staying with me no matter what."

His words are choppy, and I take his hand.

"That drove it home for me," he continues, more smoothly, and the knowledge that I've given him strength swells inside me. "How much I want you to be the one protecting her. Sticking with her. But I know it's selfish of me, too, and if you don't want that"

"You were an a.s.s about the paparazzi?" The question, voiced as a tease, slips out of me. I regret it immediately, but I'm latching on to anything but the real issue. Anything but the possibility that I will be raising a child alone.

"I was," he says. "I was p.i.s.sed and acting stupid and you were right. I need to avoid them, not taunt them. And when we do encounter them, I need to play Evelyn's game and be polite and friendly. I hate it, but I'll do it because I know it increases the odds that I won't end up behind bars. That I'll stay here with you. With Ronnie."

Relief flutters through me. That, at least, is one thing I can stop worrying about.

"I'll call Amy this morning and tell her not to change anything," he says gently. "It's too much to ask. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't"

"No," I blurt, gripping his hand tighter. "No, I'm sure. Of course I'm sure."

And I am.

Despite my fears, I am absolutely certain.

Because what other choice do I have?

In Jackson's world, there is him, there is his daughter, and there is me.

He loves me, I know that he does.

But if he ever has to make a choice, it is Ronnie that he will choose. Because unlike Jeremiah or my parents, Jackson is a good father. And for him, Ronnie's welfare will always come first.

And as for me?

All I can do is make certain that is never a choice that he will have to make.

All I can do is take a tentative step toward the role of Mommy, and hope that I never have to play that role alone.

But am I taking that step because I love Jackson?

Or am I doing it because I'm afraid of losing him if I don't?

fifteen.

The enticing aroma of yeast and cinnamon wafts through the boat, making my stomach growl. "That smells amazing," I say, as Jackson opens the oven in the galley-style kitchen and pulls out a tray of cinnamon rolls.

We'd come to the marina before dawn, and had been lucky not to meet many paparazzi hanging around the gate. Presumably they knew Jackson wasn't on the boat and had gone home to sleepor to the Tower to camp out.

Now we're getting close to the island, and making up for skipping breakfast in order to get under way quicker.

Jackson picks up a plastic bag full of gooey white stuff that I a.s.sume is a sugary icing for the rolls. I ease up beside him and take it, figuring I ought to contribute at least a little something to our breakfast. He snags the first one I ice, holding it on a paper towel as he nods generally toward the front of the boat. "I'm going to go check our position. I'll be right back."

I nod, then focus on my culinary task until he returns.

"Getting close," he says. "Ten more minutes and I'll take her off autopilot. But it's a gorgeous day. Let's take these up to the deck."

Since that's a brilliant idea, I don't argue. He takes the rolls and I grab some orange juice, plates, and cups, then follow him up.

He's right. It is a gorgeous day, and I silently decree that today there will be no talk of murder or jail. There will be no worries about Ronnie. No fear that I will be raising that little girl alone.

There will be only work and the island and Jackson and me.

Today, I'm holding tight to normalcy, and these moments at sea are a d.a.m.n fine start.

The sky is a crystalline blue, and there isn't a cloud to be seen. The ocean ahead is smooth, the surface only rippled by a soft wind. We're close enough to both Catalina Island and Santa Cortez for seagulls to be flying overhead, and I watch as a few dive-bomb the water for their breakfast. I toss out a piece of my cinnamon roll and watch the closest one rocket toward it.

"Hey," Jackson says. "I slaved over those. Took them out of a box and everything."

"You picked a good box. They're great."