“He set up down the beach,” Stark says. “We thought it was best if he went ahead and got started on the shots for the brochure.”
I wince, because I am over an hour late. The plan had been for me to spend the morning in Los Angeles while Nikki, Damien, and Wyatt came early to the island. I’d arrive later, once they’d had time to complete the private portrait shoot, and I’d spend the rest of the morning working with Wyatt to capture a series of shots that we could use in the resort’s marketing materials.
Damien would pilot his copter back to the city, and then Wyatt, Nikki, and I would return with Clark. Nikki and I recently discovered that we share a love of photography and Wyatt has offered to give us some pointers after the work is finished.
“You didn’t bring your camera,” Nikki says, her forehead creasing into a frown. “Something
is
wrong.”
“No,” I say, then, “okay, yes. Maybe.” I meet Stark’s eyes. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll go check on Wyatt,” Nikki says.
“No, stay. I mean if Mr. Stark—if Damien—doesn’t mind.” I’m still uncomfortable calling him by his first name during working hours. But as he has repeatedly pointed out, I’ve spent a good number of hours drinking cocktails by his pool with his wife. After so many Cosmopolitans, formality when we’re alone begins to feel strained.
“Of course I don’t mind,” he says. “What’s happened?”
I take a deep breath, and spill the news I’ve been hanging on to. “Martin Glau pulled out of the project this morning.”
I see the change in Damien’s face immediately. The quick flash of shock followed by anger, then immediately replaced with steely determination. Beside him, Nikki isn’t nearly so controlled.
“Glau? But he’s been nothing but enthusiastic. Why on earth would he want to quit?”
“Not want to,” I clarify. “Has. Done. He’s gone.”
For a moment, Damien just stares at me. “Gone?”
“Apparently he’s moved to Tibet.”
Damien’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “Has he?”
“He’s sold his property, shut down his firm, and told his attorney to let his clients know that he’s decided to spend the rest of his life in prayerful meditation.”
“The son of a bitch,” Damien says with the kind of contained fury I rarely see in his business dealings, though the press has made much of his temper over the years. “What the hell is he thinking?”
I understand his anger. For that matter, I share it. This is
my
project, and Glau has managed to screw us all. The Resort at Cortez might be a Stark property, but that doesn’t mean that it’s fully financed by Damien, or by Damien’s companies. No, we’ve worked our tails off over the last three months pulling together a who’s who of investors—and every single one of them named two reasons they were committed to the project: Glau’s reputation as an architect, and Damien’s reputation as a businessman.
He runs his fingers through his hair. “All right then, so we handle this. If his attorney is notifying clients today, the press will get wind of it soon, and everything is going to unravel fast.”
I grimace. Just the thought makes my skin feel clammy, because this project is mine. I conceived it, I pitched it, and I’ve worked my ass off to get it off the ground. It’s more than a resort to me; it’s a stepping stone to my future.
I have to keep this project alive. And, dammit, I
will
keep it alive. Even if that means approaching the one man I swore I would never see again.
“We need a plan in place,” I say. “A definitive course of action to present to the investors.”
Despite the situation, I see a hint of amusement in Damien’s eyes. “And you have a suggestion already. Good. Let’s hear it.”
I nod and tighten my grip on my tote bag. “The investors were impressed by Glau’s reputation and his portfolio,” I say. “But that’s not something we can replicate in another architect.” As the moving force behind some of the most impressive and innovative buildings in modern history, Glau was a bona fide starchitect—an architect with both the skill and celebrity status to ensure a project’s success.
“So I suggest we present the one man who by all accounts is poised to meet or surpass Glau’s reputation.” I reach into my bag and pull out the magazine, then pass it to Damien.
“Jackson Steele.”
“He has the experience, the style, the reputation. He’s not just a rising star in the field—with Glau out of the picture, I think it’s fair to say that he’s the new crown prince. And that’s not all. Because even more so than Glau, Steele has the kind of celebrity appeal that this project can use. The sort of publicity potential that will not only excite the investors, but will be a huge boon when we market the resort to the public.”
“Is that so?” Stark says, his voice oddly flat. I see him catch Nikki’s eyes, and can’t help but wonder at the quick look that passes between the two of them.
“Read the article,” I urge, determined to prove my point. “Not only is there a rumor that the story surrounding one of his projects is going to be adapted into a feature film, but they’ve already produced a documentary on him and that museum he did last year in Amsterdam.”
“I know,” Damien says. “It’s premiering at the Chinese theater tonight.”
“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Are you going? You could talk to him there.”
Damien’s mouth twists with what I think is irony. “Oddly enough, I wasn’t invited. It’s only on my radar because Wyatt mentioned it. He’s been hired to take the red carpet photos and some candids of the guests.”
“But that’s my point,” I press. “It’s a red carpet event. This guy has celebrity sparkle all the way. We need him on our team. And the article also says that he’s looking to open a satellite office in Los Angeles, which suggests that he’s trying to move more into the West Coast market.”
“Jackson Steele isn’t the only name in the pot,” Damien says.
“No,” I agree. “But right now he’s the only one with a serious spotlight on him. More than that, I’ve already looked into the few others who might appeal to the investors, and none have current availability. Steele does. I didn’t present Steele as a possible architect in the original development plan because he was committed for the next six months to a project in Dubai.” At the time, I’d been grateful that Jackson was unavailable because I didn’t want to be in exactly this position. Now, however, things have changed.
“The Dubai project fell through,” I continue. “Political and financial issues, I guess. It’s all outlined in the article. I did some quick research, and I don’t believe Steele has another green-lit project, but it won’t stay that way for long. Jackson Steele can save the Cortez resort. Please trust me when I tell you that I wouldn’t suggest him if I didn’t absolutely believe that.”
And wasn’t that the god’s honest truth?
“I believe it, too,” Damien says. “And I agree with your assessment of the situation. If we don’t get Jackson Steele on board right away, we’ll lose our investors. The only other way to keep the project alive is if I fully fund the project, either using corporate assets or my personal funds.” He draws in a breath. “Sylvia,” he says gently, “that’s not the way I do business.”
“I know. Of course I know that. That’s why I’m suggesting we approach Jackson. I mean Steele,” I correct, biting back a wince at my unintentional familiarity. “This is a high profile project—exactly the kind of thing that he’s focusing on these days. He’ll sign on. Everything about it is what he’s looking for.”
Once again, Damien and Nikki share a look, and worry snakes through me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But is there something I don’t know?”
“Jackson Steele has no interest in working for Stark International,” Nikki says, after a brief hesitation.
“He—what?” It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “How do you know?”
“We met him when we were in the Bahamas,” Nikki explains. “Damien offered to bring him in on the ground floor for the Bahamas project, pulling him in even before Stark International acquired property. Full access to every detail of the project. But he made it very clear that he doesn’t want to work for Damien or any of Damien’s companies. He says that Damien casts a long shadow, and he’s not interested in being caught under it.”
“In other words, we won’t be landing Steele for this project,” Damien says. He glances at his watch, then at Nikki. “I need to get back,” he says, then returns his attention to me. “Call the investors personally. This isn’t the kind of thing I can sit on. I’m truly sorry, Syl,” Damien adds, and it’s the nickname that drives home how real this is. The project is dead.
My
project is dead.
I tell myself I should be relieved not to risk the memories. That I’ve been a fool to think that I have the strength to tempt my nightmares. That I should just let this project go rather than walk right back into everything I once ran from.
No.
No. I’ve worked too hard, and this project means too much. I can’t just let it go. Not like that. Not without a fight.
And, yes, perhaps there is a part of me that wants to see Jackson Steele again. To prove to myself that I can do this. That I can see him, talk to him, work so goddamn intimately with him—and somehow manage to not shatter under the weight of it all.
“Please,” I say to Damien, as I squeeze my hands into fists and tell myself that the staccato beat of my heart and the clamminess of my skin stem from fear of losing the project and not the thought of seeing Jackson again. “Let me talk to him. We need to at least try.”
“There will be other projects, Ms. Brooks.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “This isn’t your last opportunity.”
“I believe you,” I say. “But I’ve never known you to walk away from a floundering deal if there was any chance of saving it.”
“Based on what I know of Mr. Steele, there isn’t a chance.”
“I think there is. Please, let me try. I’m just asking for the weekend,” I rush to add. “Just enough time for me to meet with Mr. Steele and pitch the project to him.”
For a moment, Damien says nothing. Then he nods. “I can’t keep this from the investors,” he finally says. “But it’s already Friday, and we can make that work for us. Call them. Let them know we need to update them about the project, and schedule a conference call for Monday morning.”
I nod, quick and businesslike. But inside, I am jumping with glee.
“That gives you the weekend,” Damien continues. “Monday morning we’ll either announce that we have Jackson Steele on board, or that the project is in trouble.”
“We’ll have him on board,” I say, with a confidence born more of hope than reality.
Damien’s head tilts ever so slightly to the left, as if considering my words. “What makes you think so?”
I lick my lips. “I—I met him. About five years ago in Atlanta. Right before I came to work for you, actually. I don’t know if he’ll agree, but I think he’ll hear me out.” At least, I thought he would before I learned that he’d already turned down a Stark project.
Now, the entire playing field has changed. Before, I’d thought I was bringing him a kick-ass project on a silver platter. Me, doing a favor for Jackson. Me, in control.
Now I know the opposite is true.
He can walk away. He can say no. He can lift his middle finger and tell me to stay the hell out of his life.
I think about the last conversation we had—a conversation that had ripped me apart.
I need you to do something for me
, I’d said.
Anything.
No questions, no arguments. It’s important.
Whatever you need, baby, I promise. You only have to ask.
He had kept his word then. He’d done as I asked, even though it had just about destroyed us both.
Now there is something else I need.
And I desperately hope that once again I only have to ask.
“Whatever time he has available today,” I say, holding my phone tight to my left ear and my hand tight over my right. Even so, it’s hard to hear Jackson’s New York–based secretary over the noise of the helicopter powering down.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Brooks. Mr. Steele’s documentary is screening in Los Angeles this evening, so I’m afraid every minute is booked.”
I’m on the roof of Stark Tower downtown, and despite the sensation of literally being on top of the world, I do not feel composed or in control. I want to pull open the door to enter the elevator alcove, but I know from experience that I run the risk of losing my cell signal, and I have a feeling that if I let this woman get off the phone I won’t ever get her back.
So I stand in the wind with the sun burning down on me and the asphalt all around me, feeling decidedly at the mercy of not only the elements, but of Jackson Steele, his secretary, and even the damned cellular provider.
“How about tomorrow?” I ask. “I realize that’s Saturday, but if he’s not going right back to New York—”
“Mr. Steele will be staying in Los Angeles for at least a week.”
“Perfect,” I say, going limp with relief. “When would be convenient?”
“Just a moment, please. I’ll see if I can reach him on his cell.”
I stand there, feeling a little foolish, as the peppy hold music plays. When the phone clicks, signaling that the woman has returned to the line, I straighten my back and shoulders as if springing to attention, then roll my eyes at my own ridiculous behavior.
“I’m afraid there is no convenient time, Ms. Brooks.”
“Oh, no, really. I’m happy to make myself available anytime. And if it’s more convenient I’ll go to his hotel or he can come to my office. Whatever works.”
I hear her sigh, long and deep, and I bite my lower lip as she says, “No, Ms. Brooks, you misunderstand. Mr. Steele has asked that I decline your request for a meeting. And to express his regrets, of course.”
“His regrets?”
“He said that you would understand. He said that you two discussed this already. In Atlanta.”
“He—what?”
“I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Brooks. But I can assure you that Mr. Steele’s refusal is final.”
My mouth has gone completely dry. Not that it matters. I may want to argue, but it is too late. The line has gone dead.
I stare at my phone for a moment, not quite believing what I’ve just heard.