Say My Name

by J. Kenner

  "No," I say firmly. "This isn't about bringing in the runner-up. It's about making this resort the best that it can be."

  "Really?" His gaze skims over me, as sensual as a slow caress. "I don't recall being approached when the project was initiated."

  "You were tied up with the job in Dubai."

  "Was I?" he says, as if that commission was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. "So this has nothing to do with the fact that your precious resort is in more trouble than you've let on?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Problems with the FAA, Sylvia. Utility permitting. Environmental groups. Do you want me to go on?"

  "Everything you've listed is being handled," I say, which is technically accurate. Apparently there is a lot of red tape to cut through in order to install even a small landing strip on a tiny island. And he's right about the environmental groups, too. As it turns out, the island is a habitat for a rare species of cave crickets, and negotiating that possible land mine was as fraught with destructive potential as disarming a nuclear bomb.

  But what really concerns me is how he's heard about those problems. Because we've kept a tight lid on each and every one of them.

  I fight the urge to drag my fingers through my hair out of sheer frustration, and tell myself not to worry about that right now. "Dammit, Jackson, the bottom line is that it's a great opportunity."

  "I'm not saying it isn't." He holds out his hand. "Come with me."

  I glance at his hand, but I don't take it. After a moment, he lowers it, and the shadow I see in his eyes comes very close to breaking me.

  He says nothing else, but turns and starts walking. I follow him in silence all the way back to the ballroom and then into a hallway that I hadn't entered before. "Won't they miss you?"

  "This is Hollywood. They're used to putting on a spin when the talent goes missing." He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way I find both disarming and very, very sexy. "Besides, the after-party is here. Eventually, whoever needs me will find me."

  I nod, then take the opportunity to look around. The hallway is wide with white walls rising to a low ceiling. The floor is brushed concrete, and it's broken up by several geometric, flat-sided pillars spaced down the length.

  Dozens of framed black and white photographs line the walls, and as we walk we pass Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, Harrison Ford, Marlon Brando, and countless other stars of some of my favorite movies.

  But it is not those images that Jackson wants me to see. Instead, he takes me to the first pillar and the full color photograph that hangs there. It is of the Winn Building in Manhattan, a glass and steel skyscraper that rises like royalty over the city, with so much retail, office, and living space that it is practically a city unto itself.

  Jackson says nothing as we look at the image, and I estimate that a full minute passes before we move to the next pillar and the framed image of the new Salzburg Opera House, with its curved facade that seems to flow like music in perfect harmony with the mountains that frame it.

  The last photograph is not of a commercial project, but of a house in the mountains outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Its burnished exterior blends with the stone and rock, and though the single-story residence is obviously both new and state of the art, it flows over the landscape with the kind of bold confidence that suggests it rose fully formed from the mountains that bore it.

  "What do you know about these?"

  I tell him, giving him the details that he already knows. How the Santa Fe getaway for a well-known philanthropist finally earned him the recognition he deserved and jump-started his architectural career. How the opera house thrust him into the design-build arena when he branched out from strict design work to the full spectrum of property development. And how the Winn Building was a major victory for Steele Development, as it marked his company's foray into the lucrative New York market, and resulted in the first project in which he retained an ownership interest.

  I don't mention the murder and suicide that took place at the Santa Fe house not long after it was completed. It doesn't seem relevant and, frankly, I'm afraid that kind of gossip might spoil whatever progress we're making.

  Nor do I mention that the rental income from the Winn Building must have at least quadrupled Jackson's net worth overnight. But we both know that I am aware. You can't work for a man like Damien Stark for all these years and not gain some understanding of the monetary potential for the kind of projects Jackson now commands.

  In other words, Jackson doesn't need the income from The Resort at Cortez. And considering how fast his star is ascending with the documentary and the possibility of a feature film, he doesn't even need the publicity.

  All I have to offer is the challenge. I can only hope that will be enough.

  I turn so that I am facing him, my back now to the pillar. "So? How did I do?"

  "Not bad. You've been watching my career."

  "No," I say, the lie coming easily. "But I'm good at my job. And that means I know who I'm recruiting."

  "Recruiting," he repeats. He takes a single step toward me.

  "Yes." The word is firm, and I am proud of how steady I feel.

  He steps closer, reducing the distance between us to mere inches. I tilt my head back. Even with me in heels, he is a head taller than me, and right now I cannot help but feel small. Vulnerable.

  I push that down, though, and meet his eyes, hoping mine show ice and determination.

  "Do you remember Atlanta?"

  His words are like a slap, and despite all my resolve, I step backward, only to be foiled by the pillar behind me. "I--of course I do." I lick my lips. "Jackson, I'm sorry about the past. But this isn't--"

  "No," he says, holding up a finger to silence me. "Do you remember before? Before you tore it all apart. Do you remember the way it felt when I touched you?"

  My throat has gone completely dry, and I can feel small beads of sweat at the nape of my neck. "Jackson. Don't."

  He steps closer, ignoring me. "Tell me, Sylvia. And be honest, because I swear I'll know if you're lying." His voice is low, seductive, and utterly commanding. "Do you remember?"

  I shake my head, but that isn't enough to push away the truth. Of course I remember. I remember every laugh, every touch, every breath. I remember every word of every conversation, the taste of every meal. I remember the glorious sensation of his hands upon me and his cock inside me.

  But I also remember when the panic set in. When I started to drown, and no matter how hard I fought to keep afloat I kept getting pulled down into the swirling waters of cold fear and harsh memories.

  I'd ended it because I had to. Because the only way I could survive was to destroy everything. Because the only way I could breathe was to push him away.

  For that matter, I'm having a little trouble breathing right now.

  His fingertip hooks under my chin and he tilts my head up so that I am staring deep into his eyes. "Do you remember?" he repeats.

  I say nothing.

  "And at the end," he persists. "Do you remember what you asked me in Atlanta?"

  I lick my dry lips, then nod.

  "Tell me."

  Whatever you need, baby, I promise. You only have to ask.

  Jackson, I--I need you to leave me. I need you to walk away and to never look back.

  The memory pounds like red neon inside my head.

  "Tell me," he repeats.

  "I asked you to leave." I say the words simply, as if every syllable isn't ripping me to shreds.

  "And did I?" His voice is still even, still calm, but there is no hiding the tension that backs each and every word. "Did I not do exactly what you asked? Did I not walk away even though it just about killed me?"

  It killed me, too. I want to shout the words at him, but I don't. I can't, because that would only make him suffer more, and after everything I've done to him, I can't add that burden. So all I do is nod. "Yes." My voice sounds lost. Hollow. "You did."

&nbs
p; He leans closer, placing one hand on the pillar just over my shoulder. He is at an angle, his face so close I can smell whiskey on his breath. "So what exactly do you want from me now?" He strokes his free hand down my bare arm until he reaches my hand. He twines his fingers with mine and pulls me hard against him.

  I gasp and try to ease backward, but it's not possible. He has moved his palm from the pillar to my lower back. He holds me close, so tight that I am breathless, lost in the feel of him and, yes, in the erotic sensation of his erection, unmistakable against my abdomen.

  "Jackson--"

  "Are you offering me a job?" he continues, ignoring my protest. "Are you offering to bring back everything you killed when you pushed me away?"

  He releases my hand. "Or are you offering me this?" he asks, as he brushes his fingertip over my lower lip, so softly and gently that I have to fight not to gasp with pleasure. "Or maybe this?" he asks as his hand moves lower, his palm grazing over my breast.

  My nipple tightens as my skin prickles with need. I have to focus on breathing, on not letting my knees give out.

  Jackson takes no pity on me. Instead, he gently rubs circles on my breast, taunting and teasing even as his words continue to flow over me. "Surely you remember how it felt," he presses. "You in my arms. Your release. That expression of ecstasy etched on your face. The surrender I felt in your body."

  "Don't." That single word is a cry. A plea.

  "Don't?" His hand slides down again, his fingers twining with mine once more. "But I have to. So tell me, Sylvia. Because I need to know. What exactly are you offering me?"

  My eyes sting, and I squeeze them shut, wishing for the release of tears but they simply won't come. "Just the job," I finally say. I take a deep breath and open my eyes to face him. "Nothing has changed, Jackson. We can't ..." I shake my head, letting my words trail away.

  He holds my gaze. The heat building in the space between us is so intense that I swear I can see the molecules spinning.

  Slowly, he releases his grip on my hand. He steps back and I feel cold when he lifts his other hand from the small of my back. "You're right," he says. "We can't."

  And that is it. Two little words, and then he turns away from me and walks down the hall. I stare after him, breathing hard, watching until he disappears into the shadows of the larger room.

  He never once looks back.

  four

  The moment Jackson is out of sight, my legs give out. I sink to the ground, my skirt over my knees, my knees pulled to my chest. I hug them close, because I am shaking. Not tears, but the best I seem able to manage.

  That is where I am when Cass finds me, my head down on my knees, my mind empty as I try to avoid my memories, this night, every goddamn thing.

  "Jesus, Syl. What happened?"

  I lift my head to find her crouching in front of me. The sun-streaked blonde is with her, standing a few steps behind and looking genuinely concerned. "How did you get back here?"

  "Zee has after-party tickets. Someone saw you leave with Jackson, and when I couldn't find you, we thought you must have come here with him."

  "I did," I say, and hold out my hand so she can help me up. "Zee?"

  "Zelda," the blonde says. "My parents are F. Scott Fitzgerald fans. Are you okay?"

  I shrug. "I'm not having the best night of my life."

  "I'm sorry," she says, then glances quickly at Cass. "I am."

  That lifts my mood considerably, and I flash a quick grin at my friend, who has gone uncharacteristically pink in the cheeks.

  "I'm guessing he said no," Cass says.

  "He said a lot of things," I admit. "'No' was one of them."

  "Business thing," Cass says to Zee. "Went south."

  "That sucks. Wanna hang with us?"

  I'm tempted. At the moment, getting lost in drink and dance seems like a truly fine idea. But I don't want to be a third wheel. Even more, I need to handle this. I need to think. I need to figure out a way to rewind this night, start over, and somehow get Jackson to agree.

  "Thanks, but no." I drag my fingers through my hair. "I'm just frustrated. But I'll walk back into the party with you guys."

  "You're staying?"

  "Yeah. I think. I'm not sure. I need to talk to Jackson again. We didn't exactly get off on the right foot this last go-round."

  Cass's eyes narrow to slits.

  "It's fine," I lie. "It's going to be just fine."

  I can tell she's not convinced, but she knows me well enough not to argue. As soon as we're back in the main ballroom, I split off from them and head to the bar for some wine. This time, I take a long sip, because as far as I'm concerned, forced sobriety has been no great benefit. Heat blooms through me as the wine hits my system, and I go slower with the rest of the glass, taking small sips as I circulate through the room.

  The after-party is even more crowded than the pre-screening reception, which I suppose makes sense, as a lot of folks undoubtedly showed up right as the lights dimmed, planning to watch the film and then dive into party mode. Unfortunately for me, that's making it more difficult to maneuver, and I'm feeling a little trapped and a lot claustrophobic.

  I consider texting Cass just to find her in the crowd, but sternly talk myself out of it. Zee is obviously interested in Cass, and I'm not going to mess that up just because I need a balm for my nerves. Instead, I double my efforts to find Jackson. That's why I'm here, after all. And I'm not leaving until he's cooled down and I have the chance to really talk to him.

  I ease over to one of the light-bathed pillars and stand with my back to it, using that as a central point from which to scan the faces around me. I don't see Jackson, but I do see a familiar face and grin broadly when Evelyn Dodge notices me and makes a beeline in my direction.

  "Look at you." She spreads her arms wide and gathers me into a smothering hug. "Did my favorite benevolent dictator actually give you an evening off?"

  "Just a short break," I deadpan. "If I'm not back in the office by midnight, I'll turn into a pumpkin."

  "Don't risk it, sweetie. With your complexion, you'll look terrible in orange. Now I, on the other hand ..." She indicates the orange, eye-melting dress she has on which, despite the radioactive color, looks show-stoppingly perfect on her. "I knew there was a reason I liked you," she says, when I tell her just how awesome she looks.

  Evelyn was the first person I met when I went to work for Damien Stark. She'd burst into the reception area on day one and announced to Damien that she was taking me to lunch "because the way to an executive's ear is through his assistant."

  Not that she needed me to have Damien's ear. A former actress, Evelyn Dodge has held pretty much every job in Hollywood that it is possible to hold, and a few that I'm certain she invented herself. Recently, she's returned from semi-retirement to agenting.

  She's known Damien since his tennis-star days, and represented him in endorsement deals and all the rest of the celebrity nonsense that comes with being a hot, good-looking athlete. And even more so when he became a hot, good-looking athlete surrounded by scandal.

  Of course, I didn't know either of them back then, but I do know that not only is Evelyn mama-bear loyal to Damien Stark, she's also one of the funniest, brashest, most engaging women I've ever met. And I am limp with relief that she's materialized right in front of me.

  "I had no idea you were coming," I say. "Do you rep someone here?"

  "Not yet, but the night is young." She takes my arm and leads me toward a waiter with a tray of tiny puff pastries topped with sour cream and caviar. "No, I'm here because of Michael."

  "The director?" I take the napkin and appetizer she passes me, then try to decide how I'm going to eat it since I'm still holding my wine in my other hand. "Do you know him well?"

  "Not as well as I thought." She takes my wineglass and downs the last of my cabernet, then hands the empty glass to a passing waiter. "We used to be married."

  "Oh."

  I think of Blaine, the flamboyant younger artist who no
w shares Evelyn's bed. He's about as opposite to Michael Prado as it's possible to be. And despite their age difference, I have to say that I can't imagine Evelyn on anyone's arm but Blaine's.

  "So where's Blaine?" I ask, then blush when she laughs because I am absolutely certain she has watched my train of thought play out across my face.

  "Working in his studio." She winks. "He thinks Michael's a twit."

  I laugh. "Is he?"

  "A bit, but a harmless one. And he's a very good director, not to mention an excellent fund-raiser and board member. His failings are more concentrated in the domestic arena." She shrugs matter-of-factly. "Then again, maybe the failings were mine."

  "Or maybe it's nobody's fault. Maybe you just didn't click."

  "I like the way you think," she says, but I'm barely listening. My words have unexpectedly resonated with me. Because Jackson and I did click--fully and completely. And the reason we're not together right now is entirely my fault.

  "You haven't told me why you're here," she says. "Personal or professional?"

  "You know I'm working on the Santa Cortez project, right?"

  "Of course."

  "Yeah, well, it's hit a little snag." I tell her about Glau, and about my hope that I can convince Jackson Steele to get on board. I don't mention our past. Evelyn may be in the mood to overshare about her relationship, but I'm not feeling that chatty.

  "You're here to do the business mingle," Evelyn says. "A time-honored tradition. I'm doing a bit of the same since I'm here." She glances around the room, pointing out a few of the actors and actresses she has on her radar. "Well, there's someone I didn't expect to see."

  I follow her gaze and see Jeremiah Stark, Damien's father. I glance at Evelyn with a frown. "Guess it's a good thing Damien's not here," I say, then immediately regret my words, afraid I've overstepped my bounds. It's no secret that Damien and his father do not get along, but as his assistant, I really shouldn't be commenting on that. Even to a mutual friend.

  Evelyn is completely unperturbed by my comment. "I've seen him at a lot of screenings lately--he's determined to get a foot in the Hollywood door. But I'm surprised he thinks a documentary is worth the drive from San Diego."

  "Maybe he likes architecture." In truth, I don't really care. I like Damien. I don't like Jeremiah. And I don't want to waste more thoughts on the man.