“Yes. Of course.”
His attention shifts to the girl. “Then there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Jackson, come on. You know—”
“I know that business hours are over, Sylvia.” He traces his finger over the bitch’s lower lip, and I feel my own lip tingle with longing.
“I realize that.” I am uber-calm. I am the epitome of calm. No temper, no frustration. Calm, thy name is Sylvia.
I plaster on my reception desk smile. “It’s just that we’re kind of under the gun here, scheduling-wise.”
“Are you?”
I think I hear curiosity in his voice, and since that’s better than bland disinterest, I allow a little spark of hope to rise.
“Yes. I told you earlier that—”
“I remember.”
I fight back irritation. “Okay, then. So can we talk?”
For a second, he says nothing. Then he lifts the brunette’s hand and brushes his lips over her fingers. “I need a few minutes.”
Her back stiffens, but she doesn’t protest. Instead she shoots me a vitriol-filled look, spins on her heel, and stalks off toward the bar.
“You’ve got ten minutes to make your best pitch.” He glances casually at his watch. “I suggest you start.”
“What?” I say stupidly. “Here? Right now?”
From the expression on his face, I think he’s going to make me do just that. Then he shakes his head. “No. I think this is a conversation best had in private.” He nods toward the far side of the room. “Upstairs, at the far end past the bar there’s a door that leads to a row of offices. There’s a keypad for entry. The code is six-one-three-one. The last one on the corner is a small conference room. Michael’s been using it this week to prep for the event. We can talk there. Be there in five minutes, or don’t bother coming at all.”
And then he turns from me, takes two long strides, and melts into the crowd, leaving me scrambling to remember the code and figure out where exactly I’m supposed to go.
Five minutes?
Shit.
Still, I try to put the time to good use, and as I plow through the crowd and make my way to the upstairs doorway, I keep my head down and my eyes focused on my iPhone as I try to organize some photos. Because, dammit, I don’t have a projector, much less any sort of PowerPoint presentation. I’m going to have to entirely wing it—and I burst into the corner conference room with forty seconds to spare, albeit slightly out of breath and more than a little frazzled.
More so when I see Jackson. He’s already in the room, seated at the far end of a polished mahogany table. He leans back as he silently studies me.
Whereas I am certain I look disheveled and out of breath, Jackson appears just the opposite. He is strength and power.
Most of all, he is completely in control. Everything from his choice of this room to his selection of a seat. Hell, even his decision not to rise when I entered was a deliberate power play.
It’s a trick I’ve seen Damien use over and over. The idea is to intimidate. To claim control of the room and make sure that everyone who enters knows who holds the power. All in all, I have to admit that Jackson is putting that trick to pretty good use. Because right now there is no doubt that I’m the supplicant here. And pretty damned intimidated, too.
Yeah, well, to hell with that.
Aren’t I the one with the opportunity? Aren’t I the one who can hand him the project of a lifetime?
Damn straight, and so I take a step forward, determined to make him realize that while he might have granted me this meeting, I’m now the one who is running the show. “You said ten minutes, Mr. Steele. I can convince you in five.”
His expression is almost amused. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t blame you for rejecting the idea initially. I understand that our past factors into this, and that seeing me was a shock. But that’s a knee-jerk reaction. This isn’t personal. It’s business. And you’re about to see just what an excellent business opportunity it is.”
“Not personal? Everything between you and me is personal, Sylvia, and you damn well know it.”
“Because you’re making it that way. You want to be pissed? Fine. Be pissed. But take me out of the equation.”
“You’re not the only stumbling block, I assure you.”
“So I’ve heard. The rising star Jackson Steele doesn’t want to be lost in the sweep of Damien Stark’s shadow. Well, let me tell you something about Damien Stark,” I say before Jackson has the chance to get a word in. “The man is brilliant at business. He’s a goddamn powerhouse on the tennis court. And if the last charity event I saw him at with his wife is any indication, he’s one hell of a fine dancer, too. But he can’t do this.”
I slide my phone across the table, open to the image of the Winn Building that is the first in a slideshow of Jackson Steele buildings.
“That’s you,” I say as the images scroll. “Your buildings. Your talent. What you do with form, with structure, it takes my breath away.” I pause just long enough to emphasize my point. “This isn’t just a Stark project. This is
my
project. And with you on board it will be a Jackson Steele project, too.”
I can tell I have his attention, and I take a step toward him. “Damien Stark isn’t the only one who casts a long shadow, Mr. Steele. How many men have documentaries made about their lives and work? How many men are the subject of a feature film?”
His eyes narrow. “That’s not going forward. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Oh.” I stumble a bit, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. “But that’s not even the point. This isn’t about your reputation as a man or as an architect. It’s about what you create. What you will create. Your buildings have caught the attention and sparked the imagination of the world, and yet you have never once worked on a property like this. An entire island, completely undeveloped. It’s a blank slate, and I’m offering it to you.”
I see what I hope is a spark of interest in his eyes and hurry on. “You don’t want this to be just another Stark project? It won’t be. It couldn’t be. Because you and I both know that the resort you design will shine on its own. I want the best, Mr. Steele. I want you. And unless you’re an idiot, you should want it, too.”
I take a deep breath, and then, as if to signal that I’m finally done, I pull out a chair and sit.
For a moment, Jackson does nothing. He doesn’t even move. Then he stands and crosses to the window. The glass is tinted, so I can see his reflection superimposed upon the view, such that it is. A roof. The side of the multiplex. Some traffic on Hollywood Boulevard. Nothing spectacular. Not that it matters. Even a view as stunning as the Matterhorn wouldn’t have drawn my attention from this man.
“I want to know something,” he finally says.
“Of course.” I expect him to ask me about the budget. Or timing. Or the construction firms we routinely work with. Anything but the words that come out of his mouth.
“I want to know why you ended it.”
My chest tightens and I have to resist the urge to hug myself. I can feel the anxiety reaching for me even now, along with the nightmares and twisted memories that slink along, too. Slithering out of the night to fill my days. I shake my head, determined to keep it all banished, far and away. “It doesn’t matter.”
He turns from the window, his face a wild mixture of anger and hurt. “The hell it doesn’t.”
“My reasons are my own, Jackson.” I can hear the panic creeping into my voice, and I fear that he can as well. Deliberately, I take slow, even breaths. I want to calm myself. And, damn me, I want to soothe him.
I want to ease the hurt that I caused, but that’s impossible, because I can’t answer his question.
“Why?” he asks again, only now there’s a gentleness in his voice that unnerves me.
I stiffen in automatic defense, afraid I’ll melt in the face of any tenderness from this man.
“You didn’t want to end it,” Jackson continues. “Even now, you want it.”
“You have no idea what I want,” I say sharply, though that is a lie as well.
“Don’t I?” There is anger in his voice. Hurt, too. “I know you want the resort.”
I’ve been looking at the tabletop, and now I lift my head. “Yes.” The word is simple. It may be the first completely true thing I’ve said to him since Atlanta. “Will you take it? You and I both know it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Are you really going to let our past stand in the way of what can be a truly magnificent achievement?”
I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a breath. Then he turns away from me to look out the window once again. “I want the project, Sylvia.”
Relief sweeps over me, and I have to physically press my hands to the table to forestall the urge to leap to my feet and embrace him.
“But I want you, too.” He turns as he speaks, and when he faces me straight on, there is no denying the truth—or the longing—in his eyes.
I swallow as what feels like a swarm of electric butterflies dances over my skin, making the tiny hairs stand up. And making me aware of everything from the solidity of the floor beneath my feet to the breath of air from a vent across the room.
I force myself to remain seated. Because damn me, my instinct is to go to him and slide into his arms. “I—I don’t understand.” The lie lingers in the air, and I am proud of the way I kept my voice from shaking.
“Then let me be perfectly clear.” He closes the distance between us, then uses his forefinger to tilt my head up so that he is looking deep into my eyes. I shift, not only because the contact sends a jolt of electricity right through me, but because I’m afraid that if he looks too deeply into my eyes, he will see a truth I want to keep hidden.
“No,” he says. “Look at me, Sylvia. Because I’m not going to say this again. I told you once that I’m a man who goes after what he wants, and I want you in my bed. I want to feel you naked and hot beneath me. I want to hear you cry out when you come, and I want to know that I am the man who took you there.”
My eyes are burning, and I shake my head, as if by simply wishing it to be so, this will all go away.
“I want you, Sylvia. And I will have you.”
“Jackson, please.”
“And you want me, Sylvia. You can deny it, but we both know that you’d be lying.”
“I do want you,” I say, clinging tight to that fragment of truth as I try to turn this to my advantage. “But there is the man and there is the architect. I—I can’t be with the man. But I desperately need the architect.”
“Package deal, princess,” he says, the endearment making me cringe. “You want me on the project, I want you in my bed.”
“Dammit, Jackson,” I say as anxiety creeps through me, its cold fingers banishing the heat. For once, I do not try to force it back, because right now I can use it. “You’re being ridiculous. I mean, who
does
that?”
“Apparently, I do.” He is level and cool and just arrogant enough to piss me off. I’m grateful—I’d much rather be pissed than unsettled. Or, worse, aroused.
“Is this about revenge?” I demand. “Because it seems like it.”
His lips curve as if in consideration. “Maybe it is,” he says, the confession slicing through me as cleanly and coldly as a well-honed blade. “But if so, revenge never tasted so sweet.”
“Fuck you, Jackson,” I snap, as much in anger as in confusion. “Fuck you and your grudge and your goddamn ultimatum.” I snatch my phone off the table and bolt for the door, the world around me spinning in shades of red and gray.
I grab on to the frame, my back to him, then take a deep breath to steady myself. “I never meant to hurt you,” I say, so softly I’m not even certain he can hear me.
“Maybe not,” he says, his voice equally soft. “But you did. And now if you want me on this project, you’re going to have to pay the price.”
Bastard.
He’s a goddamn bastard on wheels and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him use me like that.
I hurry down the stairs, my chest tight, my throat dry. By the time I burst outside into the cool October air, I’m working myself up into a full-blown panic attack.
I want to run—hell, I want to fly. I want to lose myself in the lights and noise of Hollywood Boulevard. I want to race blindly down the street, not toward anything, but away. Away from Jackson. Away from the past.
And away from this horrible sensation of being twisted up inside.
I want to, but I can’t. Because if I try to, I’ll no doubt trip in these damn stilettos, and I’ll end up breaking my nose on Clark Gable’s handprint outside the theater.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
So I walk instead, wishing there was a way to turn off my thoughts, to push away my emotions.
You want me on the project, I want you in my bed.
Those words had hit me with all the force of a train, and now I’ve lost my grip on everything. My plans for the resort, my hopes for a bump in career.
I’d had everything all worked out, each step on the path so perfectly planned.
And then came Jackson, and the fantasy that I could keep a tight hand.
How could I have been so stupid? Because hadn’t Jackson unraveled me from the first moment I’d laid eyes on him?
Five years ago
, I think. Five years almost to the day from when I’d first met him. Five years and two days from the moment I’d asked him to walk away from me.
No, not two days. Two lifetimes. Two eternities. Because there is no way that I could have crammed everything I felt for him—everything I still feel for him—into so short a time.
Except I did.
We
did.
It started, I remember, with the pandas.
I’d had a truly crap day. I’d just been fired. Or sort of fired. My boss, an Atlanta real estate investor named Reggie Gale, had decided to retire and had chosen to tell me that rather disturbing news while we were driving to a private reception hosted by the Brighton Consortium, a group comprised of various real estate professionals, and of which Gale was a member.
Considering I’d moved from Los Angeles to Atlanta straight after college to work for Gale, and considering I loved both real estate and my job, I wasn’t having the most awesome of days. I was twenty-one years old, I’d been employed by Gale for not quite six weeks, I still hadn’t bought curtains for my apartment. And I wasn’t thrilled about diving back into the job market.