“You’re not the only stumbling block, I assure you.”
“So I’ve heard. The rising star Jackson Steele doesn’t want to be lost in the sweep of Damien Stark’s shadow. Well, let me tell you something about Damien Stark,” I say before Jackson has the chance to get a word in. “The man is brilliant at business. He’s a goddamn powerhouse on the tennis court. And if the last charity event I saw him at with his wife is any indication, he’s one hell of a fine dancer, too. But he can’t do this.”
I slide my phone across the table, open to the image of the Winn Building that is the first in a slideshow of Jackson Steele buildings.
“That’s you,” I say as the images scroll. “Your buildings. Your talent. What you do with form, with structure, it takes my breath away.” I pause just long enough to emphasize my point. “This isn’t just a Stark project. This is my project. And with you on board it will be a Jackson Steele project, too.”
I can tell I have his attention, and I take a step toward him. “Damien Stark isn’t the only one who casts a long shadow, Mr. Steele. How many men have documentaries made about their lives and work? How many men are the subject of a feature film?”
His eyes narrow. “That’s not going forward. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Oh.” I stumble a bit, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. “But that’s not even the point. This isn’t about your reputation as a man or as an architect. It’s about what you create. What you will create. Your buildings have caught the attention and sparked the imagination of the world, and yet you have never once worked on a property like this. An entire island, completely undeveloped. It’s a blank slate, and I’m offering it to you.”
I see what I hope is a spark of interest in his eyes and hurry on. “You don’t want this to be just another Stark project? It won’t be. It couldn’t be. Because you and I both know that the resort you design will shine on its own. I want the best, Mr. Steele. I want you. And unless you’re an idiot, you should want it, too.”
I take a deep breath, and then, as if to signal that I’m finally done, I pull out a chair and sit.
For a moment, Jackson does nothing. He doesn’t even move. Then he stands and crosses to the window. The glass is tinted, so I can see his reflection superimposed upon the view, such that it is. A roof. The side of the multiplex. Some traffic on Hollywood Boulevard. Nothing spectacular. Not that it matters. Even a view as stunning as the Matterhorn wouldn’t have drawn my attention from this man.
“I want to know something,” he finally says.
“Of course.” I expect him to ask me about the budget. Or timing. Or the construction firms we routinely work with. Anything but the words that come out of his mouth.
“I want to know why you ended it.”
My chest tightens and I have to resist the urge to hug myself. I can feel the anxiety reaching for me even now, along with the nightmares and twisted memories that slink along, too. Slithering out of the night to fill my days. I shake my head, determined to keep it all banished, far and away. “It doesn’t matter.”
He turns from the window, his face a wild mixture of anger and hurt. “The hell it doesn’t.”
“My reasons are my own, Jackson.” I can hear the panic creeping into my voice, and I fear that he can as well. Deliberately, I take slow, even breaths. I want to calm myself. And, damn me, I want to soothe him.
I want to ease the hurt that I caused, but that’s impossible, because I can’t answer his question.
“Why?” he asks again, only now there’s a gentleness in his voice that unnerves me.
I stiffen in automatic defense, afraid I’ll melt in the face of any tenderness from this man.
“You didn’t want to end it,” Jackson continues. “Even now, you want it.”
“You have no idea what I want,” I say sharply, though that is a lie as well.
“Don’t I?” There is anger in his voice. Hurt, too. “I know you want the resort.”
I’ve been looking at the tabletop, and now I lift my head. “Yes.” The word is simple. It may be the first completely true thing I’ve said to him since Atlanta. “Will you take it? You and I both know it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Are you really going to let our past stand in the way of what can be a truly magnificent achievement?”
I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a breath. Then he turns away from me to look out the window once again. “I want the project, Sylvia.”
Relief sweeps over me, and I have to physically press my hands to the table to forestall the urge to leap to my feet and embrace him.
“But I want you, too.” He turns as he speaks, and when he faces me straight on, there is no denying the truth—or the longing—in his eyes.
I swallow as what feels like a swarm of electric butterflies dances over my skin, making the tiny hairs stand up. And making me aware of everything from the solidity of the floor beneath my feet to the breath of air from a vent across the room.
I force myself to remain seated. Because damn me, my instinct is to go to him and slide into his arms. “I—I don’t understand.” The lie lingers in the air, and I am proud of the way I kept my voice from shaking.
“Then let me be perfectly clear.” He closes the distance between us, then uses his forefinger to tilt my head up so that he is looking deep into my eyes. I shift, not only because the contact sends a jolt of electricity right through me, but because I’m afraid that if he looks too deeply into my eyes, he will see a truth I want to keep hidden.
“No,” he says. “Look at me, Sylvia. Because I’m not going to say this again. I told you once that I’m a man who goes after what he wants, and I want you in my bed. I want to feel you naked and hot beneath me. I want to hear you cry out when you come, and I want to know that I am the man who took you there.”
My eyes are burning, and I shake my head, as if by simply wishing it to be so, this will all go away.
“I want you, Sylvia. And I will have you.”
“Jackson, please.”
“And you want me, Sylvia. You can deny it, but we both know that you’d be lying.”
“I do want you,” I say, clinging tight to that fragment of truth as I try to turn this to my advantage. “But there is the man and there is the architect. I—I can’t be with the man. But I desperately need the architect.”
“Package deal, princess,” he says, the endearment making me cringe. “You want me on the project, I want you in my bed.”
“Dammit, Jackson,” I say as anxiety creeps through me, its cold fingers banishing the heat. For once, I do not try to force it back, because right now I can use it. “You’re being ridiculous. I mean, who does that?”
“Apparently, I do.” He is level and cool and just arrogant enough to piss me off. I’m grateful—I’d much rather be pissed than unsettled. Or, worse, aroused.