Stark International: Under My Skin Part 26

"What can we do?" Nikki asks Jackson. "Whatever you need, just say the word."

"Can you go with Syl to the airport? Stella's bringing Ronnie in. Maybe help her get settled?"

"Of course," Nikki says, and I don't argue, even though I'm more than capable of doing those things on my own. The truth is, as much as I'd like to say I can handle this by myself, I don't think I'm going to be able to.

"I need to find someplace else to stay, too," I say. "The boat has a spare room, but it's no place for a little girl. And my condo is only one bedroom. Even if I give that room to Ronnie, that still puts me in a bind while Stella's here." Stella is a saint as far as I'm concerned. She's staying for at least a week to help Ronnie and me get to know each other betterand to teach me all the ins and outs of caring for a toddler.

Jackson had intended to look for a rental house, but he hadn't had much time, and the few places he'd viewed just weren't up to par.

I glance at Jackson. "I wish" But I don't finish the thought. He knows what I'm going to say, because I've already said it at least five times this morning.

"I know," he says. "You wish they could have gotten here before. Believe me, so do I."

"Harriet will get you out on bail," Damien says firmly. "You'll see your daughter soon enough."

I catch Jackson's eye. We both hope he's right. We both fear that he's not.

"You should stay at Stark Tower," Nikki says, looking to Damien for confirmation.

"She's right," Damien says. "Stay at the Tower apartment. Nikki and I can stay at the Malibu house. We'll be fine. And Syl will be closer to Ronnie during the day. You will be, too, once you're back at your drafting table. And I'll need you pulling a lot of hours," he says wryly. "I want my resort finished on time."

"Your resort?" Jackson repeats, and Damien just grins.

For a moment, everything is light, and it feels almost as if we're just standing around talking. As opposed to standing around a police station talking while we wait for Jackson to surrender himself. To be incarcerated.

Jackson meets my eyes, and I nod in agreement. The apartment is completely tricked out. Best of all, it's right inside Stark Tower.

"All right," he says to Damien. He turns to Nikki. "Thank you both."

"Well," Damien says, "that's what family is for, right?"

"I guess it is," Jackson says. "I never really knew before."

The conversation lags, and I'm about to fill the awkward silence with a question about which guest room Nikki'd choose for a three-year-old when the conference room door opens. I clutch Jackson's hand as Harriet enters with Detective Garrison.

"Mr. Steele," the detective says. "Thank you for coming."

Jackson raises a brow. "I'm not sure I had a choice, but you're welcome." His shoulders rise and fall as he gathers himself. "Okay, let's do this."

"There's nothing to do, Jackson," Harriet says gently. Her face breaks into a wide smile. "You're free to go."

His hand tightens around mine, but otherwise, he doesn't move a single muscle. As for me, I'm certain that I've lost my ability to process words, because what she just said makes no sense.

Slowly, Jackson asks, "What are you talking about?"

"We have a suspect in custody, Mr. Steele," Detective Garrison says. "He's made a full confession."

Jackson's other hand reaches out for the table, and he slowly lowers himself into one of the chairs. His mouth opens, but no words form. Instead, it's me who says, "Oh, my G.o.d, it's over? It's really over?"

I squeeze his hand as Harriet confirms what Detective Garrison has said, and Jackson looks up, his eyes searching mine, as if this is a joke and he's waiting for the punchline.

"It's over," I repeat, and for a moment we just look at each other, basking in this moment. And I wonder if maybejust maybethe universe has decided that it's had enough fun with us. That the joke is all done and we can go on with our lives instead of playing some sort of cosmic game of dodgeball.

"Thank G.o.d," Jackson whispers. "Thank G.o.d."

"Who confessed?" Damien asks the question, and it's only then that I realize that Harriet's smile is not as broad as I would expect.

"What?" I ask, suddenly wary.

"I'm sorry," she says, and I think it's strange that she's looking right at me. "Sylvia, it's your father. He turned himself in."

twenty-five.

"Here," Jackson says, handing me a gla.s.s of wine even though it's not yet noon. "Drink this."

We're in my apartment, ostensibly to pack a few things to take back to the Tower apartment after we pick up Ronnie. Right now, though, I'm doing little more than getting lost in my thoughts.

"I'm okay," I say, tucking my feet under me on the couch. "Really." But I take the wine anyway, because the truth is that I'm not okay. Honestly, I'm not sure what I am, other than numb.

I've been numb, I think, since the detectives met our plane in Santa Fe. First numb about Jackson being a suspect. Then his arrest. Then a pleasant numbness when we found out that he'd been cleared.

That should have been the end of it.

I shouldn't have to feel thisthis deep twinge of some emotion that I really do not want to identify. Not for him. Not for my father.

But it's there, inside me, twisting me up. And all I want to do is stop feeling. And the only way to do that is to embrace being numb for a little bit longer as I hope that maybe it will all just go away.

I haven't yet spoken to my father. I'm not sure I want to. According to Harriet, it will be a while before I can anyway because he has to be processed, and it's the weekend, and things in the criminal justice system just don't move that quickly. All I know is that he did itall I know is that it's true. Apparently the police kept a few facts about the crime back. A quotation that had been carved into the ivory statue with which Reed had been bludgeoned.

My father recited it to Detective Garrison.

He told the detective that he did it to protect Jackson, the man his daughter loved.

But I don't believe him. Or, rather, I don't completely believe him.

I think my dad killed Reed after Jackson told him about the blackmail photos.

I think my dad killed Reed to protect me, so that those photos would never have to come out. I think my dad was trying to save me.

But this is my dad, the man I've hated for years. And, honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about being saved by him now. After all, he let it get down to the wire for Jackson. He sat back and watched as the paparazzi swarmed around us. He waited, standing back, letting Jackson and me both suffer when he had the key to stop it all along.

I shiver, not wanting to think about any of that right now. All I want to do is revel in the knowledge that Jackson is free. That he's safe.

That he's mine.

Jackson sits beside me, then pulls my feet into his lap. I've kicked off my shoes, but am still wearing the skirt I'd put on this morning, and I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his fingers trailing gently over my calf.

"I'm so sorry," I say.

"About what?"

I open my eyes to find him smiling softly at me, his expression so gentle it just about breaks my heart. "About being melancholy. We should be out buying confetti and throwing it from rooftops."

"I'm pretty sure that's against some city ordinance. I'd hate to get arrested," he says, raising a brow mischievously.

I laugh.

"Seriously," he says. "You can be happy for me and sad for your dad. Or confused or whatever," he rushes to say, obviously seeing on my face that I'm conflicted about how I feel about my father.

"I'm so happy that you're clear now," I say. "And I'm grateful to my dad, because he's the reason. But at the same time . . ." I lift my shoulders, unsure and unsteady. "What he didand then what he did to you by not coming forward sooner."

"I know, baby. But you don't have to think about it right now," Jackson says. "Just let it settle."

"I don't even know if I want to see him." The word is a whisper, shameful because he killed the man who tormented me. And even though it came late, his confession has saved the man I love.

And yet I don't want to be in debt to this man. Not when he owes me so much more than he can ever repay.

"You don't have to decide that right now, either." His fingers are still stroking me, easing gently along my skin. It is just a light touch, and I close my eyes and let myself go, surrendering to this need to be tended and soothed.

His fingers ease higher, teasing me. The touch is so soft that at times I'm not even certain I feel him. And yet how can I not? This is Jackson touching me. Jackson taking care of me.

Jackson, loving me.

I don't know how long he strokes me, but I do know that with each caress I feel it more and more. As if he is polishing me, making my body shine with a sensual light. So that by the time his fingers sneak beneath my skirt to tease the soft skin of my inner thighs, I am aching for him. And by the time he reaches the juncture of my thighs to find me bare and gloriously wet, my v.a.g.i.n.a clenches in antic.i.p.ation of those fingers thrusting deep inside me.

I'm breathing hard, my body warm, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s aching, and I arch my back in a silent expression of longing.

But he doesn't penetrate me. Just the opposite, and I whimper because suddenly the contact disappears. I feel the shift of the couch cushions and open my eyes. He's standing above me, looking down with such longing and pa.s.sion that it makes my whole body tingle.

He's changed out of his suit into one of the pairs of jeans he keeps at my apartment, and I can see the strain of his c.o.c.k against the denim. It makes me smile. I like that he is bound. That he's going just a little crazy. I like it, because it will make the explosion when he is released that much more astounding.

"Come with me," he says, but he doesn't wait for me to stand. Instead he picks me up, cradling me to his chest as I wrap my arms around his neck. It's a position that suggests comfort and tenderness, but when puts me on the bed and steps back, I see a building heat in his eyes that suggests otherwise.

"Hook your ankles behind me. Now," he demands, as if I were going to protest. "No words. No questions."

I comply.

The position leaves my knees turned out so that the s.p.a.ce from my feet to my c.u.n.t form a diamond, and there is just a tiny amount of s.p.a.ce between his pelvis and mine. Just enough room for his hand to torment me sweetly.

And that is exactly what he does. That finger that was easing up my thigh does so again, trailing lazily up and down as I squirm, my hips undulating in a needful rhythm.

"I like that," Jackson says, his voice so low I can barely hear it. "I like watching you silently beg. Your c.u.n.t slick and hot for me."

I close my eyes and drag my teeth over my lower lip. "Jackson. Please."

"Please what? Please this?" His fingertip trails lightly over my c.l.i.t, and the shock of that touch ricochets through me.

"Or this?" He slips two fingers inside me, then presses down on my c.l.i.t with his thumb, making me arch back, wanting more.

He pumps his fingers inside me, his thumb continuing to tease, and as he does, I'm losing the ability to think.

"I'm going to make you come, baby. I think you should just sit back and enjoy it."

I try to answer, but he adds another finger and thrusts deep inside me, and I realize that I am incapable of forming words.

My c.u.n.t tightens around his fingers. I want it harder. Deeper.

"Close your eyes," he says. "Slide one hand up inside your shirt."

I do. My skin feels hot to the touch.

"All the way up and then squeeze your nipple. Harder, baby. I know you like it hard."

He's right, and I comply, biting my lower lip as I tease myself, and then gasping as he takes my other hand and slides it between my legs. "Tease your c.l.i.t for me, baby," he says as he thrusts his fingers inside me, finger-f.u.c.king me as I do what he says. As my worries and anxieties fall away. As pleasure builds. A celebration of now. Of freedom. Of life.

Of us.

"Come for me, baby." His voice is low and steady and seems to roll over me, as sensual as his touch. "Come for me and tell me you're mine."

"I am," I whisper. "Oh, G.o.d, Jackson, I am." The words are ripped out of me as I explode, my muscles convulsing so hard around his fingers that I probably have bruised him.

I let the storm wash over me, then sigh as he whispers, "I'm going to marry you."

"Yes," I reply. "You d.a.m.n sure are."

twenty-six.

"Daddy! Stella! Sylvie! Someone else is here!"

Ronnie races through the apartment toward the foyer where the elevator has just binged.

I'm standing by the wet bar with Nikki and Stella, but it's Jackson's face that I'm watching, and it has such an expression of rapturous adoration that I'm determined to figure out how to submit Betty and Stella for sainthood.