“Call me Jackson, and between you and me, I think you’re full of it.”
“God’s honest truth,” Joe said. “Of course, my wife and three little girls are also my life. And what with Christmas being just a few months away …” He trailed off with a shrug. “What can I say? I’m all about the overtime.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the elevator bank. “Can you clear me through to the apartment? I’ve got an appointment with Stark in the morning, but I don’t think this should wait.”
“Go on,” Joe said, pressing the button on his console to call Stark’s private elevator. “I’ll call up. If he says no, it’ll just be a very short trip.”
“Right.” Jackson cleared his throat. “Fair enough.”
It wasn’t until Jackson entered the elevator car that he realized his hands were clenched as if he was waiting to punch someone. Hell, maybe he was. Because if Stark told him to go away and come back in the morning, Jackson would most likely put his fist through the elevator’s polished wood paneling.
The fine oak planks were saved, however, when the doors closed and the button for the penthouse lit up. A moment later, Jackson’s hand was clenched again, this time around the railing. He hadn’t yet been in this car, and it definitely qualified as an express.
The elevator featured two sets of doors, and based on the position of the elevator in the bank, Jackson knew that the doors he was facing opened to the reception area for Stark’s private penthouse office.
The Tower apartment took up the other half of the floor, and as the elevator slowed, Jackson turned and faced the second set of doors that, as he expected, opened into the apartment’s foyer.
The area was bright and inviting, tasteful but not overdone. A marble table in the center of the space held a large but not ostentatious arrangement of sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes, and despite himself, Jackson smiled at the whimsy of wildflowers where a more exotic bloom would be expected.
“Jackson!” Nikki came around the wall that separated the entrance from the rest of the apartment. She wore jeans and a New York Yankees T-shirt and had her shoulder-length hair pushed away from her face by a headband. Despite her lack of makeup, she looked absolutely stunning, and Jackson recalled that she’d competed in several beauty pageants before moving to Los Angeles.
She padded to him in bare feet and gave him a friendly hug. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“I’m sorry to intrude. I know you must be tired from your trip.”
“I am,” she admitted, “but Damien’s not. He’s catching up on some work things, getting ready for tomorrow. So you’re not interrupting at all. Come on,” she said, leading the way. “Do you want coffee? Something stronger?”
He was tempted to have another scotch, just to take the edge off. But prudence won out, and he shook his head. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Five seconds later, he was wishing he’d taken the drink. Because there was Stark pacing in front of the wall of windows, the city shining bright behind him.
And there was Sylvia, perched on the edge of an ottoman, a pad in her lap and a pen in her hand, taking detailed notes.
Her back was to him and she was so engrossed in her work that she hadn’t seen him yet. For a moment, he could only stare. He’d left her only hours ago, naked in her bed, and he hadn’t expected to see her again until this ordeal with his brother was finished. So the sight of her now was a shock to his senses, and for a moment he could only stand like an idiot, his lips pressed together so he didn’t call out her name. His feet planted so he didn’t go to her. His hands at his sides so he didn’t reach out to touch her.
He must have made a noise, or maybe she just sensed his presence as strongly as he felt hers, because she turned her head suddenly and her mouth formed into a perfect little O even as her pen tumbled from her hand.