Today, though, the gate is lowered—and it’s easy enough to see why. Dozens of reporters line the drive—some are even perched on camp-style chairs or sprawled on the ground, as if they’ve been waiting for hours. But they rise to their feet as Jackson’s Porsche approaches, and rush toward us en masse, almost like a swarm of bees zeroing in on a target.

“Fuck,” Jackson says, and I silently second the curse, even though we both know that we should have expected this.

“Jackson! How long have you known Damien Stark is your half-brother?”

“Did you follow your brother’s trial in Germany?”

“Sylvia, did you know your boss and your boyfriend were related?”

“What’s the status of the Fletcher house movie, Jackson? Is it tabled now that Reed is dead?”

Jackson is inching the car forward, though I have a feeling he wants to gun it and maybe run over a few toes in the process. He reaches the guard station and rolls the window down to talk to the man inside.

“How long has this been going on, Charlie?”

“Couple of hours, Mr. Steele. The property managers are hiring extra security. We’ll keep them out of your hair.”

“I’ll pay for the extra men.” Jackson’s voice is tight.

“Well, sir, I guess that’s up to you. We’ve got the cameras on and there’ll be extra men walking the property tonight. But you be sure and lock the gate to your dock and the doors on the Veronica.”

“I will. Thanks, Charlie. And sorry.”

“Not your fault, Mr. Steele,” the guard says loyally, though I can tell from Jackson’s face he disagrees.

He remains tense all the way to his parking slot in front of his boat, and once he kills the engine, he turns to me. I shake my head and press a finger over his lips. I don’t know if he’s about to curse them or apologize for them, but I don’t want to hear either. Instead, I want to make him forget. And so I lean toward him as I lower my hand and press it over his thigh, just close enough to his cock to let him know that the paparazzi are the very last thing I’m interested in at the moment.

He says nothing, but I can feel the shift in his body. A different kind of tension forming. And when I drag my teeth over my lower lip, I see the heat build in his eyes.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Ms. Brooks?”

“Me? Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About a man I know.”

His brows raise. “Oh?”

“Mmm. He’s utterly gorgeous. Wildly sexy. The touch of his hands is like magic on my skin.”

The corner of his mouth twitches and a victorious trill runs through me. “I think I’m jealous.”

I slide my hand up, my pinky brushing lightly against his hardening cock. “It’s been one hell of a day. What do you say we go inside, get naked, and help each other forget?”

His eyes are like blue flames. “I think that sounds like an exceptionally good idea.”

The heat in his voice makes me gooey in all the right places.

I reluctantly pull back, then open my door. “In that case, mister, follow me.” We get out of the car, and I take his hand and lead him through the gate then down the dock to his boat. There’s a small gangplank permanently set up; it opens to a door onto the deck. I’ve been here enough to know the routine, and I take charge, leading the way.

I step carefully onto the sometimes slick deck, glance around the familiar area, see the man—and scream.

Jackson moves in front of me even before the echo of my scream dies away.

I’m breathing hard, my pulse pounding, my body ready for flight. But that’s just a lingering reaction. My fear has faded.

The man isn’t one of the paparazzi. For that matter, he’s not even an intruder. Or, at least, not the kind I’d imagined.

Then again, this kind might be even more dangerous.

This intruder is Jeremiah Stark.

seven

Jackson stared at his father, trying to convince himself that the man was only an apparition. Some sort of horrible revenant. Not actually Jeremiah Stark.

Not here.

Not today.

“About time, boy. I was just about to give up on you.”

Jackson didn’t move. He didn’t say a word. Instead he just stood there with Sylvia behind him, her scream still lingering in the air.

It took every ounce of Jackson’s willpower to keep his feet planted and his hands at his sides. Because right then he was certain that very little in this world would feel better than wringing Jeremiah’s neck.

When he was certain that he could move without launching himself at his father, he stepped sideways and then back so that he could slide an arm around Syl’s waist and pull her to him. It would look, he knew, as if he was comforting her. But that was only an illusion. He needed her in his arms right now. Needed to hold tight and let the feel of her steady him. Because he’d been pulled tight as a wire all day, and he was dangerously close to snapping.

He focused on his father’s face, his gaze unflinching. “You want to tell me how the hell you got on my boat?”

“Not hard,” Jeremiah said. He held up his phone. “Lot of pictures of me and my sons on the internet today. I just flashed one at your guard, told him it was urgent that I saw my boy, and he let me right through. I’m surprised you didn’t notice my car out there.”

“I’d say I’ll pay more attention next time, but there isn’t going to be a next time. Get the hell off my boat, Dad.”

“We need to talk,” Jeremiah said.

“You need to leave.”

“What I need is to convince my son not to be a goddamned idiot.”

“Your son? Is that what I am today? I’ve never really been able to keep that straight.” His entire life had been structured by the whim of a father whose focus was on another family—Damien’s family. Jackson had been forced to keep the truth of his paternity secret, because god forbid the public should learn that tennis superstar Damien Stark had a secret bastard half-brother squirreled away.

For years, Jackson had resented Damien, channeling the anger and frustration that rightfully belonged to his manipulative, narcissistic father toward the brother he didn’t even know. A brother who seemed to have everything in the world at Jackson’s expense. A brother who, Jackson was only beginning to learn, had also suffered at the hands of their father, and pretty damn brutally, too.

All of which meant that Jackson wasn’t inclined to play the good son simply because Jeremiah was wearing his daddy hat. As Jackson was learning the hard way, being a dad was about one hell of a lot more than biology.

“I did what I had to do so that you could have a good life, and now you’re about to toss it all into the crapper. Ms. Brooks,” Jeremiah said, turning his attention to Sylvia without warning, “you should go inside. Jackson and I have a few things to discuss.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She spoke with such bold finality that Jackson had to bite back a grin. He’d forgotten that she knew his father, of course. Jeremiah Stark might not be close to Damien, but Jeremiah was the kind of man who’d infiltrate himself anyway. And undoubtedly that meant that Sylvia’d had the dubious pleasure of dealing with him on more than one occasion.

“Suit yourself,” Jeremiah said. “I’ll say what I came here for and then I’ll leave. But, boy, you need to get in front of this thing. You need to publicly endorse that movie.”

The words, so out of left field, struck Jackson like a blow.

“What the hell are you talking about?” It was Sylvia who asked the question. Jackson was still reeling from the absurdity. “Why on earth would he do that?”

“Motive,” Jeremiah said. “Do you think I want to see a son of mine behind bars? You need to play this game smart, son. You need to make sure any argument they might have as to motive is soundly shut down.”