Stark International: Under My Skin Part 25

I'm awakened from a deep sleep by a hard rap at the hotel door. "What the"

"It's okay," Jackson says. "I've got it."

I nod and am just drifting off again when he returns. I start to speak, but he presses a finger to my lips, then holds out a hand to help me up. "I know it's late, but we need to go somewhere. Will you come?"

"Of course." He already knows I wouldn't deny him anything tonight.

The valet pulls his car around, and once we are traveling north on the Pacific Coast Highway, I'm pretty sure I know where we are going, and my suspicions are confirmed when he makes a right turn and heads up into the Pacific Palisades. A few minutes later, he's parking the car in front of a stunning double lot with an ocean view. It's a lot that he owns. That he bought years ago, and has yet to build on. But I know that he has been thinking about the house he wants to put here for almost as long as he has owned the property.

He hasn't said why he wanted to come here tonight, but I can guess. He'd wanted to build a house here. For himself. For his little girl.

And now he's come to say goodbye.

And that's not something that I want to hear even though I'm desperately afraid that it is true.

I grab his hand before he can step out of the car. "Don't," I say.

"Don't what?"

"Don't start believing you won't ever get it done."

His smile is so tender it almost hurts. "Come on."

He gets out of the car, and I do, too. He grabs a small bag from the trunk, then he starts walking across the property toward the darkness that lies in front of us. It is the ocean, I know, but on this night, it seems to be nothing more than a void in s.p.a.ce into which we are about to disappear.

The property descends after a while, almost as if terraced, adding an extra level of privacy.

"Right there," he says, pointing to an indentation in the tree line that forms a natural semicircle. "That's where I want to put her playscape."

I glance at him, surprised. He said want. Not wanted. And a little thread of hope unfurls within me.

I don't comment on his word choice. All I say is, "That's the perfect spot."

He turns to look at the ocean that is spread out below us, flowing to the horizon just past the snake-like length of the coast highway that separates us on this hill from the pounding waves.

"I hesitated to start on the plans," he says, as much to the world as to me. "Because I was afraid it would all go to h.e.l.l."

I say nothing; he is echoing my earlier thoughts and I want to hear where this is going.

"I hesitated bringing Ronnie here, too. Hesitated making it official that she is my daughter when I should have done it so long ago. I put my life on hold because somebody else killed a man. Me, Sylvia. Who has never once changed the direction of my life because of someone else's whim. But I did in this. I stopped moving forward in my life because I've been afraid that life will be taken from me."

"And you're not afraid anymore?"

"I'm scared to death," he says. "But that's a G.o.dd.a.m.n lousy reason."

I swallow, so many questions and emotions churning through me that I can't identify any of them. "What is this about, Jackson?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he takes my hand and raises it to his lips. He presses a kiss to my fingers, and although the gesture is sweet, it is also sad. And I'm not sure if I should be scared or hopeful, and the not knowing is weighing on me so hard it is like a physical burden.

"Tell me about the photographs." His voice is gentle, and I have no clue where he's going with this. "The pictures of houses you take."

"I have told you." My hobby is photography, and for most of my life I have preferred to take pictures of buildings. And not just majestic skysc.r.a.pers and brilliantly designed commercial buildings. But homes. Some plain. Some incredible. Some in suburbia. Some tucked away on acres of their own land.

"Tell me again," he insists.

I frown, feeling a little unsteady. I'm not at all sure where this is coming from, but I'm not going to ask. Not tonight. "I've done it all my life. I guess I wanted to imagine what went on in those houses. All the different buildings. Small and large, fancy and ramshackle. I couldn't help but wonder if they had a better life. A father who watched out for them. A mother who knew they were alive." I shrug. "So I collected them. Little bits of lives that I thought maybe someday I'd want."

"And if you were to look at this lot with a house, what would you see?"

"Well, a ranch style. The lot's big enough to support it. But with raised sections on either side. One side would be a media room. The other would be the master suite. And there's a balcony that connects both and looks out over the ocean."

"I like it. And where's the kitchen?"

"In the back with a wall of windows. So you can have breakfast outside if you want."

"And it opens to the pool," he says.

"Of course. For easy entertaining. And there are threeno fourbedrooms in addition to the master."

He nods. "Not bad. Pretty close to what I have in mind, actually. I'll have to make a few tweaks to incorporate your ideas."

He takes my hand and leads me toward the north edge of the property. "This is where the master will beupstairs, now. That frees up the s.p.a.ce below, which would be perfect for your home office."

I raise an eyebrow. "Would it? And where's yours?"

"Right next to yours, of course. With a connecting door."

"I like this game," I say. But when I look at his eyes, I'm confused. "Jackson? Is this a game?"

His eyes are warm, with a spark of humor. "I guess that depends. If at the end of a game someone wins, then maybe it is. I'm building this house for you, baby. Your house with a view of the ocean. Even if I have to design it in prison and farm out the construction, I will have a home for my wife and daughter."

"Oh." The word is soft. A breath. But despite everything, I feel the stirrings of joy inside me, and I can only nod my head. Because this is righthow could Ronnie and I live anywhere other than a house that Jackson built.

"Okay?"

"Yes. Of course." My voice is thick with emotion. So many I can't identify them. All I know is that I'm full up. So much so that my fear is almostalmostovershadowed.

"I have something for you." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small ring box.

I open it almost tentatively and reveal a diamond solitaire, its fire so magnificent that it sparkles even in the dim light of the moon. The setting is clearly antique, with a pattern of vines etched into the white gold setting.

"It was my grandmother's. I called Lauren after you fell asleep," he says, referring to his a.s.sistant. "I had her go to the boat and get it out of my desk."

I nod, realizing that it was Lauren at the hotel door earlier.

He takes the ring from the box and slips it on my finger. Remarkably, it fits. "My mother never got married," Jackson continues, "so she never wore it. I'd like you to."

I swallow, my throat almost too full of emotion to speak. Because while we'd worked everything out between us, this symbol truly seals it. I'm Jackson's. He's mine. And it really is forever.

I look up, meeting his eyes again. "It's lovely."

"If it's not your style, my feelings won't be hurt."

I've been staring at the ring, lost in its fire. Now I look up at Jackson, my eyes filled with tears. "No," I say. "This is perfect."

twenty-four.

Jackson and I spent the night wrapped in each other's arms in the bed at the Biltmore, swept into sleep by the tug of exhaustion that finally vanquished fear, at least for those few blissful hours.

I'm glad of the sleep. Glad to have had the chance to hold him close for what I dearly hope wasn't the last time. And now, as we drive from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills, I tell myself that I'm glad we have this moment to share, too.

It's all a lie, of course. I don't want just this moment. I want all the moments. I don't want to have held him close one last time. I want to hold him each and every night.

But my hopes are not running the show here, and so I sit quietly in the car, trying to be brave because right now I think he needs that. Lord knows that I do.

"Stella and Ronnie arrive at two," he says.

"I know. You told me last night." Once Damien had agreed to take care of Ronnie, Jackson had started the ball rolling to get her out here. Now, of course, his daughter's care will fall to me.

I lean over and press my hand on his thigh. "I'll handle it. I promise."

He nods, his expression managing to be equal parts sadness and grat.i.tude.

"Jackson" I stop myself, not certain that this is a conversational door I want to go through.

I should know better than to open my mouth at all. "What?"

I consider simply telling him that I'm scared. It's true, after all. But I owe him honesty, and so I dive in. "Are you sure you want to bring her here? Now that we know the movie might happen and the press knows all about her . . ."

I trail off, hating that I even have to remind him of all the scandal he's been so worried about.

"I know," he says. "And I hate even thinking about it. But we've thought about this before, and although it's not ideal, we can shield her." He glances sideways at me. "Except I'm not going to be around to help. Do you want me to keep the guardianship with Damien and Nikki? Do you think I should keep her in New Mexico with Betty?"

"No. I want her with me." The words come automatically even though I'm not at all certain that answer is the truth. But it's only a lie insofar as I'm scared of my own ability to take care of this little girl. As far as scandal is concerned, I think he's right. It can be managed. It won't be fun and it won't be easy, but it can be done. Celebrities do it every day, and as far as PR manipulation goes, I won't find better resources than in Los Angeles.

I nod, the motion centering me. "Seriously, it's fine. Scandal doesn't scare me."

He looks at me, then stays silent for just a beat too long before saying gently, "You're going to make a great mom."

I feel my cheeks burn with the rising blush. "You see too much when you look at me, Jackson."

He takes my hand. "I see competence. I see strength. I see you, Sylvia. Really. You're going to be fine."

I shake my head, not in protest of his wordsalthough he really has not convinced mebut in astonishment that he is the one comforting me this morning.

Gently, I squeeze his hand. "You don't need to worry about me," I say. "I'm nine kinds of good. Really."

I think he's going to say something, but my phone pings, signaling an email, and when I check it, I also see that I missed a voice mail from last night. I check the log, then curse when I see who it's frommy dad.

Jackson glances at me. "Are you going to listen?"

"No. Whatever he has to say, I don't need to hear it." But even as I'm saying the words, I'm pressing the b.u.t.ton to play the message on speaker. I have no idea why. I guess I figure that whatever my dad has to say can't be any worse than what Jackson and I are doing right now.

"Honey, it's Dad. I just wanted to say one last time that I love you, and that I'm sorry. I won't call you anymore. I just hopewell, I hope that someday we can talk again."

And then the call ends, and that's it.

I frown, because I heard genuine pain in my father's voice, and I do not want to feel pity for that man. Not now. Not ever.

s.h.i.t.

I turn so that I'm looking out of the pa.s.senger window, not wanting Jackson to see my face. Because, d.a.m.n me, I don't want to reveal that something in my father's voice actually moved me.

After a moment, his hand brushes lightly across my back. "It's okay, you know."

"What is?"

"To not completely hate him. That's not the same as accepting, or even forgiving."

I close my eyes and say nothing.

"Selling you to save Ethan was horrible. And I swear to G.o.d I could kill him for what he did to you. But at the same time I can't help but wonder if he isn't already dead inside. If making the choice didn't kill him already."

I shake my head. It doesn't matter. I neither care nor want to care about that man. "Maybe it did kill him," I say, because I am determined to hold tight to my anger. "Because G.o.d knows he's dead to me already. And," I add as I turn in my seat to face Jackson once again, "right now the only thing I want in my head is you."

I reach for his hand. "We're both going to be fine." If I say it again, maybe it'll be true. Or, at the very least, maybe I'll start to believe it.

We reach the station and park where Harriet told us, then walk inside to the reception area. From there, we're led to a conference room, where we find Charles waiting, along with Damien and Nikki. Damien strides forward the moment we enter to shake Jackson's hand.

"You're supposed to be on your way to China," I say to him, a little panicked by the fact that the boss I'm responsible for getting everywhere he's supposed to be has completely blown his schedule. "You were scheduled to leave Los Angeles last night. Christ, Damien, they're going to be"

He holds up a hand to quiet me. "I handled it. Rachel's taken care of everything. But my brother's being arrested and my niece is arriving soon. I'm staying here, at least through the arraignment and bail hearing. Just in case there's anything you need," he adds, now looking only at Jackson.

It's not money that Damien thinks Jackson needseven if the court grants an astronomical bail, Jackson has the resources to pay it.i.t's support. And I can tell by Jackson's face that he realizes that, too. And he gives his brother both a smile and a silent nod of acknowledgment.

"Where's Harriet?" Jackson asks.

"With Detective Garrison," Charles says. "They'll come get you from here."

At that, Jackson nods stoically. As for me, I can almost feel myself go pale.