“Syl …”
He doesn’t say anything else, but I know what he is thinking. I slide toward him and enfold myself in his arms. We’re both naked, and though this moment isn’t sexual, I can’t help but notice the hard press of his body against mine. He feels safe and solid and perfect, and I tilt my head back so that I can look at his face. And at the concern in his eyes.
“Yes,” I say again. “I’m going in. And I’m strong enough to do it because I know you’ve got my back. And that somehow we’re going to figure a way out of this mess.”
He is silent for a moment, just holding me. Then he kisses the top of my head. “We damn sure will.”
I take his hand as I step back, then smile, wanting to lighten the moment. “Come on. I want to enjoy the feel of you in the shower.”
He doesn’t protest, and soon the water is sluicing over our bodies, and as I stand in the spray wrapped in his arms, I can’t help but think how perfect this feels. “I like this,” I tell him, though that is about as much of an understatement as an understatement can be. “Intimacy. It feels good. It feels right.”
“That’s because it is.”
“Tell me again.” My voice is soft, but it holds a plea, and though I do not tell him, Jackson understands exactly what I need to hear.
“I love you,” he says, and I hold him close and sigh with contentment.
“I had a thought,” he says when we’re in the Porsche and heading to the office after a late morning. And not a late morning in bed. No, Jackson bought me some sweats and a T-shirt from the gift store, and then we’d walked to the Century City mall, where he’d bought me a fabulous new outfit from Michael Kors to replace the dress he’d so deliciously destroyed. I’ve left my car at the hotel, but I figure we can pick it up anytime.
“A sexy thought?” I tease.
He chuckles. “I have those every moment I’m with you, so there’s really no need to remark on them. No, I think I may know a way out.”
I shift in the seat, turning serious. “A way out? You mean from Reed’s threat?”
“We’ve been thinking about this as if it’s a straight line. Like tug-of-war. You pull your side over, and my side loses. I pull my side over—”
“And mine loses. I get it. So?”
“What if the game isn’t tug-of-war?” He takes his eyes off the road for just a second to look at me. “What if it’s something else entirely? A triangle and not a straight line.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean that Reed is playing you and me against each other. But he’s discounting your father.”
I stiffen. “My father?”
“Hear me out. Your dad set the whole thing up originally, right? So if your dad confronts him—”
“Are you insane?” I want to stand up. To pace. And the fact that I’m trapped in a moving car only adds to my irritation. “That would mean me confronting my dad first. You know I don’t want to do that.”
“Maybe it’s time,” he says gently.
“The hell it is.”
“Maybe he needs to understand the full impact of what he did to you,” he continues softly, as if I hadn’t protested at all.
“No. No. Absolutely not.” Just the thought makes me want to throw up, and I clutch my knees, desperate to escape this claustrophobic box.
Just the idea—just the thought that my father might know about those horrible photos—makes me both terrified and furious.
“Do you think I would suggest this if I saw another way? This is all I’ve been thinking about. How the hell do we get out of this mess? And the truth of it is that it all goes back to your dad. To the choices he made and what he did to you.”
“To me,” I say. “And I’ve dealt with it. And I don’t want to open those wounds.”
“Sweetheart, we both know you haven’t really dealt with it.”