Take My Dare Page 6

  And Jackson's strong arms are the only thing that hold me together and tether me to earth.

  Chapter 8

  ++

  Sunday should be a lazy day, but since Jackson and I both took Friday off, we're playing catch-up before most people have taken their first sip of coffee.

  The plan is to get all of our various ducks in a row for Monday, then get back home just after lunch so we can spend the afternoon with the kids at the children's museum.

  We both work in Stark Tower--me on the twenty-seventh floor where Stark Real Estate Development is located, and Jackson on twenty-six, the floor he's sublet for the Los Angeles office of his own operation, Steele Development.

  But he's not here now. He dropped me off, then continued on to Pasadena where he's meeting Wyatt, who's shooting the marketing photos for a office building that Jackson designed and for which I'm the project manager. The marketing plan has been moved up by two weeks, and so we need the images ready to go by early next week so we can start pre-leasing the property. They're going to do the shoot, and then Jackson is meeting with the leasing agent we've retained to walk her through the property and go over the various specs.

  As for me, since I pretty much ate and drank my way through the weekend, I go first to the fitness center on twenty. I don't love running, but I figure twenty minutes on the treadmill followed by another half hour on the weight machines will do me a world of good.

  I'm a sweaty mess when I finish, but I'm feeling pretty good about myself as I make my way through the gym to the women's locker room for a quick shower. There's only one other person in the gym today: Noah Carter, a red-haired tech genius who's been spending a lot of time in the offices lately doing some consulting work for Stark Applied Technology. He has the rugged good looks of someone who grew up on a farm, and a kind of silent aloofness that has the single women in the office speculating about him over coffee.

  I don't usually play those games, but with Noah, I can't help but think that someone hurt him deeply. And considering the complete lack of interest he's shown in his speculating coworkers, I assume that the someone was a woman.

  Today, he nods politely as I pass him on my way to get cleaned up. And although I consider asking if he wants to walk down to the coffee cart just outside the building, by the time I come back out, showered and dressed, he's gone.

  I shrug, then head to my floor, passing the new weekend receptionist on my way. I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss her calling my name.

  "Did you need me?" I ask, stopping just past her desk and turning around.

  "I said that a messenger brought your purse. Apparently you left it at the Segel party last night." She sighs. "Was it amazing?"

  "Yeah," I say with a distracted frown. "It was great. But I didn't leave my purse." I'm sure of it, because I popped over to Stella's bungalow this morning to see the kids, and I gave her a fifty so she could get a few extra things from the grocery store.

  "Oh, you did," says the girl, whose name I don't recall. She lifts a beaded clutch from behind the desk and sets it on the desktop. I reach for it with a frown. "See? Your driver's license is even clipped to the outside."

  Sure enough, someone has secured my driver's license to the purse with a giant black binder clip.

  And that's especially odd because although that's not my purse, it is definitely my license. And how did my license get out of the little window in my wallet? I can barely get it out myself when I need to, it sticks so much to the clear plastic.

  Definitely weird.

  "Thanks," I say, my tone distracted as I take the purse and the clip and the license to my office. I open the clutch as I walk, thinking that maybe I fumbled my license after one too many drinks, and it fell near this clutch. The story doesn't ring true, however, not in small part because I didn't get drunk last night.

  And even if I had dropped the license, why would someone deliver it to the office, instead of to the home address printed on it?

  I'm completely baffled until I actually open the purse. That's when I see the envelope. In the envelope are photographs.

  And the photographs are of me.

  It was a joy to work with competent people, Jackson thought, as he watched Wyatt set up for a series of shots from a completely new angle.

  Usually, Jackson had to be both architect and art director, but Wyatt knew his stuff, and Jackson had learned on the last couple of projects they'd worked on together to simply give Wyatt a general sense of what Jackson wanted, and then let the photographer run with it.

  Each time, Wyatt came up with images even better than what Jackson had imagined.

  Which was why Jackson was now simply letting the man work while he scrolled through his phone, answering key emails and shooting others to his assistant, Lauren, to handle.

  He'd just lifted the phone to dictate a text when the sharp trill of his ringtone startled him. He glanced at the screen, saw it was Sylvia, and smiled as he answered it.

  "I miss you already," he said without preamble. "I think we'll be done by lunch. Can you get away for a meal with your husband?"

  "Jackson."

  The tightness in her voice erased his smile. He stiffened, turning his back automatically to Wyatt for privacy. "What?" he demanded. "Sylvia, what's wrong?"

  "They're back. Oh, god, Jackson. I told you I was afraid they'd come back, and now they have."

  For a moment, he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Then reality hit him full force across the head, making him stumble backward. "The photos?"

  "Dozens of them. Not the clean ones he used for advertisements. The ones he took between. When we were alone. When he--" Her voice broke, and Jackson realized his hand was so tight around his phone that he was on the verge of cracking the case. "When he touched me," she finished in a trembling voice.

  "What? How?"

  "They're vile, Jackson. Horrible and--" He heard her draw a breath and imagined her sitting up straighter. "No. Never mind."

  "Dammit, Syl. How did you get them? Who sent them?"

  "It's okay. I'm okay. I'll tell you later."

  "I'll be right there. Half an hour. Maybe less." Traffic was light. Surely he could get from this part of Pasadena to downtown in thirty minutes.

  "No, please. Don't." She sounded calmer. Stronger. "I'm fine. Really. I just needed to hear your voice."

  "Bullshit. I'm on my way."

  "Dammit, Jackson, listen to me. There's nothing you can do. They're just photos. I have no idea who sent them or why. They're here, and you coming won't change that. But today's the only day that Terry can meet with you about the marketing campaign. Come to me, and the entire project gets thrown off schedule. And for what?"

  He wanted to say that the for what was her. Being with her. Holding her. Helping her.

  But he also knew she was right. More than that, he could hear the growing strength in her voice as she shifted to work mode. Focusing on her job, her priorities, and shoving to the back the noise of those horrible images of her childhood.

  Work was a balm--hell, he knew that better than anyone. Hadn't he thrown himself into his work when Syl had walked away from him, in those years before he'd fought to get her back?

  And when he had gotten her back, hadn't he made it his utmost priority to help her fight the demons that had ripped her away from him in the first place?

  Now she was once again fighting the battle, and from what he could hear in her voice, she was winning. And though he wanted more than anything to wrap his arms around her and hold her close, he also knew that if he really wanted to help her, he had to let her make the choice of what to do next.

  "Jackson?"

  "I'm here, baby."

  "Just meet me at home after your meeting, okay? There's nothing you can do this second. And there's no reason for you to rush. What would be the point?" she added. "After all, you're already here with me. You're always with me."

  He closed his eyes and breathed deep. "I love you."

 
"I know. That's kind of my point."

  He laughed. How the hell could she be making him laugh now?

  He forced his voice to stay even, then promised he'd see her at home before ending the call. Then he bent over, hands to his knees, as he drew in breath after breath and fought the urge to beat the living shit out of someone.

  But who? Who the hell had done this? And why?

  "Jackson?"

  Wyatt's voice surprised Jackson, and had him spinning around, his body tense, ready to lash out or repel a blow.

  Wyatt stepped back, hands up in defense. "Whoa, man. What's going on?"

  Immediately, Jackson sagged, the fight leaving him, replaced by a bone deep frustration and an equally potent worry. "Sorry. I'm just a little on edge."

  Wyatt's eyes dipped to the phone in Jackson's hand. "Everything okay?"

  "That was Syl. Apparently Robert Cabot Reed is reaching out from his fucking grave," Jackson added bitterly.

  "Come again?"

  But Jackson just waved the question away. He liked Wyatt, but how the hell could he explain without mentioning the pictures? The only thing the public knew about Reed's murder was that--supposedly--Douglas killed Reed to stop the movie about Jackson, the Fletcher House, and Ronnie's birthmother. Sylvia's hell wasn't on the public's radar, and Jackson intended to keep it that way.

  "Never mind," he said. "It's all okay."

  Wyatt nodded slowly. "I used to admire the guy's work as a photographer. Even have some of the ad shots he took in my collection. But I lost all respect for the bastard not long ago."

  "Because of his threats to make the movie?"

  "That was part of it. There were other reasons. Things I learned about the man."

  Jackson nodded slowly, his mouth tight. "I don't know what you heard. But if it was vile, then my guess is your information is one-hundred percent accurate."

  Wyatt's brow furrowed. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "I'm fine. Really."

  Wyatt didn't look convinced. "I'm all done here," he said. "Why don't you go see your wife?"

  "I would if she'd let me. I'm supposed to meet Terry here. Sylvia scheduled the meeting, and now she's pulling rank, telling me she's going to head home, but I have to stay put."

  Wyatt chuckled. "Well, she is the project manager."

  "Yes, she is," Jackson said, the pride in his voice genuine.

  "I'll leave you to that, then." He glanced at his watch and frowned. "We got some great shots. And I know we're on a tight schedule, so I'll get them to you by tomorrow."

  "Perfect." Jackson peered more closely at Wyatt's face. "You look a little pale. Feeling okay?"

  "Just a bit of a time crunch," Wyatt said. "But trust me. Compared to the problems you're facing, I'm absolutely fine."

  Chapter 9

  ++

  I'm pacing so much that it's a good thing we have tile in the downstairs rooms, because if there was carpet I'd have worn a hole in it.

  The purse with the photos is on the kitchen table, and I'm going back and forth between the kitchen and the great room, hoping the motion will calm my nerves. Trying to convince myself not to call Jackson.

  I'd told him I could handle this, and I'd meant it. But now I'm home. I'm alone. And it's all just weighing down on me.

  I don't want to call him back, because I know he'll drop everything and come to me. But I have to talk, and so I dial Cass, then curse when I get her voice mail. "Something happened. I'm okay. Or I'm not. I don't know. Anyway, just call when you can."

  I end the call, and just seconds later, the doorbell chimes. For a second, I actually think it's Cass, but that idiotic thought is immediately replaced with a more worrisome one--that my visitor is the person who left the photos.

  I calm almost immediately, though. Only friends and family on our permanent list can enter the neighborhood without being announced. Even messengers have to be cleared through. I don't know who it is. But I can't imagine it's my tormenter. And though I'm really not in the mood for company, since I'd sent Stella to the park with the kids, I head to the front hall to answer the door.

  It's Wyatt, and he's standing on the front step looking so agitated that my concern for him almost overshadows my own fears.

  "What's wrong?" I ask, then immediately backtrack to, "Come in, come in. Is something wrong? Is it Jackson?"

  "No," he says, looking stiff and awkward as he comes inside. "I mean, he's upset. After your call ..."

  He trails off, and I look sharply at him. "What did he say?"

  "Just that Reed's reaching out from the grave. I'm sure he figures I'll assume it's about the movie. But Syl," he continues, his voice thin, "I don't think it's about the movie. I think it's about those pictures of you."

  I think it's about those pictures of you.

  My body goes clammy and I see more than hear his words. They're like red neon flashing on the ceiling. Like the walls in The Shining oozing blood. Like some horrible blunt weapon meant to destroy me.

  Because there are only a very few people who I'm certain know about those pictures of me. My dad. Jackson. Me. And, of course, whoever left me that purse.

  Wyatt?

  Oh, dear god, no. It can't be Wyatt.

  I take a step backwards, my head shaking in denial. For a moment, his expression is confused. Then his eyes widen and he steps toward me, his hand held out as I squeal and he says, "No! Oh, Syl, no, no! It's not me."

  I freeze, uncertain, scared, totally freaked out.

  He stops dead in front of me, his hands raised. "I swear. Christ, you know me. I would never--" He draws a harsh breath, clenches his hands into fists, and looks at me. "But the thing is, I think I know who is behind it."

  "Who?" My voice is wary, but the truth is that I believe him. This is the man who's given me and Nikki photography lessons. Who's been a friend for years. Who I really can't imagine would ever hurt me like that.

  "Mila. Mila Sanchez."

  I stare at him. "What?" I finally say. "Are you kidding me? Why would you even--"

  "She found the pictures at my studio." He holds up a hand to stop me before I can ask what the fucking hell those pictures were doing at his studio. "I bought fifty boxes of Reed's photographs at auction after his death. Blind boxes. Like a grab bag. I'd hadn't gone through them, but about a month ago, I decided I needed to sort them, keep what I wanted and toss the rest."

  "What you wanted?"

  "I'm a collector as well as a photographer," he explains. "Reed was a shit, but he did some amazing work, and I especially love the shots he took for ads. So I figured it was worth the investment. There weren't many bidders, actually, and so I ended up getting fifty boxes for under two grand."

  I just nod, letting him continue.

  "Anyway, I met Mila a while back when she working at Damien's desk and was ordering a print of one of my originals that hangs just outside his office. We kept in touch, went out a few times, but nothing serious. It'd been months since I'd seen her, actually, but I've been working on a project lately, and I've been shooting a lot of models."

  He shrugs, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "To be honest, she's not on my favorite person list--especially not after the way she talked shit about you after you fired her. Kept saying she wanted to find a way to get you back. Vindictive, but I figured it was just talk. And since she has a particular look--a dark feline quality--I called and asked her to do a few test shots at my studio one Saturday a few weeks ago. We ended up talking about the boxes. She offered to help me catalog them."

  "Go on," I say, beginning to see where this is going.

  "Your photos were in one of the boxes. I saw them," he adds, not quite meeting my eyes. "And so did she."

  "Oh." I lick my lips.

  "I'm so sorry, Syl. For what that bastard did, and for the fact that I've invaded your privacy."

  I try to speak, but my throat is too thick.

  "I should have told you sooner, but I honestly didn't know what to say. And I had no idea that she'd t
aken the photos. I only know now because I put two and two together after you called Jackson."

  "Oh, god," I mutter. I'm pacing. Agitated. "This is a nightmare."

  "I know," his voice is calm, like he's talking to a caged animal. "Reed was horrible. When I saw those photos, I knew they had power. I wanted to--"

  "Wanted to what, you goddamn sonofabitch?"

  Jackson's harsh voice startles both of us and we turn toward the front hall to find Jackson barreling toward Wyatt. I suck in a breath, certain my husband is about to plow his fist into Wyatt's face.

  "Jackson, no!" I hear the words in the air, and I'm honestly not sure if they're mine or Wyatt's, or the mingled sound of both.

  Jackson has Wyatt by the collar, and I see Wyatt's fist tighten in defense. Then Jackson shoves him back before turning sharply, grabbing a small glass vase, and slamming it into the ground, touchdown style.

  The glass shatters, and I scream. "Stop it! Stop it! It's not Wyatt. Dammit, Jackson, Wyatt didn't send the pictures."

  The men are staring at each other and my heart is pounding, not only because of what just happened, but because of what might still be yet to come. Jackson's temper is a wild thing, and I've already come close to losing him once.

  Before we were together, he punched the screenwriter assigned to the movie about the Fletcher house. And once he knew what Reed did to me, he beat the crap out of him. Not only was Jackson arrested for assault, but that breach of temper was one of the reasons he'd been the prime suspect in Reed's later murder. A crime he probably would have gone to jail for had my father not confessed.

  Another fight--another arrest--and he might end up serving jail time for assault. And goddammit, I can't lose this man.

  "Calm down!" I demand, my voice not yet calm. "It wasn't him! Wyatt came here to help. He knows who sent the photos."

  "Who?" Jackson growls, still looking like he wants to beat the shit out of someone. But at least he's holding himself in check.

  I draw a breath as I meet Wyatt's eyes. "Mila Sanchez."

  "Bitch." He steps to the left, moving back toward the door, and I move quickly to take his arm.

  "No," I say, certain that he was about to head right back out to go find Mila.

  "The hell you say. We need to go have a little talk with Mila about her manners."

  "Dammit, Jackson, no. Not yet. I want a plan. And, goddammit, I want you calm." Because there is no way we're walking into her apartment with Jackson as hyped up as he is. I want Mila to be the one getting into trouble. Not Jackson.