Stark International: Under My Skin Part 2

Which meant that I was already drowsy when we'd climbed on board. Once the pills. .h.i.t my system, I was a goner. And being startled awake only fed my phobia.

"It's okay. Everything is fine." Jackson's voice is soft and soothing, and I force myself to relax. We're in the jet, and I'd been sound asleep. Now Jackson eases me against him, and I gratefully comply, thinking that maybe air travel isn't such a bad thing if it means that Jackson will hold me close and safe, his arm tight around my shoulders.

I sigh, cherishing the comfort that he's offering. I have said nothing to him about the grayness that seems to fill the s.p.a.ce between us. Instead, I am clinging like a beggar to each and every subtle connection. Every brush of his fingers against mine. Every press of his hand upon my back as he guides me. Every soft glance, every gentle smile.

It's not enough, though. We have always fit together, Jackson and I, like pieces in a puzzle. But now it feels as if someone has bent the pieces and the fit is awkward and slightly off, and that disconnect is making me crazy. I don't think I can stand it much longer, and soon I'm going to have to confront him. To grab him hard and pull him back, and then demand to know why the h.e.l.l he's so far away from meand then hope that he doesn't run even further.

Not now, though. Right now, I just need to know why the pilot is crouched in front of me instead of in the c.o.c.kpit where he belongs.

"Seriously," I demand as I narrow my eyes at Grayson, "why aren't you at the wheel or the stick or whatever they call it?"

"Darryl has it under control," Grayson a.s.sures me. "And I'm sorry to wake you, but there's a satellite call."

"Damien?"

"Trent," Jackson says. "I offered to handle it, but he insisted he needs to speak to you."

That's odd, and I force down the rising worry and tell myself that this isn't necessarily a big deal. After all, I call Damien all the time when he's flying. It's just one more method of communication. He probably needs a contact that Rachel can't find. Or wants me to run interference for him on one of his projects if he ended up double-booked. Something mundane and easily handled.

Something not a crisis. Because honestly, at the moment, my crisis quota is all filled up.

Grayson returns with a headset for me and I put it on, then wait for him to return to the c.o.c.kpit and patch the call through.

A few seconds later, I hear Trent Leiter come on the line. "You sitting down?"

"I'm in a plane, Trent. What do you think?"

"Sorry. Sorry." His words spill nervously on top of each other. And since Trent isn't easily rattled, that alone is enough to make me stand up and start to pace the length of the cabin.

What? Jackson mouths.

But all I can do is shrug. "Dammit, Trent. What's going on?"

"Oh, h.e.l.l," he says, and I can practically picture the way his shoulders slump. Trent's not a bad-looking guy, but neither is he the type who commands a room. His a.s.set is a boyish charm that takes clients by surprise. He knows how to work it, too, getting friendly with them in sports bars and at Lakers' games. Reeling them in with a few beers and the latest player stats.

So the fact that I can actually hear the nervous discomfort in his voice lets me know that whatever he has to say is bad. More than that, I'm positive that this is about the resort, and my brief fantasy that he was calling so I could hold some investor's hand during a walk-through in Century City has flown completely out the window.

So, yeah, I stand. "Trent," I demand as I start to pace.

"It's out," he says. "One d.a.m.n leak, and it's everywhere."

I'm almost to the closed c.o.c.kpit door, and now I turn back, my eyes immediately meeting Jackson's. He starts to stand, obviously concerned by the look on my face, but I shake my head. "What?" I ask, my voice tense and tight. "What's out?"

"It was an article in The Business Round-Up," he says, referring to a small local paper that serves downtown Los Angeles. "I don't know how they got the story, but it was on their website this morning, and the tabloids picked it up a few hours later, and now it's pretty much everywhere."

"What is?" I repeat. "Come on, Trent, just spit it out." But even as I'm talking, I'm hurrying back to my seat, then rummaging in my bag for my tablet so that I can check out the Round-Up myself. I try to get a connection, then remember that we told Grayson not to worry about booting up the wifithe flight's only a couple of hours, and we'd plummet headfirst into reality soon enough.

"The article says that the investors are worried. They were already antsy because of Lost Tides," he says, referring to a competing resort that is being developed in Santa Barbara, just a few hours away from my resort on Santa Cortez. It's a huge thorn in my side because the developers are keeping the details under wraps in antic.i.p.ation of a big PR event as they get closer to opening. But I know enough to know that the resort was inspired by my idea for Cortez. And, frankly, that p.i.s.ses me off.

Trent clears his throat and continues. "Now they're saying that if the Cortez resort's architect is a suspect in a murder, then maybe that's not the kind of project they want to fund."

"f.u.c.k."

I'm not sure when I sat back down, but all I know is that I am seated, and Jackson is leaning forward, his expression concerned.

Tell me, he demands silently.

And this time, I do. "It's out," I whisper. "It's leaked. They know you're a suspect." I increase my volume for Trent. "How did this happen?"

"Best guess is some tenacious reporter has a mole in the Beverly Hills PD. If you're looking to report hot celebrity gossip, that's the place to flash a little cash and see whose pockets need lining."

"s.h.i.t." I draw a breath and try to stay calm. Beside me, Jackson looks like he could very easily put his fist through the plane's hull. Since that thought really doesn't jibe well with my fear of flying, I take one of his hands in my own and squeeze. What I want is to get off the phone. To toss this d.a.m.n headset across the cabin and climb into Jackson's lap. To hold tight to him and let him hold tight to me, and simply breathe.

But even that's not true, because I want so much more. I want his mouth on me. His hands touching me. I want him to make me forget. To erase my fears.

And I want to do the same for him.

But this is not the place for thata small jet with a thin door between the simple eight-seat cabin and the c.o.c.kpit.

And, truly, what I fear even more is that Jackson would push me away. Gently, and with a soft touch and a kiss. But effective and painful nonetheless.

Frustrated, I stand again, too antsy to sit still, as Trent says tentatively, "Syl? Are you there? Did I lose you?"

"I'm here. Does Damien know?"

"He knows."

At the mention of his half-brother's name, Jackson rises, too. He brushes his fingers over my shoulder in a silent gesture of support, then goes to the back of the plane. He's not pacing so much as imploding. As if all of his anger and energy is being sucked into himself. He needs to lash outI know that he does. And I both fear and welcome the explosion when we finally do get the h.e.l.l off this plane. He needs to explode, I think. And, dammit, so do I.

"So?" I prompt. "What's Damien's take?"

"He's concerned," Trent says. "He's got reason to be. The investors pull out and you've got a mess on your hands. He's trying to do damage control right now."

"How?"

"Dallas is in townthe Round-Up actually contacted him." Dallas Sykes is one of the resort's primary investors. And any story that touches on the bad boy heir to the department store empire is bound to go viral. His dating escapades are constant tabloid fodder, and he's been in the media spotlight since he was a kid. Everything from fights to over-the-top parties to reckless driving, not to mention more than a few times when he disappeared off the planet altogether, presumably holed up with some willing female.

"I should call Damien," I say.

"No need. He's already doing the drink-and-soothe routine. I told him I'd call you."

"Is Aiden around?"

"I'm the one who spotted the article," Trent says testily, and I cringe.

"Sorry. I didn't mean anything." I get why he's touchy. Trent's in charge of projects in the Southern California area. By rights, The Resort at Cortez should be his. But since the idea was mine in the first place, Damien put me in as project managerand I report to Aiden Ward, the VP of Stark Real Estate Development, jumping over Trent entirely.

"Listen, I really do appreciate the heads-up."

"Yeah, well, I figured you'd want to get ahead of it. The resort's already on shaky ground, and I'd hate for you to lose it because of this. It's bulls.h.i.t."

Lose the resort.

Lose the resort?

With an unpleasant jolt, I realize that I've had blinders on. I've been so focused on the possibility of Jackson ending up behind bars that it never occurred to me that the resort might slip through my fingers simply because Jackson's a suspect.

A thick, cold dread swirls inside me. I have done everything humanly possible to get Cortez off the ground. I've lived it, breathed it. Risked my heart for it.

I shake my head, vehemently. "No way in h.e.l.l am I losing the resort. That is not even an option." But even as I say the words, I can't escape a growing terror. Because I can't control the media, and if the investors think Jackson is toxic, then all of my work just blows away, like so much dandelion fuzz.

"I didn't mean" Trent begins.

"No." The word bursts out of me, red and ripe with panic.

"Syl." Jackson's voice is soft and firm. "Tell him it's time to get off the phone. We'll be back in LA soon. You are not losing this resort. Don't even think it."

Over the headset, I hear Trent clear his throat. "Syl?"

"I should go," I say robotically.

"Yeah, well, there's one more thing. It's not only the Round-Up that's got this. They were just the first."

"I know. You said."

"Yeah, but what I mean is that they're not just repeating that he's a suspect. They're speculating about motive and all that s.h.i.t."

My stomach twists and I immediately reach for Jackson's hand. "Motive?" I fight the urge to bite my lower lip.

"The movie. The a.s.sault. Pretty much what you'd expect," he says, and I can practically hear him cringing. Honestly, I feel like cringing, too. Beside me, Jackson uses his left hand to fumble my tablet out of the seat pocket. He taps it, then curses when a signal doesn't magically appear.

"Listen, you can read it yourself as soon as you hit the ground, and Damien said to tell you that your meeting tonight will cover everything."

"Right. Fine. Sure."

"Are you okay?"

No. Not by a long shot. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. Thanks. Thanks for watching my back."

There is a pause, and then he says softly, his voice full of rough emotion, "What did you think, Sylvia? That I'd throw you to the wolves?"

"I, no" I begin, but it doesn't matter. He's already hung up.

"Tell me," Jackson says, and I sum up the Round-Up article and tell him about Dallas.

"f.u.c.k." The curse is heartfelt, and I silently second it. "And the rest? You said there was talk about motive."

"That's all I know. The movie. The a.s.sault. That's all Trent said. That, and the story's spreading." I press my palm gently against his leg. "We'll get through this," I say. "The resort. The trial. All of it."

I want him to repeat the words back to me. To press his hand over mine and gently squeeze my fingers. I want him to put his arm around me and pull me close and tell me that no matter what, we are in this together. I want to feel closer to him, but what I want apparently doesn't matter, because when Jackson lifts his head and faces me, it suddenly seems as if I'm looking through the wrong end of a telescope and things that should be close are suddenly very, very far away.

"Jackson?" His name is a whisper, but also a plea. And for a moment it goes unanswered. He sits there, stiff and distant, his expression hard, his eyes like arctic ice. A riffle of panic rises through me, and I actually clutch the armrests tight in defense against it. He's said nothingdone nothingand yet I know with absolute certainty that Jackson is moving inexorably away from me. And I neither understand it nor know how to stop it.

I am about to cry out his name again, but then his shoulders sag and his posture relaxes. He glances at me, and I go weak with relief when I see that the ice in his eyes has melted.

He raises his hands, then drags his fingers through his hair as he bends forward so that his elbows are on his knees and his hands are on his head. "Christ, Syl, I've screwed everything up."

I freeze, just a little, as one possible meaning of his words slaps me hard across the face. Does he mean that he killed Reed?

And if so, where does that leave us?

I reach to press my hand against his shoulder, needing that physical contact almost as much as I need oxygen.

I don't make it.

Instead, in the next second, I'm screaming and clutching at the armrest as the tin can we are flying in bounces as if we are on a trampoline. My tote, which had been on the floor by my feet, goes airborne, smashes against the ceiling, then falls to the floor, its acrobatics punctuated by my own shrill screams.

The sound of my voice is broken by a harsh crackling. It's the intercom, and Grayson is speaking. "Sorry about that," he says as the plane levels out. "We hit one h.e.l.l of an air pocket on descent, but everything's fine and we'll be on the ground in about fifteen minutes."

When he's finished, I gasp, then realize that I've been holding my breath. I try to let go of the armrest, but my hand is stuck fast. I'm still so fl.u.s.tered by our near-death experience, that for a moment I'm genuinely confused. Then rational thought returns, along with the realization that Jackson is holding tight to my hand. His thumb is gently stroking the back of my wrist, and he's murmuring softly to me. "It's okay, Syl. It's okay."

I draw in a shuddering breath, so full of relief and hope that my head feels light. "It's okay," he repeats as I turn and meet his eyes. Gently, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers. "It's better now."

I sigh and nod, my heart still beating a wild rhythm in my chest.

He's comforting me, yes, and G.o.d knows I need it.

But that doesn't mean I believe him.

three.

"Have you heard from Mr. Stark?" I'm surfing social media sites while I talk with Rachel Peters, Damien's weekend a.s.sistant. At the same time, I'm walking across the tarmac in front of Hangar J, one of Stark International's private hangars in the north field of the Santa Monica airport.

The company actually has ten hangars, as well as the Rec Room, which is what we call the large, nondescript building that houses the flight crews' offices, a kitchen and dining area, a well-stocked bar available to incoming pa.s.sengers and crew, a huge recreation area with a pool table and giant television, and two private sleeping chambers that the crew has access to on an as-needed basis.

I'm heading that way now, a few minutes behind Jackson, who took off with Darryl on the promise of a drink. "It's almost happy hour," Darryl had said. "And frankly you look like you could use one."

Since I needed to make this call, I promised to follow, and then walked more slowly as I did my mult.i.tasking thing. I want time to scope out the social media flurry before I talk with Jackson. Because frankly, I think we both need to be prepared for the storm that's about to pummel us.

"I haven't heard a word from him," Rachel says in response to my question.