“Besides,” Jackson adds. “Santa Cortez has a lot more going for it.”
“Yeah? Like what?” I’m playing along, expecting him to cite himself.
Instead, he says, “You.”
“Oh.” My heart flutters as he squeezes my hand, and from the look in his eyes, I see that it is not a platitude. “Thank you.”
Across the table, Reggie is watching us. “I wondered if the two of you had gotten back together. I’m happy to see that you have.”
“Me, too.” I whisper the words, my throat too full of emotion to speak clearly.
“Ironic that you’re both working for Stark,” he continues, and I feel Jackson stiffen beside me. Hell, I feel myself do the same, suddenly fearful that Reggie has somehow learned about Jackson’s relationship with Damien.
But that’s not what he means.
“I mean, the man saved all our asses, didn’t he? Hell, I should probably take a job with him and complete the circle.”
“What are you talking about?” Jackson asks.
“The Brighton Consortium, of course.”
The Brighton Consortium consisted of a group of real estate investors and professionals who had been in the process of developing four hundred acres of land for commercial purposes. Jackson had been their intended architect, and had it gone through, he would have been responsible for a massive complex, including every building in the development. At the time, it would have been his biggest job yet, and he undoubtedly had expected it to be the project that truly launched his career.
Jackson lets go of my hand. Now he’s gripping the edge of the table. Hard.
“Stark screwed me out of Brighton,” he says. “He swept in, acquired key parcels of land outside of the consortium’s agreement, and killed the whole goddamn project.”
“Damn straight he did. Like I said, he saved our asses.” Reggie peers at Jackson’s face, then exhales. “Oh, son, didn’t you know? That project was dirty.”
“What are you talking about?” His words are measured and wary.
“I’m talking about fraud. The criminal kind that gets the feds involved waving claims like RICO and securities fraud.”
Jackson says nothing, but I am relieved to see that his grip on the table has loosened just slightly. “Go on.”
“I didn’t realize when I got involved, and I got out as soon as I saw what was happening. Brighton’s the reason I decided to retire. Leave Atlanta.” He lifts a shoulder. “Of course, retirement didn’t stick.”
Jackson says nothing.
“I’ve known Damien for a while, and when I realized what I’d gotten in the middle of, I confided in him. Apparently someone else in the thick of it did, too. He had no reason to stick his nose in, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to turn a huge profit, but he found a way to acquire those key parcels. As soon as he did, that was the end of it. Brighton went up like a puff of smoke, and so did the risk that we’d all end up with federal convictions hanging around our necks. All of us,” he adds, looking at me.
“Sylvia? She was just your assistant.”
“And she may have walked. At the very least, they would have latched onto her as a witness, made her testify. And you—”
“I would have been hard pressed to avoid a conviction,” Jackson says slowly. “I was all set to get an extremely lucrative commission. It would have been hard to prove I wasn’t completely hooked in.” He closes his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair. “Shit.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I assumed you knew.”
“I didn’t,” Jackson says. “But I appreciate you telling me.” He turns to me. “I flat out accused him of knocking my career offtrack. And he didn’t say a thing.”
“Damien’s not a man to justify himself to anyone.” I meet Jackson’s eyes. “Reminds me a little bit of you.”