Stark International: Under My Skin Part 16

We're sitting on the main deck on a bench on the port side just over from the captain's chair. It's cushioned and the back of the bench is also the side of the boat. I've poured us both juice and we have the cups tucked into built-in holders. The pitcher is jammed into the center of a life preserver to keep it steady.

I've put the rolls between us, and Jackson makes a grab for his third. He takes a bite and grins at me, a tiny bit of white icing stuck to the corner of his mouth. I reach over and wipe it off with my thumb, then put my thumb in my mouth and suck it clean.

And all the while my eyes never leave his.

"Very naughty, Ms. Brooks."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Steele."

He stands, then pulls me up as well. "I'm talking about the fact that your island is right over there." He points to Santa Cortez, growing larger by the minute. "And the fact that I need to take the boat off autopilot." He traces his fingertip over my lips, and I draw him in, then suck and tease his finger with my tongue.

He groans. "I'm talking," he says as he tugs his finger free, "about the fact that we don't have time for me to f.u.c.k you the way I want to f.u.c.k you right now. But soon," he adds as he slides his hand down to cup my crotch through my shorts. He slides lower to my thigh, then back up the inside of the leg. And then his brow lifts as his fingers find me not only bare, but hot and slick and very, very wet.

I bite my lower lip in response to his low groan of masculine satisfaction.

"Good girl," he says.

I look up, innocently meeting his eyes. "What were you saying about f.u.c.king me?"

He slips two fingers inside me, making me gasp. "Soon," he promises. "Very soon."

I sigh with disappointment when he steps away, leaving me longing and so sensitive that every brush of the canvas against my c.u.n.t is like a sensual torment.

For just a moment, his gaze lingers on me, hot and heavy, and then he turns and heads for the captain's chair to guide the boat in. And I'm left to my fantasies of what's still to come.

While he does his captain thing, I take our breakfast stuff back downstairs. I'm covering the leftover rolls with plastic wrap when Jackson calls me, his voice hard and sharp. "Syl. Get up here!"

I abandon what I'm doing and hurry back on deck. I'm asking, "What's going on?" as I move, but as soon as I'm outside, I can see for myself.

And what I see is that my wonderful day has just gone straight to h.e.l.l.

The moorings on one side of the dock have been smashed in, so that it tilts at an odd angle and isn't even close to being safe.

"But how will we get on the island?" I say, and then realize that is the least of our problems. Because when I follow his finger, I see that this entire area has been vandalized. From this perspective, I should be able to see the fuel tanks. For that matter, there are portable toilets, and I can't see the tops of them, and I really don't want to think about what it means if those blue boxes have been toppled over.

"Binoculars," I say. "Do you have some?"

"Dammit, yes." He hurries to the bench on which we'd just had breakfast and pulls off the cushion, then grabs a pair from the hidden storage area. He puts the bench back together, then steps up before raising the lenses to his eyes. "It's bad," he says, then pa.s.ses the binocs to me.

I look, too, and see that he's right. Fuel tanks are spilled. The helipad is covered with debris. There are wires and cords everywhere, along with bits of broken machinery. About the only thing that hasn't been knocked over is the pole upon which the security camera is mounted.

A horrible greasy feeling swirls in my stomach, because this is badreally bad. This isn't leaked emails or embarra.s.sing photos or foolish rumors about government weapons. This is vandalism. This is real, honest-to-goodness sabotage.

And I'm taking it very, very personally.

"We need to see the extent of the damage," I say. "Can we still use the dock in that condition? Or can you get close enough to anchor and we can wade in?"

"No." Jackson's voice is firm. "We need to get Ryan and a team here. I don't want to run the risk of contaminating the scene. And there's fuel everywhere. I don't want you out there until we know it's safe."

I start to argue that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, but he's right and so I say nothing. There's no cell service on the island yet, but the boat has a complete satellite communication system, and the phone starts to ring even as I am running below deck to get it.

I hurry to answer it, not surprised to find that the caller is Ryan.

"You saw the security feed?" I demand. "Could you see who did it?"

"Not exactly," he says, which makes very little sense. Clearly he knows what I'm talking about, but how would he without seeing the feed?

"I'll explain when we get there," he says, antic.i.p.ating my question. "Damien and I will be there in forty-five minutes, tops. We're coming by boat with a full team following about twenty minutes behind. And, Syl," he adds, "stay off the island."

I hurry back to the deck, mentally running through the to-do list that is now growing in my head. The clean-up, the investigation, andoh, h.e.l.lthe press.

My mind is swimming with details as I relay Ryan's call to Jackson, who doesn't have any better idea than I do as to how Ryan could know about the island.

From what I can tell, he's been pacing the deck the entire time I was gone, but he'd stopped the moment I returned. Now he reaches for me, holding me firmly by the shoulders as he studies my face. "Are you okay?"

I understand what he's asking, and I nod. "I'm fine. p.i.s.sed, but fine." I offer him a smile. "It's work," I say, and with Jackson I know I don't have to say any more, because it's the same for him, and always has been. Work is our escape. Our safe place. The thing that drives us and centers us. Trouble at work is an irritation, and it might p.i.s.s the h.e.l.l out of me, but it won't cripple me.

It's the personal s.h.i.t that can destroy me. Moments like last night that can conjure the nightmares and the fears and the need to just dig deep and hide inside myself somewhere.

At least, it used to have the power to destroy me. Now, I have Jackson and the strength he's helped me find.

My lover, my friend, my protector.

I slide into his arms, then tilt my head back for a kiss. "Come on," I say. "Let's go make a list of everything we need to check once Ryan clears us to go on the island."

In his office, he works at his computer and I pace behind him as I try to cover every contingency.

I'm mentally calculating what the cost of overtime for a cleanup crew is going to do to my budget when the phone rings again. I grab it up. "What's your ETA?"

"Sylvia?" It's not Ryan, it's a woman. And it takes me a moment to realize it's Harriet Frederick.

"Ms. Frederick." My throat has closed up, and it's hard for me to push her name out. "I . . ."

I give up. I have no idea what to say.

"May I speak to Jackson?" Her words are soft, as if she understands that a normal tone might actually hurt me.

He's already at my side, having risen at the sound of her name. I hand him the phone, feeling a little numb, then immediately hug myself.

Jackson stays at my side. "I'm here, Harriet. What's going on?"

I struggle to hear the conversation, wishing that Jackson would put it on speaker but knowing that he can't because that could mess up the attorney-client privilege. So I try to interpret Jackson's facial expressions.

Considering he's standing as still as a statue, I'm not having much luck.

After a moment, he says, "I see. And worst case, when are we looking at?"

Worst case.

Oh, f.u.c.k. Oh, s.h.i.t.

I don't bother with a chair. I just drop down and sit on the floor.

"All right," he says. "Thanks for calling." He laughs. "No, I won't. It's tempting. But no."

Then he ends the call and bends toward me, his hand held out to help me up.

I shake my head. "Until I know what that was about, I'd rather stay down here."

His small smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Apparently the police know that I was at Reed's house."

"Oh." I suddenly wish I'd gone for the small couch. At least it has a blanket that could ward off my sudden chill. "How?"

"A witness. Halloween night, remember? Reed's porch light was off because he wasn't doing candy, but a mother saw me under a streetlamp. She noticed a man walking alone."

"You? She identified you?"

"They showed her a photo line-up. She picked me out."

I close my eyes, and when I open them again, Jackson is crouched in front of me. "Syl, there's more. She heard Reed and me arguing."

"Oh, G.o.d." I tremble, then grab hold of his hand. "You said worst case. You were talking about an arrest?"

He nods.

"So?" I demand. "When?"

"She doesn't know. This may be the pivotal piece of information and they arrest tomorrow. Or they may try for more."

"You didn't do it." My throat is thick. "They can't take you away from me if you didn't do it."

"Hey." He takes my hands in his. "This isn't the problem we need to deal with right now. That's not why we're on this boat. It's not why we're at the island. We work now, okay? We work now, and we worry later."

I nod. Because he's right. And because worrying won't solve anything, and neither will fear.

And because I meant what I said earlierwork is my solace, just as it is his. And right now, we both need it.

"Okay," I say, forcing myself to think again. "Okay. We need" My breath hitches as I say the words. "We need to prepare for the worst. The resort, I mean. We need a plan." I push myself up to my feet. "If you do . . ." I trail off, hating even having to say it out loud.

"If I end up in cell block A?"

"Don't," I snap. "I can function, okay? But I can't joke about it."

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry." He pulls me into his arms and kisses my forehead. "Finish what you were saying."

"I was just thinking that maybe we should hire someone who can step in and make sure your plans get executed the way you envisioned them."

Jackson nods. "You're right. I should have already thought of that." He drags his fingers through his hair. "I would suggest Chester," he continues, referring to one of his interns who has joined him in Los Angeles from the New York office. "But he's not licensed yet, and I don't think that would go over well with the investors."

"And to be honest, I'd like someone I've worked with before."

Jackson nods. "Are you thinking Nathan Dean?"

"Actually, yeah." Dean was the architect for Damien's Malibu house, and I'd worked closely with him during design and construction. Jackson met him briefly at a c.o.c.ktail party not long ago at that very house, and they'd bonded over arches and trusses.

He's a nice guy and a solid architect, though he's not anywhere close to Jackson's level. I know that Aiden thought Damien would veto Dean as the primary architect for the resortapparently he'd committed to designing a bungalow for Damien and then backed out about the time we were getting started with Cortezbut this isn't about Dean being the main guy. It's about having someone on the team who's capable of bringing Jackson's vision to life if the worst happens.

"He seemed like a decent guy," Jackson says. "If he's got the time and Damien gives the okay, I think bringing him on board is a great idea."

I nod. "I'll feel him out about his schedule first, and if it sounds like he'd be free, I'll run the idea past Damien and then we'll go from there."

I turn my attention back to the tentative list I'm making for cleaning up the island, and Jackson goes back to his drafting table.

By the time we hear the speedboat approaching, my list has gotten long, and I know it will get even longer once I see the damage up close and walk the island's perimeter.

"How did you know?" I ask Ryan as he and Damien board Jackson's yacht.

"Our saboteur is a bit of a show-off," Damien says wryly. He pa.s.ses me his phone, on which he's saved a photograph of the destruction. It was taken at night, so only the parts illuminated by the flash are clear, and those bits are overly bright. It gives the image a haunting quality, as if we're looking at some sort of futuristic mechanical graveyard. "That arrived by email this morning."

"You've traced the email?" Jackson asks.

"Of course," Ryan answers. "One of my guys just got back to me, actually. Sent from a burner smart phone. A dummy email account to a fake ID. All we know is that it was sent from the LA area, but that doesn't do us much good. I've been a.s.suming all along that the son of a b.i.t.c.h we're chasing is local. And most likely in-house."

"At least you're no longer looking at me," Jackson says, a wry edge to his voice.

"You said it yourself," Damien says. "You have too much pride in your work. You wouldn't f.u.c.k it over for a vendetta. Especially not one against me. I don't mean that much to you."

Damien glances at me. "There was a time you might have thrown your work under the bus if it meant getting back at Ms. Brooks. But I think that time has pa.s.sed."

"It has." Jackson's voice is as stiff as his posture. "And you're rightyou didn't mean that much to me. Or if you did, I wouldn't have wanted you to realize it."

Damien chuckles. "And now I can?"

Jackson looks as confused as I feel.

"You said I 'didn't' mean that much to you. Do I detect your growing respect and admiration?"

His voice is light, almost teasing, but Jackson answers seriously. "Yeah. I guess you do." He locks eyes with Damien, then smiles thinly. "But don't let it go to your head."

The corner of Damien's mouth twitches. "I'll do my best."

"Any leads?" I ask Ryan. So far, the investigation has. .h.i.t dead ends and rabbit trails. "Surely the security team caught something today? They can't possibly have done all this damage and stayed out of range. That area's the whole reason we have the security cam."

Ryan glances at Damien and frowns. "They looped the feed."

"What?" I heard his words. I even know what he means. But somehow I just can't process what he's saying.

"How long?" Jackson asks.