“That I don’t think you did it.”
Jackson studied him. “That’s not what you said a few minutes ago.”
Damien didn’t smile, but Jackson saw the hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m not talking to the police right now, am I? I’ll tell them that I don’t know you that well, but I do know you’re not stupid. And killing him just a few days after beating the shit out of him would be very, very stupid.” He waited a beat, then leaned closer, his elbows on the bar. “Jackson, stupid doesn’t run in our family. Jeremiah’s a shit, but he’s not stupid, either. If he did leak our relationship—he had an endgame.”
“Like what?”
Damien leaned back. “I have no idea. But you wanted to know who else might want Reed dead. I say add him to the list of possibles. Jeremiah knew Reed. You said so yourself.”
Jackson considered, then nodded slowly. “I’ll talk to Harriet. Have her keep an eye on him. Maybe he’ll end up being my reasonable doubt.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Damien said.
“No, you convinced me.”
“I mean, it’s already done.”
Jackson narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Is it?”
Damien lifted a shoulder. “Like I said, Jeremiah Stark always has an endgame. I’d like to know what it is. Besides,” he added with a significant look to Jackson, “maybe he did kill Reed.”
“Anything’s possible,” Jackson said dryly. “But what would he gain?”
“I don’t know,” Damien admitted. “If he were another man, I’d say maybe he was trying to protect you. Keep the movie from being made. Keep Reed from suing you for the assault. Maybe even protect his granddaughter.”
“He doesn’t know about her,” Jackson said tightly.
“Are you sure?” When Jackson stayed silent, because, dammit, he wasn’t sure, Damien continued. “It doesn’t matter. My point is that Jeremiah Stark looks after one person and one person only.”
He met Jackson’s eyes. “So watch your back, Steele. Because you may not see him coming.”
eleven
Since it is already the end of the workday and I am still too riled about that damn photo to focus, I decide to grab a few files and head home to work there.
Home, of course, is the operative word. Because Jackson and I have been spending more and more time on his boat since his drafting table and other work tools are there. And as for me, I like to stretch out on his comfy lounge chairs with a glass of wine and relax to the sound and rhythm of the ocean. I’d like to do that tonight, in fact. But I can’t, and that pisses me off.
Because tonight, the boat isn’t my destination; my condo is. Not that I don’t love my condo—I do. But I’d rather be in my place because I’m craving my own stuff. Not because the damn paparazzi are messing with our lives.
And, yes, I trust that the property managers at the marina are doing their job. None of those cockroaches are getting access to the boat or even the parking lot. But that didn’t stop them from taking those pictures last night, and that was invasive enough for me.
Tonight, I sleep in my own bed.
It occurs to me as I reach Santa Monica that the press might be staking out my place as well, but when I pull my Nissan up to the entrance to the underground parking garage no one is there, and my shoulders dip in relief. It’s possible there are a few stragglers by the main entrance to the building, but that’s outside on the Third Street Promenade, and since I’m coming in through the garage, I don’t even have to see them.
As I head to the elevator, I shoot Jackson a text—Safe and sound in the condo. See you soon.
I still don’t have a reply by the time I get upstairs, but I’m not surprised. He’s with Damien, after all, and on top of everything that’s happened recently, they have a lifetime of catching up to do.
So do I, I realize, as I step into my condo. Or maybe not a lifetime of catching up, but at least several days’ worth.
I wrinkle my nose, because the place has that closed-up smell that is one part dirty laundry and two parts something left in the trash I forgot to take out.
I remedy that first, emptying the trash from all of the rooms, then shoving a lemon down the disposal and turning it on while I run the trash to the chute. I hit the button for the back door as I step into the hall, and by the time I return thirty seconds later, my garage-style door has almost completely ascended, letting in a nice, cleansing ocean breeze.
On a normal day, I’d be irritated with myself for doing something as stupid as forgetting to take the trash out. Today, however, is not normal. I want a distraction, and cleaning seems like just the ticket.
Within half an hour, I’ve gone through the pantry and refrigerator and tossed every bit of old food. An hour after that, I’ve vacuumed, added some essential oils to the potpourri I keep on a table in front of the couch, completed one load of laundry and started a second, and am telling myself that I wasn’t worried by Jackson’s lack of response two hours ago, and I have no reason to be worried now. We’d all left work early, so it’s only seven. For all I know, drinks turned into dinner. And if that’s the case, I should be happy. After all, I love Jackson and I respect Damien; I want them to get along.
But despite telling myself that, the sense of dread in my stomach doesn’t ease, and though I really don’t want to, I pull out my phone. This time, I’m not going to text Jackson.
This time, I’m searching social media.
And, dammit, there he is. Not just one picture, but several.
Jackson and Damien walking down the hill to the Biltmore, presumably taken by one of the photographers who’ve taken to camping outside Stark Tower just on the off chance another prime shot like the one of Megan kissing Jackson comes along.
Then there’s a shot of them entering the Biltmore, then several of the exterior of the hotel with the hashtag #StarkSteeleWatch.
Great.
Of course, there’s nothing inherently bad about any of these pictures. It’s just the fact of them that bothers me. That they exist at all, and that they exist because a layer of Jackson’s privacy has been stripped away.
Damien has always been news-fodder, of course, but for the most part, nobody camps out at the Tower anymore, primarily because there’s no Stark scandal at the moment. Or, at least, there wasn’t.
Now there’s murder and sabotage and sibling speculation, and the frenzy has started up all over again.
I sigh, knowing that it won’t die down until after Jackson is either cleared or tried. And so long as I’m tied to Jackson, I’m in the thick of it, too. Right now, the press is only interested in me as Jackson’s girlfriend and the resort’s project manager. Yes, they know that I was a model for Reed years ago, but those photos are so tame that they’ve died down on social media. But the more I’m caught in the spotlight that shines on Jackson, the more likely the press will dig.
And if they learn about the blackmail—if that goes public—
I shiver, because that is a thought that I really can’t let into my head.
With an effort, I force my mind away from all this. I plug my phone into the small speakers in my kitchen, and my favorite playlist starts blaring out Basket Case from Green Day. That’ll work, I think, as I crank the volume and then go to change the sheets. That, and then vacuuming, will keep me busy for another half-hour.
And if I haven’t heard from Jackson by then, I’ll call Nikki. If I can’t find my boyfriend, maybe she at least knows how to find her husband.
I strip the sheets, then ball them up and start to carry them from the bedroom to the small laundry closet that is just off the kitchen. But the moment I turn around, I drop them, and a small, startled “oh!” escapes me.
“Let’s go,” Jackson says. He’s by my breakfast bar tapping the key I gave him against the granite counter. He stands tall and straight, his eyes hard, his expression defiant. But what it is that he is defying, I really don’t know.