It’s a small task, but he performs it with confident precision, just as he does so much else in his life. Jackson is not a man to let circumstance get the better of him, and he is not a man who will let an injury go unavenged. He is a man who protects what he loves, and I know with unwavering certainty that the two things he loves most in this world are his daughter and me.

He would, I’m certain, kill to protect either of us, and that’s a thought that sends a little shiver of pleasure through me. But it’s tempered by fear and dread. Because Jackson would go even further; he’d sacrifice himself if he thought it would protect us. And I’m horribly afraid that’s exactly what he has done.

And, honestly, if Jackson ends up behind bars, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to bear the guilt.

He comes over to sit on the edge of the bed and is immediately assaulted by a three-year-old cyclone demanding to be tickled. He smiles and complies, then looks at me. But the smile doesn’t quite warm his ice blue eyes.

I reach for him and take his hand in mine. How many times in the hours since we arrived have I searched for the perfect words to soothe him? But there are no perfect words. I can only do my best. I can only just be here.

“Anything about you in there?” I ask with a nod to the paper that he’s left on the table.

“No, but since that’s the local Santa Fe paper I wouldn’t expect there to be.”

I frown. “Do you want me to look?” I’m not talking about the local paper, and he knows it. I’m offering to hop online and scope out the various gossip sites from back home, especially those that focus on Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, and all things murder and celebrity.

He shakes his head, and his response only deepens my frown. He told me yesterday that he didn’t want anything to mar this time with Ronnie, and I get that. But we’ve already got the cloud of a murder hanging over us—and knowing the gossip means being prepared.

I argued as much last night, but I’m willing to make my case again. In fact, I’m opening my mouth to do just that when he presses his finger to my lips. “I looked this morning,” he says gently. “There’s nothing.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he confirms. He squeezes my hand, then holds out his free one for Ronnie. “I got on my tablet and looked while this little one was making toast. Didn’t I?” he asks, as she scrambles into his lap. “Didn’t I?” he repeats, then tickles her until she squeals and says, “Yes! Yes!” even though she clearly has no idea what we’re talking about.

“Your witness seems a little tainted to me.” I fight a smile. He’s such a natural dad, and the ease with which he’s slid into the role awes me a bit.

“Maybe. But the testimony is all true.” He kisses the top of her head, then pulls her close, the action so full of wild, heartbreaking emotion that it almost shatters me.

“You should go on outside with Grammy,” Jackson tells the little girl. “Fred’s probably wondering where you are.”

At the mention of the puppy, her blue eyes, so like Jackson’s, go wide. “You’ll come, too?”

“Absolutely,” he promises. “Let me talk to Syl while she drinks her coffee and then I’ll come find you.”

“And eat your toast?” she asks, her earnest question aimed at me.

“I can’t wait for the toast,” I say. “I bet it’s the best toast ever.”

“Yup,” she confirms, then shoots out of the room like a rocket.

Jackson watches her go, and I watch Jackson. When he turns back, he catches me eyeing him, then smiles sheepishly. “It’s hard to believe sometimes,” he says. “That she’s really mine, I mean.”

I think about the little girl’s dark hair and blue eyes. Her cleverness coupled with a vibrant personality and fierce determination. “Not hard to believe at all.”

I had hoped to coax a smile, but still he just looks sad.

“There was really nothing?”

“I promise.” I must look dubious, because he continues. “The police aren’t going to release names. Not until an arrest. Or until it drags on so long they feel like they need to get ahead of a leak.”

“And you know this because of your vast experience in the criminal underworld?”

“Years of watching television,” he corrects. “But you know I’m right.”

I nod. It makes sense. Plus, the police don’t yet know everything. As far as I’m aware, they know only about Jackson’s determination to block the movie. The blackmail and Ronnie’s existence remain hidden.

That, however, doesn’t lessen my fear. Because if—no, when—those come to light, it will look worse for Jackson.

“Are you okay?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, and it hangs there, as awkward and inadequate as I feel.

He shakes his head, just a little. “No,” he admits. He brushes his fingers lightly over my cheek, his attention on my face, his eyes searching mine. At first, he looks lost, but that soon changes as heat and need build in his eyes. Both are directed at me, and neither is a question. There is no permission to be granted, no request to be made. He simply slides his hand around to cup the back of my neck and pulls me toward him, then captures my mouth with his.

I open to him without hesitation, not just my lips, but my entire body. I am his, wholly and completely, and however he needs me.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing and tasting. His mouth hot and desperate against mine.

We didn’t make love last night, too exhausted from both travel and the emotional whirlwind. Too wrapped up in seeing family and spending time with Ronnie.

And that is part of why I now expect more than the wildness of this kiss. I expect the crush of his hands upon my breasts. An explosion of breath as he pushes me back on the mattress, then rises to slam the door shut and flip the latch. The shift of the mattress as he returns, and the sound of ripping cotton as he strips me of my panties.

I anticipate the feel of his body over mine. Of my wrists bound tight by his T-shirt that I wear in lieu of pajamas after he yanks it over my head and uses it to constrain me.

I imagine the tightness in my inner thighs as he roughly spreads my legs, and the quick burn of friction as he enters me hard in one thrust and then loses himself to this wild passion that he needs. That he craves.

I expect all this because I know him. Because his world has spun out of control, and Jackson is a man who not only needs control, but who takes it. He is not a man to be swept up in the tide, battered by the rise and fall of circumstance. He fights back. He wins. He takes.

I channeled control into sex.

He’d told me that once. And he’s shown me as much many, many times.

And yet he doesn’t come to me. He doesn’t take. He doesn’t claim.

Fear slithers over me as he releases me, then stands. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but simply turns and moves from the bed to the window, then drags his fingers through his hair.

“Jackson?”

He doesn’t react. He simply stands there, his back to me, his shoulders slumped. And I am certain that he didn’t hear me, because how could he? Right then he is miles away, not just a few short feet across the bare wooden floor.

The table is in front of him. My coffee and toast are still there, untouched. He pushes the tray aside and opens the curtains, letting in the morning light.

We are in Betty Wiseman’s house, Ronnie’s maternal great-grandmother. The family is well-to-do, but this New Mexico home is a small getaway, a “mere” five thousand square feet. Jackson and I are in one of the guest rooms that overlook the back of the property. The view I’d seen yesterday evening was magnificent—the rocky, rising terrain of the mountains, dressed up in their fall colors. The verdant grasses and evergreens. The browns and reds of stones and foliage. And, of course, the vivid blue sky, so wide and resplendent that it seems to slide into and fill your soul.