Say My Name

by J. Kenner

  Tonight, Jackson had swept all of that away. And now there I was, battered and broken.

  I didn't know what to do. All I knew was that I wanted to run, but I feared that if I did, Jackson would follow.

  The thought made my heart twist, but whether with longing or fear, I wasn't sure. All I knew was that I had to end it now. While it was new. While it would be easy.

  Except it wouldn't be easy.

  On the contrary, it would be the hardest thing ever.

  The only thing harder would be to stay with him.

  And though part of me begged to do just that, the rest of me knew that I wasn't that strong, and if I wanted to survive, I had to end it.

  Even if ending it ripped both of us to pieces.

  When the train pulls into the Civic Center station, I blink the memories away, then follow the crowd to the street, then walk down the sidewalk to Stark Tower. Joe is working the security desk, and his brows lift when he sees me. "Are you all right, Ms. Brooks?" he asks as he rises, and I realize that in my wrinkled cocktail dress and smeared makeup I must look like I'm doing the walk of shame. And I guess I sort of am.

  I hold up a hand to forestall him before he gets too worked up or worried. "I'm fine, really. It's been one of those days to the nth degree. But everything is okay. I just need to get to my locker."

  He doesn't look entirely convinced, but waves me through to the elevator banks.

  "Clear me for the gym, please," I ask, referring to the private fitness facility on the twentieth floor. "I have a spare access key in my locker, so I'll be good to go after that."

  The gym is rarely busy on Saturdays--when folks come in on weekends, it's usually to work, not to work out--so I'm able to get to the women's locker room without being noticed. As with everything Stark, the place is completely decked out, rivaling the most high end of Los Angeles fitness centers. I take a shower, put on the spare skirt and blouse I keep for wardrobe emergencies, along with the matching pumps, then take some time with my makeup. I doubt Damien is on-site--he tends to work weekends from his Malibu house these days--but if I do see my boss, I want to look professional and in control.

  With any luck, my research will only take a few hours. Then I can call the house, arrange to meet with Damien there this evening or, worst case, schedule an in-office appointment for first thing in the morning.

  Either way, time is running out, and I can only pray that luck is on my side.

  I take the elevator to the penthouse, which houses Damien's private office on one side and his residential apartment on the other.

  The elevator opens to the office side. I see Rachel at my desk, her head bent as Damien's voice filters through the intercom. "Try her at home."

  "I did," Rachel says. "I got her voice mail there, too. I'm guessing she's out and the battery on her phone is dead, but I'm sure she'll check her messages once she realizes--Oh! She's here!" Rachel looks up and then sags in obvious relief. "I'll send her right in."

  She disconnects the intercom as I approach, then shoves a folded newspaper section at me. "Look at it later," she says, "but you look fabulous."

  "What's going on?"

  "He's in there with Aiden. Go!"

  "With Aiden?" As the VP of Stark Real Estate Development, he's my immediate supervisor on this project, and the fact that he's in with Damien--and that they are both looking for me--knocks me sideways. "What happened?" I'm certain she'll know. Being at this desk means being aware of pretty much everything.

  "Aiden got a call from one of the island's investors."

  "Aiden did? Who? When?"

  "I don't know. He called Damien and they met up here. Damien's been here for about half an hour and Aiden was right behind him."

  "Shit." I glance at my phone. Sure enough, it's dead. I shove it at her. "Charge, please."

  "On it," she says, then thrusts her arm out toward the door again. "Go," she adds frantically.

  I go.

  "Good, you're here," Damien says without preamble. He stands by his wall of windows, looking out at the spread of downtown. Aiden is on the small couch in the sitting area and he acknowledges me with a nod. Originally from London, he moved with his family when he was a teen. I confess I love the way he talks, very East Coast with just a hint of British accent.

  Despite his years in the States, he's got that upper crust Brit thing going for him. Bearing, class, the whole nine yards. Someone told me that he's number one hundred and something in line for the throne. Looking at him, I believe it, though I doubt he's holding his breath.

  Now, he pours me a glass of water, then sets it on the table across from him. I take the chair closest to the water, then sip it gratefully. "Rachel told me the bare bones," I say. "What happened?"

  "Dallas Sykes called me at home," Aiden says, referring to the CEO of one of the country's largest department store chains. "He was rather discombobulated."

  I raise a brow at his choice of word. Dallas Sykes is gossip rag material--a sexy bad boy who inherited his position and spends most of his time bouncing from woman to woman. Somehow, "discombobulated" doesn't fit. And I can't imagine what could have happened to bother him anyway. I say nothing, though. I'm certain either Aiden or Damien will elaborate.

  I'm proven right when Damien turns from the window to face us both. "Apparently a reporter called Dallas just after dawn this morning. Word is out the project is dead."

  "What?"

  Damien meets my eyes, but doesn't pause. "The reporter knew that Glau quit--which can be attributed to Glau's own people--but he also heard that our first potential alternative said a big fuck you to working for Stark International."

  I feel a sharp pain in my chest, as if someone has thrust in a knife. "That's--" I start to say ridiculous, but it really isn't. Jackson pretty much had said that. And he'd given me only one way around it--a way I have no intention of taking.

  "I don't know where the reporter could be getting his information," I say. "Steele hasn't said yes, but he also hasn't said no." I fidget with the newspaper in my lap. "And if this spreads to the rest of the investors ..."

  I stand, tossing the newspaper onto the coffee table as I do. It lands open to a picture taken at the gala. I'm standing close to Jackson, who has his arm around the exceptional brunette. Seeing them twists something up inside of me, and I bite back a curse.

  "Dammit, I handled this whole thing badly," I say. "Not only did I not manage to lock Steele in last night, but I somehow managed to create a leak." I look from one man to the other. "I'm sorry."

  The truth is, I don't actually know where I went wrong, but this project is my responsibility, and if something got fucked up, then I'm the one shouldering the responsibility.

  "Did you tell anyone that Steele was our go-to alternative for Glau?" Stark asks.

  "Cass and Wyatt," I say. "But they have no vested interest."

  "And Steele?" Aiden asks.

  "Well, of course. But considering I was approaching him, that would have been self-evident anyway."

  One brow quirks up in a way I consider very British, and he glances toward Damien. "Wouldn't surprise me," he says.

  I turn my attention from one to the other. "Wait a minute. You're suggesting that Jackson Steele leaked this to a reporter? Why on earth would he do that?"

  "I did some digging after he so emphatically turned down my offer to sign on to the Bahamas project," Damien says. "Turns out that where I've had a few deals flourish, he's had a few go sour." He meets my eyes. "I knew the odds of getting him on board were slim. It didn't occur to me he'd set the rumor mill buzzing."

  "I can't believe it." I'm not sure if I'm angry or flabbergasted.

  I start to tell the men that I absolutely don't believe that Jackson would do such a thing, but then remember what Jackson said about revenge. If he's going to mess with me, might as well go all out.

  "You gave it your best shot," Aiden adds, even as my temper is spiking. "And the work you did was first-rate. Get Damien to cut you loose and
I'll give you an office on twenty-seven whenever you want it."

  I manage a smile. Stark Real Estate Development takes up the entire twenty-seventh floor, with thirty-three satellite offices around the globe. But this isn't about the job, it's about the project.

  A project that Jackson Steele has ripped right out of my hands.

  Shit.

  I look straight at Damien. "It's really over, isn't it?"

  "Unless by some miracle Steele says yes, then yeah, I'm afraid it is." He shifts his attention to Aiden. "We already have the conference call scheduled for Monday, so have the PR department respond with no comment until then. After the call we'll release a statement. Syl," he continues, "get me a draft by morning."

  "I'll get on that now," I say, grateful for a reason to leave. Right now, all I want to do is get out of that room.

  I excuse myself and am stepping out when Damien's intercom buzzes. Since the door is partially open, I hear Rachel's voice in stereo. "Mr. Stark, there's a Jackson Steele here to see you."

  I freeze. Just freeze right there in the doorway, with my arm thrust out in front of me. Then he's there, taking hold of the door and pulling it open all the way, so I have to either unfreeze or topple over.

  I manage to get my act together and stumble back into the room.

  "Ms. Brooks." He takes my hand, but whether it's in greeting or to steady me, I'm not sure.

  After a moment, he releases me, then strides confidently toward Damien. "Mr. Stark," he says as they shake hands. "How nice to see you again. I'm sorry to come without an appointment, but I wanted to tell you personally how excited I am to be a part of The Resort at Cortez."

  nine

  The rest of the meeting is blurred by my fury, though I manage to keep it in check until Jackson and I leave Damien's office so that he and Aiden can personally call Sykes and the rest of the investors in order to both dispel the rumors and announce Jackson's participation.

  I manage to stay silent until I've led him into the single small conference room on this floor. "What the hell?" I snap as soon as the door snicks shut behind me. "What in the goddamn hell did you just do?"

  I surge past to the control panel on the nearby credenza and hit the button to close the electronic blinds. I fully intend to scream and rage, and I damn sure don't want an audience when I do it.

  Jackson, damn him, is brutally calm. "I'm just making sure that everyone has all the relevant information."

  "What does that even mean?"

  He moves to the window and stands beside it, so that downtown Los Angeles is spread out behind him. I'm reminded of the image from the premier--Jackson on the girder in jeans and a hardhat, all power and control, force and motion.

  Today, he wears a finely tailored suit, and looks crisp and put together.

  Or mostly put together.

  Because it is impossible not to notice the wound on his cheek. It's covered by an adhesive butterfly bandage, but the cut and the bruising are still somewhat exposed. And when I glance down, I see that his knuckles are raw as well.

  Those injuries weren't there last night, and as I stand there, I'm absolutely certain that I am the reason for them.

  I'm not entirely sure how that makes me feel.

  He may be injured, but nothing about this man looks like a victim.

  On the contrary, he's a man used to getting what he wants--and right now, I know that's exactly what he's doing.

  "Stark's a powerful man," he says, then turns from the window to face me. "I don't want him thinking ill of me because he believes I turned down his project."

  "That's a load of crap," I retort. "You turned down the Bahamas resort without even blinking."

  He simply shrugs. "Maybe I was overbooked. Maybe the terms were unacceptable."

  "Or maybe you told Stark you didn't want to work on a Stark International project. That he casts too long a shadow."

  "True," he says. "But don't you think it's reasonable that now I want to show Mr. Stark that I spoke too hastily? Because the truth is that I cast a long shadow, too, and if I do this, it will ultimately be known as a Jackson Steele project." He meets my eyes, his expression flat, but the corner of his mouth curves up just enough so that his amusement is plain. "Don't you agree?"

  Since he has just tossed my words back in my face, I can hardly disagree.

  "I'm ready, willing, and able to perform," Jackson says. "Stark needed to know that. The only question is whether the specific terms of the deal are acceptable, and I believe that's what Stark told you to work out with me."

  It's true. Damien had originally left it to me to put together the deal points with Glau, and now I'm supposed to do the same with Steele.

  How uncanny that I already know what our sticking point will be. Me.

  His smile is wide and smug. "If it turns out that we can't come to terms, then you can relay that to him. But at least I'll leave here knowing that Damien Stark is aware that I was, at least for a time, ready to work on his resort. Enthusiastic, even," he adds as he looks me up and down.

  I feel a rush of sensual pleasure that, God help me, I do not want to feel. I don't want to surrender. All I want to do is run.

  I force myself to stand taller. Straighter. To speak cleanly and crisply despite my frayed nerves. And, yes, despite my own damnable desire. "Why are you doing this?"

  "You know why," he says as he strides to me. I hold my ground, resisting the urge to move backward and clutch the credenza behind me. "Because I want you, Sylvia."

  He reaches out, then traces his fingertip along my collarbone as I stand stock-still, trying very hard not to shiver from the thrill of his touch.

  "I want you naked," he whispers in a voice as tempting as sin. "I want you exposed. I want you open to me. And I think," he adds in the kind of voice that will broach no argument, "that you want me, too."

  I exhale slowly and force myself to look at him. "Goddamn you, Jackson Steele."

  "I once told you that I'm a man who goes after what he wants, and that's still true. But here's a question for you, Sylvia. Are you a woman who does the same? You say you want this project, this resort. Prove it. It's here for the taking. Right now, the only obstacle is you."

  I say nothing, because if I speak, I'm afraid of what I'll say.

  His eyes, like blue fire, meet mine. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. Be ready for me."

  I pull open the glass door to Totally Tattoo and am immediately accosted by both loud colors and equally loud music.

  "Sylvia!" Joy high-fives me as I step up to the glass case that doubles as a cash register stand and a display for the shop's various rings and bars. Cass doesn't do piercings herself, but she hired Joy just shy of a year ago, and the arrangement has worked out well for both of them. "When are you getting your tongue pierced, girlfriend?" she asks, just as she does every time I come in.

  "This side of never," I reply, just as I always do.

  In theory, I have nothing against tongue piercings. In practice, I lean far too much toward the wimp side of things.

  "You are seriously early, but I'm just about done!" Cass calls from the back.

  Joy cocks her head as she looks at me. "Cass is just about done. She says you can go on back."

  "You can come on back!" Cass's voice rings out from her table near the back of the shop.

  I exchange a grin with Joy and head back.

  Cass is standing now, pulling off latex gloves as her client--a tall, bald man with arms the size of most men's calves--stands shirtless, admiring the huge colored dragon she's inked on his back.

  "Looks great," I say.

  "Fucking awesome," the guy agrees.

  "Looks great so far," Cass corrects. "See you in two weeks, Gar, and you'll really see that bird pop."

  "You got it, Cass," he says, then pulls on a T-shirt with a logo that I don't recognize, but assume is either a heavy metal band or a motorcycle.

  "He's a sweetheart," Cass says, as soon as the guy's out the door. "Wants the tat done before he gets
married in January. Guess they're going to Cozumel for the honeymoon and he wants to rock the look if he's going to be shirtless ninety percent of the time."

  As she talks, she cleans up her station, and I hop onto the table and get comfortable watching her.

  "Just give me ten to get everything put away and then we can head out. I don't have any more appointments today, and Tamra's here in case we get a walk-in."

  I glance around, looking for the elusive Tamra. "Is she folded up under one of the stations?" I ask, which isn't entirely unreasonable. Tamra's the most petite woman I've ever seen, short, lean, and perfectly proportioned.

  "Funny. No, she's in the back. At any rate," she continues, her voice rising in a way that signals she's excusing my idiotic interruption but may not be so gracious about another one, "I'm thinking late lunch with alcohol, then shopping with loose inhibitions."

  "And alcohol is the only way to loosen your checkbook?"

  "Absolutely. And I have to shop because I need a Halloween costume."

  "Seriously?" In all the years I've known her, Cass has worn the same costume. A floral print skirt, a solid pink T-shirt, and three-inch high pink stilettos. Her straight girl costume.

  "Zee's throwing a party," she says. "I need to trot out something new."

  I cock my head. "Falling for someone who doesn't share your sense of humor?"

  "Just being careful," she says, a little sheepishly. "I like her, okay?"

  I nod. What little I'd seen of her, I'd liked, too. But Cass is a little wild, a little weird, and a whole lot out there. She pulls off feminine, grunge, sporty, and elegant with equal aplomb, and she has about as much politics attached to her sexuality as she has wheatgrass in her kitchen. Which would be exactly none.

  If she's afraid that the straight girl costume won't go over with Zee, then my ears are pricking.

  "Chill, Mom," she says. "I just want a change. New girl. New costume. It's not a big conspiracy."

  "Fine," I say. "Then I wish you awesome shopping."

  "You like her, right?"

  Once again, I eye Cass sideways, because she is not the insecure type who needs reassurance about who shares her bed. Which means she's either really into this girl, or entirely unsure.

  Since that makes me unsure, I go for the casual, supportive best friend vibe. "I do like her," I say, and since that's true, the words come easily. "What does she do, anyway?"