He puts a hand on my knees and eases my legs down, turning me a bit as he does so that I’m sitting sideways in the backseat with my legs over his thighs. I’m not wearing hose, and as he strokes my calf, I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of his fingers upon my skin.
“They’re just poking into me, you know,” he says. “They found this connection, and it’s interesting because of the resort. Because we’re working on the resort together, and because you work for Damien. That’s where the photos came from.” His hand stops moving, cupping my leg. “But the truth about what Reed did to you isn’t going to come out. They won’t even get close to it.”
I nod.
“Everyone assumes I assaulted Reed because of the movie, and you just watch. That’s where the next round of idiotic tabloid coverage is going to focus. My shit, not yours.” He cups my chin so that he can look me in the eyes; his are warm and tender and concerned. “Okay?”
“Okay.” I draw in a breath. He still hasn’t told me why he doesn’t want the movie made. All I know is that Reed is producing a feature film that is based on the events surrounding a residential property in Santa Fe that Jackson designed and built. It’s an exceptional house that sealed his reputation as one of the world’s most talented contemporary architects.
I’d read all about it at the time, both because I was following Jackson’s career, despite the fact that we weren’t together then, and because architecture is a passion of mine. And because I’d followed it, I knew what came after—a murder-suicide that tainted the spectacular property, forever burying the exquisite architecture under a layer of scandal.
Though I haven’t read the script, I’ve been told that it focuses on the family, but that Jackson plays a role, too, supposedly as the reason the young woman took her own life and that of one of her sisters.
And though I know that Jackson was long gone by the time the murder took place, I also know that it’s true he doesn’t want the movie made. Not only has he told me so, but I also know that he punched out the screenwriter.
Reed, however, isn’t the kind to back down. And although the real reason Jackson assaulted him was in retribution over what Reed did to me so many years ago, as far as the public knows, that assault was Jackson’s way to, once again, express his displeasure about the in-development project.
One day, I want Jackson to tell me the full story behind the house and the secret he is so determined to protect. Right now, though, I’m interested only in my own secret.
“I know you’ll do whatever you can,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t erase my fear that it’s all going to come out. And I know that’s unreasonable, but I can’t shake it. I feel like I’m losing my grip, and I know that’s ridiculous because it’s those stupid ad photos, and no one even cares about those.”
“You do.” His voice is gentle, and his hand is stroking my leg again. “And it’s not the pictures that are bothering you. It’s what happened when he took them. It’s how you felt—and now you’re remembering it all over again. It’s about what he stole from you.”
“Control,” I whisper. “And choice. He took them both away.”
I’d been so young. And I’d wanted so badly to run. To hide. To shut off my emotions, my feelings. But he’d touched me, and he’d aroused me. He’d made me feel sexual pleasure along with horrible shame. And he’d made me come.
I’d hated him for that, but I think I hated myself more.
“Yes,” Jackson says. “He took that from you. Ripped it away. Stole it. Baby, you need to steal it back.”
I close my eyes. “I don’t know how,” I say, and I hear my voice tremble.
“Yes, you do.” His words are firm. Commanding. “You steal it back. You take back control, and you give it to me. Not because I’m demanding, but because you’re giving.”