Say My Name (15 page)

I remember that night with Jackson—one night that held all the force and emotion of a lifetime. He’d traced his finger on the ribbon, and asked what it meant. I’d told him that it meant nothing, but that was a lie. The initials mean everything. They are a mark of both shame and power. A reminder of who I was, and who I will never be again.

They represent men like Louis. Men I’d gone after in those years before Jackson. Men I’d taken to bed so that I could use instead of being used.

I drag my teeth over my lower lip, silently thanking Jackson for stopping me last night. Preventing me from going so far that I would have no choice but to add LD—Louis Dale—to my collection.

I haven’t done that—trapped a guy in my sights and gone after him like that—since before Atlanta. But last night, I’d craved that release, that control. This morning, I would only have regretted it.

I shift sideways so that I can glimpse my back. From this angle I can tell only that something has been inked in red between the two dimples above each of my ass cheeks. But that’s okay, I know the tat. Even though I have never seen it except in reflection, I know the line and the curves. An ornate J intertwined with an S, like a fancy monogram.

Jackson’s initials—and they are marking me.

I sigh and reach back, pressing my palm flat over the tat. I’d gone to Cass the day I returned from Atlanta. I didn’t explain, didn’t say a word. It was at least a month before I told her anything about Jackson and me. But I’d needed the ink right away. I’d needed the pain that marked the memory. And I’d needed a piece of him to be with me always.

There are other tats. On my breasts, between my shoulder blades, marking my hips. A silent path winding through the pain in my life. All discreet, so that no corporate skirt and blouse would ever reveal my secrets. But all there when I need them.

Right now, I tell myself, I don’t need them. I’m doing fine. I have a career in which I’m advancing, good friends, a great boss. I’m moving forward in my life; I no longer have to stand naked before a mirror and trace the path of my triumphs and tragedies to give me strength.

And for years, I’ve felt strong and capable and in control.

But now the world is getting gray around the edges again, and the control I’ve always clutched so desperately is slipping away as if I’m holding tight with buttered fingers.

Fingers of panic are creeping back in through the cracks in my veneer, and I know why. Because instead of conquering them, I hid from them. I ran as fast as I could from Jackson, and then curled up into a little ball, living an anesthetized life.

But he’s back now, and I’m tingling all over, just like a numb limb coming back to life, and I honestly don’t know if I can handle this.

No, that’s not true. I know that I
can’t
handle it. I know, because I couldn’t handle it the first time.

Somehow, I need to get Jackson Steele out of my head.

Except, dear god, I want him.

There, I’ve said it, even if only in my head.
I want him.

Time and distance haven’t lessened the desire any more than hurt and anger have.

I want his touch. I want his hands. I want everything he has to offer.

But god help me, I don’t want to lose it again. I don’t want to be so overwhelmed that control is ripped away from me. I don’t want to be scared of my own reaction.

I can’t handle that sensation of being lost outside myself—as if someone else is feeling things. Doing things.

And I sure as hell can’t handle the nightmares that come with it. Nightmares that I’ve mostly left behind—and that I do not want coming back. Not now. Not ever.

Even more, I don’t want to be used.

I don’t want to be chattel.

Just the thought of it makes me panic, and I have to close my eyes and hug myself and breathe in slowly and steadily.

Hell, maybe I should be grateful he tossed me that ultimatum. Because I was an idiot to think that I could work with him, even if that was the only way to save the resort.

No.
I can’t give up. Not yet. Not until I’ve tried everything.

Which means that my plan is to dig into the extensive array of files that the company has on every building project around the world.

And even though I already know that every potential replacement is fully booked for years, I also know I have to try.

There’s a red line station at Hollywood and Vine, and since the red line lets off just a block from Stark Tower, I decide that the best plan is to wear my cocktail dress to the office, change into the spare outfit I keep there, and get busy.

I skip the shower, dress quickly, then hurry to the station. Most of the outside is a matte gray metal, but the interior glows with yellow light from the dozens of golden and yellow-green glass tiles that line the interior, providing illumination as the escalator and stairs reach down into the actual station.

I don’t have my pass, but I do have a credit card, so I grab a ticket and hurry to reach the train that’s just pulling into the station. I’m lost in a crowd of tourists, and I let the mass push me along. It’s standing room only, but when we reach the stop at Western, a guy in a business suit gets off. I collapse gratefully into his vacant seat, and as I do, I see a familiar face in the crowd.

Jackson?

I blink, and when I look again, he is gone.

I know it must have been an illusion. Someone with his eyes, his hair. But it doesn’t matter. I still feel sad and more than a little lost.

Mourning
, I think. And it’s true. I’m mourning my career and the resort, which will never have the chance to be. But mostly I’m mourning the promise of Jackson that died five years ago. A promise that I soundly and painfully killed when I told Jackson to leave.

I’d awakened in a cold sweat, the sheets soaked through, memories of Jackson’s face merging with Bob’s still filling my mind.

Beside me, Jackson slept, and I rolled out of the bed, fighting nausea as I stayed on my hands and knees on the floor just breathing in and out until I was certain that I wouldn’t throw up.

Didn’t work. I clapped my hand over my mouth and ran for the bathroom, making it just in time. Then I turned on the shower, made the water just shy of scalding, and got in the tub.

I didn’t stand. Just sat there with my knees up to my chest and my head down so that the water sluiced over me. And even as the steam rose around me, I shivered.

This was a mistake. I’d been so overwhelmed by the man that I’d forgotten what that would do to me. I’d ignored the warnings. The little sparks of panic and fear.

I’d thought that I’d actually kept some control. But that wasn’t true at all.

I’d surrendered completely. Mind. Body. I’d responded to every touch, yielded to every whim.

There’d been pleasure—oh, god, yes, there’d been pleasure—but it was tainted by his demands. And, more, by my reaction to him. By the fact that whatever control I’d thought I still clung to was nothing more than an illusion, because all he had to do was tell me to spread my legs and I did so eagerly. Shamelessly.

I asked only one thing of myself, and all it took was this one dangerous man to shatter everything.

Jackson had come into my life like a storm, fast and wild and unexpected, and I’d been so overwhelmed by his power and intensity that I forgot to consider just how dangerous he was for me. For years, I’d worked so hard to keep such a tight rein on control. To fight back all the demons that Bob had planted inside me. And I had. I’d found a way. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it worked for me. Or it had until tonight.

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.