“That movie is not getting made.” When it had been a question of movie or blackmail, Jackson had made the choice to protect Sylvia. To stop fighting the movie and protect his little girl with love and care. To hold her close, keep her safe, and try to protect her from the glare of an unwelcome spotlight.

But Reed’s death had neatly solved the problem of the blackmail photos, and Jackson was no longer pulled in two directions. Now he was going to fight as long and as hard as he could to keep Ronnie out of such a scandalous spotlight. Hell, he’d fight it from a jail cell if he had to, but there was no way he was sitting back and allowing a film about all the tragedy in his little girl’s life to hit the screen.

“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Jeremiah said. “Because that movie’s going to happen whether you try to stop it or not. You think you have that kind of power? Think again. And now that they know Damien is tied to you there’s going to be even more push to get it made. And what if you cause enough of a stink that they rewrite it as fiction? So what? Everyone will still know. The gossip will still be out there.”

Beside him, Syl was squeezing his hand, sharing her strength. And dammit, right then all he wanted was his father gone and his woman in his arms. Forget the photographers, forget the press, forget the man standing right in front of him. In that moment, Jackson needed nothing more than Sylvia. To take her hard, to bend her body to his. He craved the feel of her against him, and the desire to push her to the edge—to manipulate her pleasure—cut through him like a wild thing, fierce and demanding.

His pulse kicked up as he anticipated watching passion build in her eyes, knowing that he was responsible for taking her far. That if nothing else, he had control over this woman—her body, her release, her satisfaction.

So much around him was fucked up—spinning out of control. His father. Reed’s murder. Even the bullshit sabotage of the resort. His life was a goddamn tempest, and Syl was the eye of the storm. Right now, he needed her.

Hell, he fucking craved her. And it pissed him off that he couldn’t take her right then, right there, because the man who was his father was still standing in front of them, blathering on. “Say you support the movie, and you’ll have erased motive. No point in killing him if you don’t care about the damn film, eh?”

“You need to leave,” Jackson said coldly. “We’re going inside. You’re not invited.”

“I’m trying to look out for you.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Dammit, son—”

“Son? Are you sure about that? Because from where I was standing I was never your son. I was some obligation tucked off in a corner somewhere. The little boy no one was supposed to know about. God forbid Mom or I caused a scandal and messed up the flow of gold-flavored milk from your cash cow.”

He heard the fury in his voice—the decades’ old hurt—and he wished he’d said nothing. The last thing he wanted was to reveal himself to this man.

“I was only looking out for you and your mother.” His father was an attractive man with the air of a well-aged movie star. Now, though, he just looked red in the face and flustered.

But those words were empty excuses, and the look of disdain that Jackson shot at his father said as much.

“I was bringing money in,” Jeremiah continued. “Keeping food on the table.”

“Yeah. You’re a real saint.” Beside him, Syl shifted. The movement was almost imperceptible, but he knew what she was thinking. She wasn’t seeing Jeremiah, but her own father, and Jackson was struck by the similarity between those two men who played their children like pawns on a chessboard.

“Jackson—”

“What were you doing at my screening?” The question, seemingly out of left field, cut off the protest and had his father taking a single step backward.

“You know damn well I’m on the board of the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project with Michael,” he said, referring to Michael Prado, who directed Stone and Steele, the documentary about Jackson and his design of an Amsterdam museum. It had screened not long ago at the Chinese theater. That night was burned into Jackson’s mind not because of the film or because his father had shown his face, but because that night was the first step to getting Sylvia back. And for that, Jackson would happily declare the date a national holiday.

“But even if I weren’t, I still would have attended,” Jeremiah added in the face of Jackson’s continued silence. “I wanted to celebrate my son’s achievements.”

After a moment, his father shifted his weight from one foot to another as if trying to decide what to say next. When he didn’t come up with anything, Jackson casually asked, “Did you know Reed?”

Jeremiah’s mouth pulled into a frown. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

“One I’d like an answer to.”

“No. Not really. I’ve met him a time or two.”

“About what?”

“What the hell, boy? Is this the third degree?”

“Maybe it is. You’re awfully interested in that movie.”

“I’m interested in saving your ass,” Jeremiah spat back.

“I can take care of my own ass, thanks.” He pulled Sylvia closer. “And now it really is time for you to go. Trust me when I say you’ve worn out your welcome.”

“Jackson, please. I’m your father.”

“I suggest you don’t say that again.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Jeremiah was going to argue, and Jackson felt the tension build in him. Hell, he almost hoped the bastard tried to stay, put up a fight. Any excuse. Any excuse at all.

So Jackson was disappointed—but reluctantly had to admit it was probably for the best—when Jeremiah turned and headed off the boat. He paused after a few steps though, then looked back to where Jackson stood with Sylvia at his side. “You shouldn’t have told Damien you’re his brother, but I guess it’s good you did before it came out. Less pain for both of you.”

“Do you really think I believe that you give a fuck about what’s best for either of us? Your focus has always been on Jeremiah Stark, and no one else.”

“That’s not true.”

“I don’t know what your angle is, old man, but I know you came here with one. And whatever game you expect me to play, I’m not biting.”

“No games. I’m your father. I’m concerned.” He drew a breath, then shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and for a moment he just looked tired, and a lot older than his sixty-plus years. “We’ve had a rocky relationship. But I care about you. I’m your father, after all.”

“That’s just a word,” Jackson said. “And right now it feels pretty damn hollow.”

eight

I watch Jackson as he watches his father disappear into the night.

My whole body aches, and I realize that I haven’t relaxed since we arrived and found the paparazzi camped out.

For that matter, I haven’t really relaxed since we left Charles’s office. Since we left Santa Fe. Since the detectives arrived with the news of Reed’s murder.

Now we’re just hours away from Jackson walking through the doors of the Beverly Hills Police Department. And I’m so damned afraid that he’s not going to walk back out again.

Hell, maybe I should thank Jeremiah and the damn story vultures. Because for a few minutes at least, I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I was just angry. At the paparazzi. At Jeremiah. At my own father.

I take a deep breath. I don’t want either of those men in my head right now. I just want Jackson, but his back is still to me, his eyes on the now-empty dock.

“Jackson?” I say his name tentatively.

He turns and although the anger on his face fades when he looks at me, I can see that it still lingers behind his eyes. “I knew we’d have to deal with the press at some point, but he had no right coming here. He had no business interrupting us, coming unannounced, bothering us at all.”