Under My Skin

“And to be honest, I’d like someone I’ve worked with before. ”

  Jackson nods. “Are you thinking Nathan Dean?”

  “Actually, yeah. ” Dean was the architect for Damien’s Malibu house, and I’d worked closely with him during design and construction. Jackson met him briefly at a cocktail party not long ago at that very house, and they’d bonded over arches and trusses.

  He’s a nice guy and a solid architect, though he’s not anywhere close to Jackson’s level. I know that Aiden thought Damien would veto Dean as the primary architect for the resort—apparently he’d committed to designing a bungalow for Damien and then backed out about the time we were getting started with Cortez—but this isn’t about Dean being the main guy. It’s about having someone on the team who’s capable of bringing Jackson’s vision to life if the worst happens. Page 58

  “He seemed like a decent guy,” Jackson says. “If he’s got the time and Damien gives the okay, I think bringing him on board is a great idea. ”

  I nod. “I’ll feel him out about his schedule first, and if it sounds like he’d be free, I’ll run the idea past Damien and then we’ll go from there. ”

  I turn my attention back to the tentative list I’m making for cleaning up the island, and Jackson goes back to his drafting table.

  By the time we hear the speedboat approaching, my list has gotten long, and I know it will get even longer once I see the damage up close and walk the island’s perimeter.

  “How did you know?” I ask Ryan as he and Damien board Jackson’s yacht.

  “Our saboteur is a bit of a show-off,” Damien says wryly. He passes me his phone, on which he’s saved a photograph of the destruction. It was taken at night, so only the parts illuminated by the flash are clear, and those bits are overly bright. It gives the image a haunting quality, as if we’re looking at some sort of futuristic mechanical graveyard. “That arrived by email this morning. ”

  “You’ve traced the email?” Jackson asks.

  “Of course,” Ryan answers. “One of my guys just got back to me, actually. Sent from a burner smart phone. A dummy email account to a fake ID. All we know is that it was sent from the LA area, but that doesn’t do us much good. I’ve been assuming all along that the son of a bitch we’re chasing is local. And most likely in-house. ”

  “At least you’re no longer looking at me,” Jackson says, a wry edge to his voice.

  “You said it yourself,” Damien says. “You have too much pride in your work. You wouldn’t fuck it over for a vendetta. Especially not one against me. I don’t mean that much to you. ”

  Damien glances at me. “There was a time you might have thrown your work under the bus if it meant getting back at Ms. Brooks. But I think that time has passed. ”

  “It has. ” Jackson’s voice is as stiff as his posture. “And you’re right—you didn’t mean that much to me. Or if you did, I wouldn’t have wanted you to realize it. ”

  Damien chuckles. “And now I can?”

  Jackson looks as confused as I feel.

  “You said I ‘didn’t’ mean that much to you. Do I detect your growing respect and admiration?”

  His voice is light, almost teasing, but Jackson answers seriously. “Yeah. I guess you do. ” He locks eyes with Damien, then smiles thinly. “But don’t let it go to your head. ”

  The corner of Damien’s mouth twitches. “I’ll do my best. ”

  “Any leads?” I ask Ryan. So far, the investigation has hit dead ends and rabbit trails. “Surely the security team caught something today? They can’t possibly have done all this damage and stayed out of range. That area’s the whole reason we have the security cam. ”

  Ryan glances at Damien and frowns. “They looped the feed. ”

  “What?” I heard his words. I even know what he means. But somehow I just can’t process what he’s saying.

  “How long?” Jackson asks.

  Ryan shakes his head. “It’s a thirty-minute loop. Looks like it was recorded about two A. M. , and they started the repeat at two-thirty. There was no moon last night, so it’s only the infrared, and nobody at the monitoring station noticed. ”

  “So how did you find out?”

  “Once Damien got the email, we knew what to look for. ”

  I glance at Jackson, who is doing a valiant job of holding in his temper. I can see it though, pushing at the edges, building toward release.

  He turns to me, the tension in his body palpable. “I may end up in prison after all, because I swear I will kill whoever is fucking with us. ”

  “You’ll have to fight me for the privilege,” Damien says.

  I look between them. “Don’t even joke about that, you two. ”

  They look at each other, and despite everything, I see a hint of amusement in their eyes.

  I can’t help it—I have to smile. They’re brothers, all right.

  sixteen

  I spent most of Tuesday and all of Wednesday on the island with Jackson organizing cleanup and wading through the vile remnants of that horrible, massive act of vandalism. My stomach started hurting the moment I stepped onto the island and saw the destruction—machinery destroyed, storage sheds toppled. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.

  It was horrible and vengeful, and all I want now are two things: to find the bastard and to fix the damage. Because fixing it will be like lifting my middle finger and telling the fucker he lost. Page 59

  Thursday morning I’m back in the office, but I can’t say that the day is shaping up to be much better. Damien has back-to-back international calls all day, which means that I arrived at my desk by four A. M. The only good thing about Damien’s early calls is that I have no time to brood about the sabotage or worry that a detective is going to show up to arrest Jackson. Both Tuesday evening and all of Wednesday were blissfully arrest-free, but I’m still on edge.

  The morning has been a blur of calls and emails and minor crises, both professional and personal. The professional all center around Damien’s schedule and the resort. We’re trying to get him ready for the China trip. He’s spending only a week in Beijing, but with all the preparations we’re making, you’d think he was staying a month. He’s leaving Sunday night, and everything in the office is crazy.

  The personal is entirely centered on me. We’d returned to the marina late last night, and as soon as we were back in range, my phone pinged with a dozen messages from Ethan asking if I was okay and telling me that he loves me.

  As for Cass, as far as I can tell, she spent all of yesterday and Wednesday repeatedly texting me.

  You there?

  Hello?

  Why did Ethan go racing out after you?

  Do you want to come by?

  Should I come there?

  Jackson’s not in custody is he?

  Why aren’t you answering me?

  Dammit, Syl, you’re pissing me off.

  Sorry. Sorry. (Not that sorry, but dammit, call me or text back!)

  WTF?

  Hello?

  Called work. You’re not in.

  Where. The. Fuck. Are. You.

  As soon as Damien is squared away on his eight A. M. call, I answer the ones from Cass:

  Sorry! Sorry!

  Was at the island. No service.

  Everything is a mess with the island and with Jackson. But not scary. Not much. Not yet.

  Gotta go. Work insane.

  Her answer is almost instantaneous. Clearly, she’s been waiting for me to reply.

  You sure?

  Don’t go yet: Ethan. What was that all about?

  I scowl as I remember that my dad dragged Ethan into my personal horror, a little fact that had gotten buried in the hell of sabotage and pending arrests.

  Dad told him everything—really NOT happy.

  Her answer is short and to the point.

  Holy fuck.

  U okay?

  I hesitate, then answer honest
ly.

  I am now. Mostly. Wasn’t before.

  Seriously—gotta go.

  Don’t worry about me. No new tats needed.

  Promise.

  Her reply—XXOO—makes me smile.

  For Ethan, though, I can’t just send a text. But I also know that I can’t call him before ten. The company he works for—an online company that books travel packages—gave him a week off with pay and two weeks without so that he could get settled back in the States. For my brother, that means sleeping in.

  To be honest, I’m okay with not talking to Ethan right now. My dad is the last person I want to be thinking of, and so I dive back into work with a vengeance. At nine, Damien gets on a conference call that is scheduled to last an hour, and Mila arrives at my desk.

  She’s one of the floating secretaries, and I’d asked for her to be assigned to me today since I’m doing double duty as Damien’s assistant and as the Cortez project manager. I would have preferred leaving it all to Rachel, but she’s off until Saturday and is up in Monterey with her sister.

  But even with Mila, I still can’t squeeze in a break because the press has gotten wind of the island sabotage and I’m fielding call after call, making statements about how we have everything under control, and that the leaked photo of the destruction entirely exaggerates the damage, and that the cleanup will in no way impact our projected opening date. And every time I say those words I want to strangle whoever the asshole is who caused that damage, took that photo, and fucked with my life.

  But it’s not just the press. No, the investors are calling, too, and while I’ve been able to assuage most of them, another one has dropped out. And although my contact didn’t specifically say that he was shifting his dollars to Lost Tides, I can’t shake the feeling that’s the case. And that without planning it or wanting it, I’m now in a duel to the death with that damn resort in Santa Barbara.

  And in the midst of all of that, I’m trying to actually do what I’ve been saying is already in progress—organize and oversee the cleanup of the island, which is scheduled to begin as soon as Ryan says that his team is finished investigating and documenting.

  In other words, I’m both exhausted and frustrated. And, frankly, I’m still pissed off that someone is screwing with me.

  Well, technically they’re screwing with the resort. But I’m taking everything related to Cortez pretty damn personally. Page 60

  By eleven, Damien is on yet another conference call, this one scheduled for half an hour. Miraculously, it’s calm enough that I can hand the reins to Mila and run to the break room for coffee.

  I pass Trent on the way in, and seeing him reminds me of the conversation I’d had with Jackson about Nathan Dean. I know that Dean is working on Trent’s new house, but if he doesn’t have any other projects going on, he might be interested in being Jackson’s second in case Jackson gets arrested. And, worse, convicted.

  Just thinking about it makes me jumpy. Then again, I’m already jumpy. Every time the elevator opens I turn that way, expecting to see two detectives with handcuffs.

  But I can’t just push it out of my head. I need to get this wrapped up. I need to know there is someone in place if the worst happens. I consider waiting to run it past Damien, but the bottom line is that I’m the project manager, and this is the kind of call the manager makes.

  So as soon as I’m back at Damien’s desk, I pick up the phone. “Can you grab Damien’s line? I need to make a call about the resort. ”

  “Sure. ” Mila is smart and competent and in another month or two she could work Damien’s desk alone. With any luck, it will be Rachel’s job to train her because I’ll be in my new office in the real estate division. Right now, though, she’s my shadow.

  Dean answers on the first ring, sounding a little out of breath. “Ah, Nathan Dean. ”

  “Nathan, good morning. It’s Sylvia. How are you?”

  “Oh. ” He clears his throat. “Sorry. I was—I was just in the middle of something. I thought you were Damien. Is he—”

  “He’s fine, but I’m not calling on his behalf. ” As a rule, Nathan’s quiet and pretty easy to intimidate. Hopefully if he knows Damien’s not about to jump on the call, he’ll chill. “I was hoping to set up a meeting. I’ve got a potential project coming up, and if you have time to add it in, we should talk. You know I’m working in the real estate department now, right?”

  “Of course, of course. I—well, I’m flattered you’d think of me, but the truth is that my schedule is jam-packed through the spring at least. ”

  “That’s wonderful. ” I’m genuinely pleased for him. Since I hadn’t read anything about him in the trade papers, I’d feared he didn’t have many projects. “I know about Trent’s house, of course, but what else have you got on your plate?”

  “Well, there’s another with Trent and—”

  “With Trent?” I know it’s not for Stark Real Estate Development. “Is he building a vacation house in Santa Barbara?”

  I’d asked the question lightly, just as a toss-away because of Trent’s recent trip up there. So I’m surprised when Nathan stumbles over the answer, saying, “Santa Barbara? No. No. I mean, he’s not—actually, you know, I’m running late for a meeting. ”

  “Sure. No problem. ” We end the call, and now I’m wondering what’s up with Trent. I can’t think of any reason why he’d want to keep a project secret. Unless he’s relocating and doesn’t want anyone at work to know yet? I frown, because that’s actually a real possibility. He was genuinely pissed off when I got Cortez and he didn’t. But I hadn’t thought that he was pissed enough to go shopping for a new job.

  I’d hate to see him go, but I can’t silence the selfish little voice that points out that without Trent in the real estate division, there will be more opportunity once I shift permanently into that department.

  I’m making a mental note to ask Rachel if she has any gossip when Mila glances up from the phone by the couch, where she’d just ended a call that had come in for Damien. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. ” I frown. “Except that the one guy I’d hoped to entice with the promise of steady work is all booked up. ”

  “But that’s good, right?”

  “It is for him. ” I puff out my cheeks as I take a breath, then blow it out, feeling edgy and frustrated and slightly off. “Not so great for me. ” I press my fingertip to my temple. “I need another coffee. Want one?”

  “No, thanks. But I can get you one if you want. ”

  I wave off the offer. “I need to move anyway. ”

  I’m standing as my cell rings. It’s Ethan, and I answer as I’m stepping away from my desk. “I’m so glad you called. I was on the boat and didn’t get your texts, and I’m—”

  “Sylvia, honey, it’s Dad. ”

  Page 61

  I reach out one hand to grab the side of the desk. “Why are you calling on Ethan’s phone?”

  “You know why. ” His voice is somehow both gruff and soft. As if he’s frustrated, but trying hard not to show it.

  “I can’t talk to you right now. You had no right to tell him. ”

  “Honey, you—”

  “You need to stop calling me that. ”

  “Please, let me talk to you. I love you. ”

  I cringe, those words sounding harsh and horrible from this man. “You have a funny way of showing it. And you need to stop calling me. I’ll talk to you when I’m ready. ”

  “When will that be?”

  “Never,” I whisper as a chill snakes up my spine. “That will be never. ”

  I end the call, then start to slide my phone back onto my desk, but my fingers aren’t working very well, and it tumbles from my hand and onto the ground. I spit out a curse, and I see Mila’s forehead pucker. “Are you okay?”

  I smile. “I’m fine. I’m just—not enough sleep, you know. I’m going to take a walk. Ten minutes. Okay. ”

  I don’t wai
t for her to answer. I hurry to the stairwell, shove through the door, and lean back against the cool metal. I want to cry. I want to scream.

  But I don’t do either.

  Instead, I remind myself that I’m strong.

  I hear Jackson’s voice telling me that I can get through this.

  In my mind, I clutch hard to his hand.

  And then—because I know that he is right—I close my eyes, tilt back my head, and breathe.

  seventeen

  When I finally get down to twenty-six, I see Jackson’s assistant, Lauren, huddled with the two guys from Jackson’s New York staff, Chester and Doug, who have flown here ahead of the others. I nod as I pass, but otherwise don’t divert from my path.

  I enter his glass-enclosed office and pause in the doorway to take in the sight of Jackson. He is standing at an elevated drafting table, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his posture relaxed—completely in his element. He’s wearing headphones, and from the way that his hand is moving with controlled fluidity, I imagine that he is listening to classical music. Something bold. Something sweeping.

  I step further inside, my attention drawn next to the corkboard that Jackson has installed on the one solid wall of the office. It is covered now with sketches of the work in progress, as well as photographs of the island from every possible angle and location.

  “Bastards,” I whisper. “Fucking bastards. ”

  Frustrated, I run my fingers through my short hair. I’m not sure if I came down here because I wanted to walk off the lingering irritation from my dad’s call, or if I came because I wanted to tell Jackson that I survived it. That it was horrible talking to him, but I got through it, and I didn’t melt down, and I didn’t even shed a tear.

  I’m not certain, but it doesn’t matter. Because seeing those pictures has reminded me that my priority today is the resort, not my dad. I need to get it back on track, cleaned up and ready. Because Jackson is doing amazing work, and there is no way that I’m letting some invisible asshole beat us.

  I’m almost out the door when a single word from Jackson stops me. “Hey. ”

  I turn to see him looking at me, his expression filled with a combination of heat and tenderness that warms me all the way to my toes.

  “Hey yourself,” I reply, grinning.

  “You come, you leave, you don’t say hi?”

  I cock my head, amused. “You’re in a good mood. ”

  “And why wouldn’t I be? The design is coming along well. My girlfriend came down to see me. My office is finally finished. And so far, nobody has come to arrest me. ”

  I laugh. “I guess you’re right. You do have reason to be chipper. ”

  He hits a button on a box mounted above the table, and blinds descend from the ceiling along the interior of each of the glass walls, turning the room from fishbowl to private in the time it takes for him to reach me.

  “They finished the installation while we were on the island,” he says, though I hadn’t asked the question. “I thought a little privacy could be a good thing. ”

  I see the heat in his eyes as he says the latter, and I understand what he means by “good. ”

  He walks past me to close the door, and I hear the firm snick of the bolt turning.