“I know. You said.”

“Yeah, but what I mean is that they’re not just repeating that he’s a suspect. They’re speculating about motive and all that shit.”

My stomach twists and I immediately reach for Jackson’s hand. “Motive?” I fight the urge to bite my lower lip.

“The movie. The assault. Pretty much what you’d expect,” he says, and I can practically hear him cringing. Honestly, I feel like cringing, too. Beside me, Jackson uses his left hand to fumble my tablet out of the seat pocket. He taps it, then curses when a signal doesn’t magically appear.

“Listen, you can read it yourself as soon as you hit the ground, and Damien said to tell you that your meeting tonight will cover everything.”

“Right. Fine. Sure.”

“Are you okay?”

No. Not by a long shot. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Thanks. Thanks for watching my back.”

There is a pause, and then he says softly, his voice full of rough emotion, “What did you think, Sylvia? That I’d throw you to the wolves?”

“I, no—” I begin, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already hung up.

“Tell me,” Jackson says, and I sum up the Round-Up article and tell him about Dallas.

“Fuck.” The curse is heartfelt, and I silently second it. “And the rest? You said there was talk about motive.”

“That’s all I know. The movie. The assault. That’s all Trent said. That, and the story’s spreading.” I press my palm gently against his leg. “We’ll get through this,” I say. “The resort. The trial. All of it.”

I want him to repeat the words back to me. To press his hand over mine and gently squeeze my fingers. I want him to put his arm around me and pull me close and tell me that no matter what, we are in this together. I want to feel closer to him, but what I want apparently doesn’t matter, because when Jackson lifts his head and faces me, it suddenly seems as if I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope and things that should be close are suddenly very, very far away.

“Jackson?” His name is a whisper, but also a plea. And for a moment it goes unanswered. He sits there, stiff and distant, his expression hard, his eyes like arctic ice. A riffle of panic rises through me, and I actually clutch the armrests tight in defense against it. He’s said nothing—done nothing—and yet I know with absolute certainty that Jackson is moving inexorably away from me. And I neither understand it nor know how to stop it.

I am about to cry out his name again, but then his shoulders sag and his posture relaxes. He glances at me, and I go weak with relief when I see that the ice in his eyes has melted.

He raises his hands, then drags his fingers through his hair as he bends forward so that his elbows are on his knees and his hands are on his head. “Christ, Syl, I’ve screwed everything up.”

I freeze, just a little, as one possible meaning of his words slaps me hard across the face. Does he mean that he killed Reed?

And if so, where does that leave us?

I reach to press my hand against his shoulder, needing that physical contact almost as much as I need oxygen.

I don’t make it.

Instead, in the next second, I’m screaming and clutching at the armrest as the tin can we are flying in bounces as if we are on a trampoline. My tote, which had been on the floor by my feet, goes airborne, smashes against the ceiling, then falls to the floor, its acrobatics punctuated by my own shrill screams.

The sound of my voice is broken by a harsh crackling. It’s the intercom, and Grayson is speaking. “Sorry about that,” he says as the plane levels out. “We hit one hell of an air pocket on descent, but everything’s fine and we’ll be on the ground in about fifteen minutes.”

When he’s finished, I gasp, then realize that I’ve been holding my breath. I try to let go of the armrest, but my hand is stuck fast. I’m still so flustered by our near-death experience, that for a moment I’m genuinely confused. Then rational thought returns, along with the realization that Jackson is holding tight to my hand. His thumb is gently stroking the back of my wrist, and he’s murmuring softly to me. “It’s okay, Syl. It’s okay.”

I draw in a shuddering breath, so full of relief and hope that my head feels light. “It’s okay,” he repeats as I turn and meet his eyes. Gently, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers. “It’s better now.”

I sigh and nod, my heart still beating a wild rhythm in my chest.

He’s comforting me, yes, and god knows I need it.

But that doesn’t mean I believe him.

three

“Have you heard from Mr. Stark?” I’m surfing social media sites while I talk with Rachel Peters, Damien’s weekend assistant. At the same time, I’m walking across the tarmac in front of Hangar J, one of Stark International’s private hangars in the north field of the Santa Monica airport.

The company actually has ten hangars, as well as the Rec Room, which is what we call the large, nondescript building that houses the flight crews’ offices, a kitchen and dining area, a well-stocked bar available to incoming passengers and crew, a huge recreation area with a pool table and giant television, and two private sleeping chambers that the crew has access to on an as-needed basis.

I’m heading that way now, a few minutes behind Jackson, who took off with Darryl on the promise of a drink. “It’s almost happy hour,” Darryl had said. “And frankly¸ you look like you could use one.”

Since I needed to make this call, I promised to follow, and then walked more slowly as I did my multitasking thing. I want time to scope out the social media flurry before I talk with Jackson. Because frankly, I think we both need to be prepared for the storm that’s about to pummel us.

“I haven’t heard a word from him,” Rachel says in response to my question.

My work on The Resort at Cortez has taken me off Damien’s desk more and more frequently, and as a result Rachel’s weekend gig has spilled over into the week more than we’d initially expected. She’s doing a good job, though, and Damien has made clear that I’m supposed to be grooming her to take over my responsibilities if and when I move to a full-time management position in the real estate division.

Since that is absolutely my goal, I’m all about the training. And the most important thing Rachel needs to realize is that you can’t be Damien’s assistant and not have your finger on the pulse of what’s going on elsewhere in the company. Not have it and keep the job, anyway.

Which is why I prompt her with, “You haven’t heard a word, but . . .”

“But,” she says, following my lead, “Dallas called about fifteen minutes ago asking if I could book him the suite at the Century Plaza.”

“Did he? And what does that tell you?” I know what it tells me, and I mentally cross my fingers that Rachel understands, too.

“That he’s not pulling out. At least not yet. And even if he is thinking about pulling out, he hasn’t told Mr. Stark as much. But honestly, I think he’s in for the long haul. Because taking advantage of Mr. Stark’s hospitality and then cutting off the investment funds would only piss Mr. Stark off. And even a man like Dallas Sykes doesn’t want to be on Damien Stark’s bad side.”

“Not bad,” I say. “What else?”

“Well, the rest is a bit more dicey. I may be completely off base.”

“That’s the job, Rachel. A doormat assistant who can only do exactly what Mr. Stark tells her is no use at all.”

“Right. Well, I don’t think that Dallas is a very good barometer. About what the rest of the investors will do, I mean.” Though her words are statements, her voice rises at the end, as if she’s asking a question.

“Okay,” I say, biting back a smile as I recall how nervous I was when I took over as Damien’s primary assistant. “Why’s that?”