All I can read is the headline—Another Alcatraz off the California Coast?
I look at Jackson, confused. “What—?”
“It’s a bullshit editorial. About Reed’s murder. The assault. And my alleged involvement in both of those and the Cortez project. And then, to milk the absurdity properly, the writer pulls in Damien, too.”
“A murderous dynamic duo,” Damien reads, his mouth curving down with a frown before he looks up at Jackson. “You can be Robin. And I’m not wearing a cape.”
I take the phone from Damien and start to skim.
“It’s not funny,” Jackson says.
“No. It’s not,” Damien says. “But it’s also not unexpected.”
I’m barely listening to the two of them. Instead, my stomach is twisting more and more as I read. “This is another dig on the project,” I say. I look at both men in turn. “Like the land mine bullshit. This isn’t gossip about Jackson or your relationship or Reed or any of it. This is about shutting down Cortez. A tainted island,” I read. “Bathed in blood and tragedy. How much do you want to bet that every one of the investors will get this in their inbox?”
I see Jackson and Damien exchange glances. “She’s right,” Damien says.
A burst of fury cuts through me. “I swear I will strangle whoever is behind this.”
Jackson reaches over and takes my hand, and I find the change in our positions both comforting and amusing. Usually I’m the one cooling his temper.
I glance at him, and see that he is watching Damien. “Listen,” he says, as he glances at his watch. “How’s the rest of your afternoon? Can I buy you a drink at happy hour?”
For a moment, I’m confused. Then I remember Jackson’s comment about doing his own investigation into Reed’s killer, and asking Damien for help. Unfortunately, I happen to know that Damien’s heading out to see Aiden, and after that his schedule is jam-packed late into the night, so that ball isn’t going to start rolling today.
“I’m busy,” he says evenly. “But it’s nothing that can’t be rescheduled. Rachel,” he adds, turning toward her desk, “Take care of it for me.”
“Of course, sir,” she says, as Jackson shoots me a smug grin. My eyes, I know, are wide with surprise.
I’m still gaping as the two of them step onto the elevator, and when the doors shut, Rachel lets out a long sigh.
I laugh. “It’s not that bad. Just call everyone and tell them something came up. With a man in Damien’s position, it’s hardly unexpected.”
“Oh, that’s not it,” she says. “It’s this.” She taps her monitor and I hurry around her desk to stand behind her, dread building as I do.
The moment I see the screen, I exhale, my breath forming a single word—“Shit.”
I’m looking at a scene from last night on the boat. It’s an image of the three of us, with me standing just behind Jackson, who is looking at his father with an expression of calm, contained fury. His stance conveys power and control, and though this must have been taken by one of the paparazzi with a long lens, the shot is so clear that the scar that bisects Jackson’s left eyebrow is in sharp focus.
The caption—Daddy Trouble for the Man of Steele?—is little more than a snarky irritation. But the photo itself scares me, and not just because of how closely the paparazzi have crept in, managing to take shots of conversations that should have been private.
No, what scares me is what I see in the image. What the entire world can see now.
Because the camera has captured a man who goes after what he wants, even if that means walking into battle. A man who will protect what is his. A man who will kill if necessary.
A man who, I think, has done just that.
And now I fear that the whole world knows it, too.
ten
Phil, the bartender at the Gallery Bar, slid two glasses of scotch in front of Jackson and Damien. “Anything else, Mr. Steele?”
“Thanks, no. We’re good.”
The bartender hesitated, then nodded. “Well, if you change your mind,” he offered, before moving on to take care of a couple sitting close together at the far end of the long, polished granite bar. Jackson hid a smile. He’d been served by Phil a few times now, and he understood that the young man’s simple comment was more than just an offer of another drink. It was a sign of support as Jackson navigated the rough seas of the tabloid world.
“Friend of yours?”
“No, but he’s good at his job, discreet, and seems to be a good judge of character. He likes me, after all.”
Damien laughed, then took a sip of his drink. They’d left the Tower together, then ignored the calls and questions from the flock of paparazzi that had taken to lingering on the grounds in front of the building.
Questions and camera clicks had followed them as they walked down the hill together. Jackson had felt his nerves twitching—all he wanted was to get out of that spotlight—but he had to admire the way his brother had blinders on, ignoring the shouted questions and demands for photos even as he continued to chat with Jackson as they walked. Damien had put up with this shit for a long time, and now that Jackson understood what it was like to dodge the press, his respect for the brother he was only just getting to know grew even more.
Their destination was the Millennium Biltmore hotel and this historic bar, which was one of its showpieces, not to mention Jackson’s favorite bar in the city. Damien had headed automatically toward a table in the corner, but Jackson had demurred, then led them to the bar. He liked sitting there in the view of the carved wooden angels with the room behind him. He felt at home at the bar, whereas at a table, he felt like a guest subject to the whim of his host.
The thought of whims made him frown. “Do you think she’s right?”
“About the saboteur and the Alcatraz article? Probably.”
“Fuck.” Jackson punctuated that articulate sentiment by tossing back a long swallow of eighteen-year-old Macallan. “We need to know who’s screwing with us. And,” he added, keeping his eyes off his brother as he set his glass back on the bar, “I need to know who really killed Reed.”
He turned to find Damien’s eyes on him. “Honestly, I thought you did.”
Jackson hesitated, then covered the silence with another sip of his scotch. “There’s a lot of that going around. I need to know who else wanted that fucker dead, and why. It plays to my defense. And, frankly, I’d like to shake that man’s hand.”
Damien studied him, and Jackson was certain his brother was weighing the truth in Jackson’s words. Was this for real? Or was Jackson manufacturing new pieces of the puzzle, so that if the police asked, Damien could honestly say that Jackson asked for help finding the real killer, so surely that killer wasn’t him.
He was silent for so long, that Jackson began to fear his brother was going to tell him to fuck off. “Arnold Pratt,” Damien finally said. “He’s a private investigator I keep on retainer. He works primarily for the company—Ryan sends him all our background checks to handle—but he’s done some work personally for me. A few matters that required both digging and finesse. If he has the time, he’ll take the job. And if he doesn’t have the time, my guess is that for the right fee, he’ll make time. Syl has his number. Why didn’t she just suggest him?”
“She probably would have. I told her I wanted to talk to you.”
“A little brotherly advice?” Damien asked, with a hint of irony.
“Brotherly? I don’t know. But you trade in information. And when I need help, I search out the best.”
Damien lifted his glass as if in a toast. “Touché.”
“Speaking of brotherly, have you asked Pratt to look into who leaked our relationship?”
“I haven’t.”
“Any reason why not?” As far as Jackson was concerned, that question and the identity of the saboteur were second only to the question of who killed Reed.