He brushes my cheek with his thumb. “I thought you didn’t cry.”
“What?” I am certain I haven’t heard him right, but when I lift my hand to my cheek, it is wet. My breath hitches, and my throat fills with tears. I barely remember the sensation it’s been so long. “I guess—I guess you matter to me.” And those are all the words I can get out before the sobs come in earnest and I shake with the force of them.
Jackson picks me up and carries me to the couch, then holds me as I cry for the past, for him, for the future that I’m suddenly afraid of. Mostly, though, they are tears of relief and joy, because Jackson is back in my arms, and somehow, someway, we’ll figure out the rest of it.
When the tears finally subside and I have emptied an entire box of tissues, I curl up against him, exhausted but happy.
Happy, but also afraid.
“I’m not angry,” I say, my voice raw. “I’d go so far as to say I’m glad. But you shouldn’t have done it. He’ll press charges. That’s the kind of guy he is.”
“I’ll protect your secret, baby. You don’t have to worry.”
“I’m not. I didn’t even think of that.” I truly hadn’t. I know with absolute certainty that Jackson will take my secret to the grave if I ask him to, and that sure knowledge warms me. “I was thinking of you.”
He cocks his head, looking at me sharply. “The movie.”
I nod. “If no one knows about me, they’re going to assume you attacked him because of the movie, and everyone is going to start poking into it. And all those secrets are going to be harder to keep. I’ve seen the way the press vultures work with Nikki and Damien. So far you’ve only had good press. Bad press can sting.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, and I can see that the thought troubles him. “I’ll do what I have to do,” he says. “But whatever happens, my promise to you stands.”
“I know. Really.” I draw a breath, because there’s more. And although I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, I have to say it, just in case he hasn’t thought of it already. “This may screw up the resort project, too. When Damien gets back, I promise you he won’t be happy that his architect is now in the gossip rags. Especially when he already isn’t sure he trusts you.”
He says nothing, and so I decide to soldier on. “And you have to tell him the rest of it, too. Or I do. And he may not be too happy about the fact that you didn’t say who you were up front. I’m sorry,” I add. “But that’s not the kind of thing I can keep from him. Not if I expect to keep my job. Or the resort, for that matter.”
“I would never ask you to lie for me,” he says. “And I know the risks. But I will make you a promise—no matter what it takes, you won’t lose the resort. If I have to, I’ll go head-to-head with Damien.”
He looks like he’d enjoy the prospect.
“Do you understand?”
I nod, though I don’t really. Because in a contest between Jackson and Damien over whether or not I keep my job, I can’t imagine a scenario where Damien doesn’t have the final word. He’s the one giving the job, after all.
The rather unpleasant thought that Jackson is Jeremiah Stark’s son slides into my mind. And I am quite certain that Jeremiah knows many things that Damien would want to keep secret. Which means that Jackson may know those things, too.
But the thought that Jackson would blackmail Damien on my behalf is so disagreeable that I shove it aside. He hasn’t said that, and my mind is simply spinning tales. And the truth is that Jackson doesn’t really know Damien at all.
“Your brother’s not such a bad person, you know.”
“Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. At the moment I don’t care about Damien or the resort. The only thing I care about is you. The only thing I want is you. Tell me I didn’t fuck this up. Tell me I didn’t lose you.”
“How could you lose me when we just found each other again?”
His eyes stay on mine for a moment, and then he pulls me close and kisses me gently. “I’m going to make love to you now,” he says, then lifts me in his arms and takes me to the bedroom.
He undresses me, tending to me and stroking me as he removes each piece of clothing until I am naked and on fire, wanting nothing more than the feel of this man upon me and inside me.
He doesn’t wait, and we make love slowly and sweetly, but with no less passion than when he has taken me wildly. There’s a tenderness to his movements. A precision in the way he thrusts inside me. And never once do his eyes leave mine.
When I see the tempest rising in that vibrant blue, I arch up, seeking more contact, wanting to go over with him, wanting to spin off into time and space with this man who has made me feel awake and alive and found. And when the explosion does come, I shatter with him, every piece of us coming together in a perfect union before we drift back down, gasping as we return to reality.
“Sylvia,” he murmurs, and my name on his lips is as sweet as honey, and as potent as making love.
I kiss him, then stretch with satisfaction, content when he pulls me close and I cradle my head upon his chest.
I feel safe and warm. And though he has never spoken the words, I feel loved.
I tilt my head up so that I can look at the face of this man who fills my heart and head. Who stands like a warrior to protect me from the demons of my past.
He looks back at me with such tenderness that I fear I will cry again, and when he bends to kiss my forehead a small tear of happiness really does trickle down my cheek.
I smile, satisfied.
I may not know all his secrets. And I cannot know the future.
But I do see the now.
And for me, for Jackson, right now is enough ….
epilogue
Jackson stood beside the bed and looked down at her. At the woman who made his heart beat faster and his blood burn.
She calmed him. Centered him. She filled his heart and his world.
She made him a better man—he knew that. Believed it. Hell, he cherished it.
And god help him, he cherished her, too. He’d been dead those five years without her, and he hadn’t even realized it. But he was alive again, and it was because of her.
Careful not to wake her, he slid into bed. His heart twisted as she moved in sleep to seek him out, then nuzzled against him, skin to skin.
Christ, what she did to him.
He brushed his hand over her hair, then played his fingertips over her shoulder. She’d pushed the sheet down in sleep, and he could see the tattoos that marked her breasts, just a few of many. Remnants of past pain, and some for which he bore responsibility. The thought twisted inside him, dark and unpleasant, and not for the first time he wished that he could carry her burdens.
She’d put her trust in him, shared her deepest secrets with him. And he knew that he had to do the same. But damned if the thought didn’t rip him to shreds.