Say My Name Read online

  "Actually, you're right. He's on the board with Michael. I'd forgotten." She waves the words away as if they're just a bother. "But speaking of architecture, where is the man of the hour?"

  "I haven't seen him since just after the film ended."

  "Do you know him personally?"

  "A bit," I say. "You?"

  "Only by reputation," she says.

  "What reputation?"

  Evelyn's smile borders on wicked. "Just that he has one. And speak of the devil." She gestures to the far corner of the room where Jackson stands in the red light from the balcony. The light meshes with the gold and the blue, giving that part of the room an even more surreal quality.

  Apropos, I think, considering the entire night seems rather surreal.

  Evelyn hooks her arm through mine. "Come on, kiddo. Let's go land you an architect."

  He's alone when we start out, holding a highball glass and sipping leisurely as he looks around the room, as if taking stock of an empire. He looks in my direction, then stands a bit straighter. For a moment, I think that he has seen me.

  But it's not me that he's seen.

  He holds his hand out, gesturing for someone to come closer, and as I watch, a redhead glides up to him, her hair crackling like fire in the golden light. He kisses her lightly on the cheek, and I am overcome with two equally powerful urges. The first, to run away. The second, to slap the look of unabashed delight right off her face.

  "Do you know who that is?" I tug Evelyn to a stop beside me.

  "Not a clue, which means she's probably not in the business. Or if she is, she's fresh off the turnip truck."

  "We should wait," I say.

  "We should go," she counters. "You want the man to talk to you about business, don't you?"

  I nod.

  "And you told me he's already turned down your request for a meeting?"

  I nod again.

  "Then take a tip from Auntie Evelyn and talk to him while someone's with him. He'll either have to say yes, or risk looking like an asshole in front of his lovely young friend."

  Considering she has a point, we continue on, only to stop again when their discussion shifts from casual to contentious.

  "The one corollary to my rule?" Evelyn says as we pause several yards away. "Don't walk into a minefield."

  To be honest, I'm curious enough to do just that. I want to know who this woman is, why he kissed her, and what they are now arguing about. I'm imagining a lovers' quarrel, and the thought is not a happy one. Not because I'm concerned about the quarrel, but about the lover.

  I'm distracted from my thoughts by Wyatt's approach. "Now there's a great picture," he says, lifting his camera. "Smile, ladies."

  Evelyn hooks an arm around my shoulder and we both smile for the camera.

  "Want to make the rounds with me?" he asks. "You can take a few shots, I can give you a few tips."

  The offer is tempting, but I regretfully shake my head. "Mission not yet accomplished," I say, hooking my thumb to indicate Jackson.

  His mouth quirks up. "I knew you weren't just looking to party with me when you asked for those extra tickets."

  "Funny."

  He chuckles. "I'll wish you luck, then." He turns to Evelyn. "How about you? Want some company?"

  "With you? Always. Especially if you'll get a shot of me with that woman." She points to a trim blonde flirting with the bartender. "That young lady is on the rise, and she's represented by Jake Osprey, a rat bastard of a competitor. He'll blow a gasket if he sees me in the trades with his nubile young client."

  "You have a devious streak," I say.

  "It's why I'm so damn good at what I do. Now go," she says, pointing to where Jackson was standing only moments before. "He's got to still be around here somewhere."

  She gives me a quick hug, Wyatt squeezes my shoulder, and then the two of them slide into the crowd behind me. I stand a moment longer, looking at the faces moving in front of me, once again searching the crowd for Jackson and mentally rehearsing what I'm going to say to him as I glide through the light and people. He has to see the upside of doing this project, and I'm going to reason with him, pointing out all the pros and the very minimal number of cons.

  And, yes, I realize that as far as he's concerned, working with me falls squarely in the "con" category. But there is no way that Jackson could have done so well in business if he didn't have the ability to compartmentalize his emotions.

  We can make this work--and I'm absolutely determined to convince him of that.

  The crowd parts, and I once again see Jackson. The redhead is no longer with him, but she has been replaced by a svelte brunette who looks vaguely familiar. As I hurry in that direction, Jackson looks up, and I smile in greeting, certain that he must see me. He doesn't acknowledge me, though. Instead, I watch as he slides his arm around the brunette's waist. Her face lights up, her expression suggesting that if his movement was an invitation, her smile is an acceptance.

  I bite back a twinge of irritation as I continue forward, reminding myself that it's none of my business whose waist Jackson has claimed. "Jackson," I say once I've reached the two of them. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to speak with you."

  "Is this about the resort?" His eyes are fixed on me, but his fingers are twined in the brunette's hair.

  "Yes. Of course."

  His attention shifts to the girl. "Then there's nothing to talk about."

  "Jackson, come on. You know--"

  "I know that business hours are over, Sylvia." He traces his finger over the bitch's lower lip, and I feel my own lip tingle with longing.

  "I realize that." I am uber-calm. I am the epitome of calm. No temper, no frustration. Calm, thy name is Sylvia.

  I plaster on my reception desk smile. "It's just that we're kind of under the gun here, scheduling-wise."

  "Are you?"

  I think I hear curiosity in his voice, and since that's better than bland disinterest, I allow a little spark of hope to rise.

  "Yes. I told you earlier that--"

  "I remember."

  I fight back irritation. "Okay, then. So can we talk?"

  For a second, he says nothing. Then he lifts the brunette's hand and brushes his lips over her fingers. "I need a few minutes."

  Her back stiffens, but she doesn't protest. Instead she shoots me a vitriol-filled look, spins on her heel, and stalks off toward the bar.

  "You've got ten minutes to make your best pitch." He glances casually at his watch. "I suggest you start."

  "What?" I say stupidly. "Here? Right now?"

  From the expression on his face, I think he's going to make me do just that. Then he shakes his head. "No. I think this is a conversation best had in private." He nods toward the far side of the room. "Upstairs, at the far end past the bar there's a door that leads to a row of offices. There's a keypad for entry. The code is six-one-three-one. The last one on the corner is a small conference room. Michael's been using it this week to prep for the event. We can talk there. Be there in five minutes, or don't bother coming at all."

  And then he turns from me, takes two long strides, and melts into the crowd, leaving me scrambling to remember the code and figure out where exactly I'm supposed to go.

  Five minutes?

  Shit.

  Still, I try to put the time to good use, and as I plow through the crowd and make my way to the upstairs doorway, I keep my head down and my eyes focused on my iPhone as I try to organize some photos. Because, dammit, I don't have a projector, much less any sort of PowerPoint presentation. I'm going to have to entirely wing it--and I burst into the corner conference room with forty seconds to spare, albeit slightly out of breath and more than a little frazzled.

  More so when I see Jackson. He's already in the room, seated at the far end of a polished mahogany table. He leans back as he silently studies me.

  Whereas I am certain I look disheveled and out of breath, Jackson appears just the opposite. He is strength and power.

  Most
of all, he is completely in control. Everything from his choice of this room to his selection of a seat. Hell, even his decision not to rise when I entered was a deliberate power play.

  It's a trick I've seen Damien use over and over. The idea is to intimidate. To claim control of the room and make sure that everyone who enters knows who holds the power. All in all, I have to admit that Jackson is putting that trick to pretty good use. Because right now there is no doubt that I'm the supplicant here. And pretty damned intimidated, too.

  Yeah, well, to hell with that. Aren't I the one with the opportunity? Aren't I the one who can hand him the project of a lifetime?

  Damn straight, and so I take a step forward, determined to make him realize that while he might have granted me this meeting, I'm now the one who is running the show. "You said ten minutes, Mr. Steele. I can convince you in five."

  His expression is almost amused. "I'm listening."

  "I don't blame you for rejecting the idea initially. I understand that our past factors into this, and that seeing me was a shock. But that's a knee-jerk reaction. This isn't personal. It's business. And you're about to see just what an excellent business opportunity it is."

  "Not personal? Everything between you and me is personal, Sylvia, and you damn well know it."

  "Because you're making it that way. You want to be pissed? Fine. Be pissed. But take me out of the equation."

  "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.

  "Is this about revenge?" I demand. "Because it seems like it."

  His lips curve as if in consideration. "Maybe it is," he says, the confession slicing through me as cleanly and coldly as a well-honed blade. "But if so, revenge never tasted so sweet."

  "Fuck you, Jackson," I snap, as much in anger as in confusion. "Fuck you and your grudge and your goddamn ultimatum." I snatch my phone off the table and bolt for the door, the world around me spinning in shades of red and gray.

  I grab on to the frame, my back to him, then take a deep breath to steady myself. "I never meant to hurt you," I say, so softly I'm not even certain he can hear me.

  "Maybe not," he says, his voice equally soft. "But you did. And now if you want me on this project, you're going to have to pay the price."

  five

  Bastard.

  He's a goddamn bastard on wheels and I'll be damned if I'm going to let him use me like that.

  I hurry down the stairs, my chest tight, my throat dry. By the time I burst outside into the cool October air, I'm working myself up into a full-blown panic attack.

  I want to run--hell, I want to fly. I want to lose myself in the lights and noise of Hollywood Boulevard. I want to race blindly down the street, not toward anything, but away. Away from Jackson. Away from the past.

  And away from this horrible sensation of being twisted up inside.

  I want to, but I can't. Because if I try to, I'll no doubt trip in these damn stilettos, and I'll end up breaking my nose on Clark Gable's handprint outside the theater.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit.

  So I walk instead, wishing there was a way to turn off my thoughts, to push away my emotions.

  You want me on the project, I want you in my bed.

  Those words had hit me with all the force of a train, and now I've lost my grip on everything. My plans for the resort, my hopes for a bump in career.

  I'd had everything all worked out, each step on the path so perfectly planned.

  And then came Jackson, and the fantasy that I could keep a tight hand.

  How could I have been so stupid? Because hadn't Jackson unraveled me from the first moment I'd laid eyes on him?

  Five years ago, I think. Five years almost to the day from when I'd first met him. Five years and two days from the moment I'd asked him to walk away from me.

  No, not two days. Two lifetimes. Two eternities. Because there is no way that I could have crammed everything I felt for him--everything I still feel for him--into so short a time.