“You say he’s not up to snuff, then I believe you. So who should we consider?”
I’m tempted to tell him that no one even comes close to Jackson, but I don’t want to upset this shaky detente. “Phillip Traynor’s work is quite interesting.” I open the top folder and pull out a photograph of a hotel in Prague that put Traynor on the map three years ago.
I’ve loved and studied architecture my whole life, and next to Jackson, I think Traynor is one of the most talented architects working today. Even so, as far as I’m concerned, he’s sloppy seconds.
Still, I’m in cooperation-mode, and so I pass the picture and the folder to Damien, who studies my notes as I continue speaking. “He’s done a number of hotels, so he understands the travel and entertainment aspects. But he’s never worked on an all-out resort, so I think the project would intrigue him.”
“Looks promising. What’s the downside?”
“He has a reputation for being difficult,” I admit. “But despite that he’s very in demand. Which raises the second mark against him—his schedule is incredibly tight. I talked to his people, and he’s finishing up a project right now, but he was planning on taking three months off. If we bring him in, he’s going to up his fee to cover the inconvenience of canceling his R&R.”
Damien nods, taking it all in. “Who else?”
I open the next folder. “Allison Monro.”
“She did the Petri Museum in Seattle. I’ve met her.”
“She’s also done some really interesting residential work that I think might translate to the island bungalows.” I’m passing a photograph of one of Monro’s houses to Damien when his intercom buzzes.
“I know you said no interruptions,” Rachel says, “but Mr. Steele is here. And since you’re already meeting with Ms. Brooks, I thought I should let you know that he’d like a moment of your time.”
I realize that I have frozen in place, my arm outstretched, my body tense. I’ve been that way since Rachel said his name.
Damien looks at me, then takes the photograph, and the movement seems to break the spell. I sit back, hoping desperately that Damien cannot tell how violently my heart now beats against my rib cage.
“All right,” Damien says as he puts the Monro photograph on the coffee table, right on top of the Phillip Traynor file. “Send him in.”
A moment passes, then another. Then the door opens and Jackson strides in.
That morning, he’d told me that he intended to spend the day on his boat, working out of his office there on some minor projects that his New York staff is handling. So when Rachel announced him, I expected to see him in casual attire. Not swim trunks, but nothing more tailored than nice jeans and a starched button-down. Probably even with canvas shoes and windswept hair.
But that is not the man who enters.
Jackson strides into Damien’s office as if he owns it, and he’s certainly dressed for the role. He wears a charcoal gray Armani suit with a crisp white shirt and an arctic blue tie that almost perfectly matches the color of his eyes. It’s the uniform of a corporate warrior, and Jackson has come to do battle.
He moves toward us without hesitating, apparently unperturbed that Damien has not risen in greeting. He stops at the edge of the oriental rug that defines this area of Damien’s huge office, then inclines his head. “Stark,” he says, then turns to me without waiting for a reply. He takes two steps toward me, then takes my hand and very gently kisses my fingertips. “Sylvia. I’m very glad you’re here.”
His eyes linger on mine for a moment, but though I search his face for a hint of what is to come, I see nothing. He is cool and confident and holding his cards very, very close to the vest.
Damien indicates an empty chair. “Please. Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand.”