With Rachel—with the job—I’m forced to focus. And that’s a good thing.
I pull a card from the envelope and see that it’s an invitation to Senator Robertson’s daughter’s wedding, and Senator Robertson is the kind of man with whom conglomerates like Stark International want to stay friendly. Considering the stress in Rachel’s voice, I realize that she knows that. I also know why it’s impossible—Damien will be in China, along with the heads of other multibillion-dollar corporations, to discuss all manner of business with Chinese government officials.
“Should I just decline and send a gift?”
“Yes, but Damien needs to send a personal note, too, explaining that he’ll be out of the country. And,” I add as I remember something, “there’s one more thing.” I’m standing behind her desk so that we both have a view of my—well, today it’s her—computer monitor. I bend so that I can reach the mouse, then open up the file we keep on Senator Robertson. Then I lean back, smiling with victory as I point at the screen. “There.”
Rachel skims the article that I’ve copied into the file—a small piece from the Washington Post about the senator’s wife and her involvement in a retired greyhound adoption program. “Check with Damien, of course, but that’s a cause he’ll support.”
“Send a note to the senator along with a donation for his wife’s cause?”
“See how good you’re getting at this job?”
She makes a face. “I spent the entire morning rearranging meetings and dealing with Dallas.”
“Sykes? Or the city?” Cold fingers of worry flicker up my spine.
“The man—no, no, it’s not the resort.” She hurries to reassure me, and I realize my face must be revealing more than I want it to. “He’s throwing some party in San Diego to celebrate a new store opening and he wants Nikki and Damien to go, but both their schedules are insane, and—”
“Yeah,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder. “Believe me, I get it.”
“Advice?”
“Learn the subtle art of saying no.”
She scowls.
“Hey, if you want this desk . . .”
“If we weren’t at work, I’d have to call you a nasty name.” She smiles brightly. “But I’m at work and on my best behavior, so I’ll just leave that to your imagination.”
I laugh, genuinely amused. The more time I spend with her, the more I like Rachel, and I’m glad that she’ll be taking over for me when I move full-time to the real estate department. If I move full-time, I amend. That’s not happening until the resort happens—on time, on budget, and with all the other trappings of success. But with land mines, scandalous photos, hacked emails, and murder trials, I’m having to fight harder and harder to get my resort off the ground—all at a time when I’m horribly distracted.
“So how are you doing?” Rachel asks, and I jump, realizing that I’d slid off into my own little world of anxiety. “I mean, the two of you, and all this stuff with Jackson’s arrest. Are you okay?”
I nod. I’m not okay, of course. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m terrified that Jackson will be taken away from me. I’m terrified of what it will mean if he is. Of what it will mean for me. For Ronnie.
Jackson and I haven’t talked about that since the one vague conversation on the airport tarmac. And that is scaring me, too. That uncertainty. If he goes to jail, do I become Aunt Sylvia? Do I become Mommy?
And if so, what do I do then? How the hell am I supposed to cope without him?
I give myself a solid mental shake, because those are the kinds of things that I’m not letting stay in my head. That way lies madness. Or at the very least, bone-deep terror.
So instead, I force a smile that I am certain looks lame. “It’s been hard. But we’re good.” I lift a shoulder. Just one more martyr making it through the day.
“Oh, Syl.” Rachel’s voice is full of genuine pity, and I really do appreciate that she cares.
I glance down at the floor, as if I can see through the carpet and concrete to where Jackson sits many floors below in his office, working at his drafting table. “The work helps, you know? It keeps him sane.”
“You, too,” she says, and I have to nod. There are only two things that pull me out of the path of the nightmare that is barreling down on us—getting lost in Jackson and getting lost in my work.
“How about you and Trent?” I ask, because I want to change the subject. Her cheeks turn a little pink, and I grin. “Did you guys have a hot weekend in Santa Barbara?”
The pink fades and her mouth turns down and I want to kick myself.
“Santa Barbara?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I just assumed. I had dinner with my old boss, and he mentioned that he’d bumped into Trent in Santa Barbara. And I know you guys are going out, so I thought . . .” I trail off with a shrug and a weak smile, a string of shit, shit, shit running through my head.
“Nope,” she says, her voice just a little thin and possibly a little hurt. “But maybe he was scoping out a place for a wild weekend.”
“Probably. Or more likely it had nothing to do with anything. Maybe he has family there.”
Her head tilts to the side. “Actually, I think he does.” She nods firmly, as if she’s just solved a sticky problem and is ready to put it away. But there’s still a haunted look in her eyes, and I have a feeling that I may have just opened a nasty can of worms for Trent.
Honestly, considering how discreet I can be about Damien’s personal business, you’d think I would know how not to open my mouth and insert my foot.
Damien’s door opens and he steps out, and I swear I want to kiss him just for breaking up the moment. “Rachel, I’m going to meet Aiden at the Stark Plaza site before my meeting with Dallas.”
I frown. “Should I come? Are you talking about his investment?”
“Not at this meeting, no. Dallas is still on board.” He meets my eyes. “I’m sorry, Syl, but Tarrant Properties pulled out. I don’t have confirmation, but I think they’ve been courted by Lost Tides,” he adds, referring to the competing Santa Barbara resort that is my nemesis.
His voice is tight, reflecting my own coiling anger.
“Do you know who made the overture?” The developers of Lost Tides have been playing PR games, keeping the participants under wraps, with their early marketing documents claiming that it’s the resort that matters, not the names behind it.
To me, all that means is that they don’t have a name as big as Jackson’s.
Damien shakes his head. “Once they start actively signing investors, they’ll have to be more transparent.”
“Good,” I say. Whoever started that damn resort copied the idea from me. Even if I can’t stop them, I want to know who it is I hate.
Damien’s expression is knowing. “Don’t worry about the competition,” he says. “Just worry about making Cortez the best it can be. The rest will fall into place.”
“Assuming we don’t lose all our investors.”
“No one else has bolted.”
“But there’s no arrest yet.” I don’t mean to say that. I don’t mean to shift the focus from the resort itself to Jackson. But the words slipped out—the worry that Jackson is going to end up behind bars is just too close to the surface with me.
“And if it comes to that, we’ll deal with it, too,” Damien says gently. “We’ll meet for an update after my lunch.”
I nod, and he’s heading toward the elevator when the doors open and Jackson bursts out. “Have you seen the latest bullshit?” he asks as he thrusts his phone into Damien’s hand.
“Well, hell,” Damien says. “Though I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
I hurry to them—and even Rachel abandons the desk to join us. I stand between the men, my hand on Jackson’s shoulder so I can rise up on my toes to see better.