Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (15)
“Miss America got slammed on Facebook, and now the runner-up has the crown?”
“No,” I say firmly. “This isn’t about bringing in the runner-up. It’s about making this resort the best that it can be.”
“Really?” His gaze skims over me, as sensual as a slow caress. “I don’t recall being approached when the project was initiated.”
“You were tied up with the job in Dubai.”
“Was I?” he says, as if that commission was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. “So this has nothing to do with the fact that your precious resort is in more trouble than you’ve let on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Problems with the FAA, Sylvia. Utility permitting. Environmental groups. Do you want me to go on?”
“Everything you’ve listed is being handled,” I say, which is technically accurate. Apparently there is a lot of red tape to cut through in order to install even a small landing strip on a tiny island. And he’s right about the environmental groups, too. As it turns out, the island is a habitat for a rare species of cave crickets, and negotiating that possible land mine was as fraught with destructive potential as disarming a nuclear bomb.
But what really concerns me is how he’s heard about those problems. Because we’ve kept a tight lid on each and every one of them.
I fight the urge to drag my fingers through my hair out of sheer frustration, and tell myself not to worry about that right now. “Dammit, Jackson, the bottom line is that it’s a great opportunity.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t.” He holds out his hand. “Come with me.”
I glance at his hand, but I don’t take it. After a moment, he lowers it, and the shadow I see in his eyes comes very close to breaking me.
He says nothing else, but turns and starts walking. I follow him in silence all the way back to the ballroom and then into a hallway that I hadn’t entered before. “Won’t they miss you?”
“This is Hollywood. They’re used to putting on a spin when the talent goes missing.” He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way I find both disarming and very, very sexy. “Besides, the after-party is here. Eventually, whoever needs me will find me.”
I nod, then take the opportunity to look around. The hallway is wide with white walls rising to a low ceiling. The floor is brushed concrete, and it’s broken up by several geometric, flat-sided pillars spaced down the length.
Dozens of framed black and white photographs line the walls, and as we walk we pass Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, Harrison Ford, Marlon Brando, and countless other stars of some of my favorite movies.
But it is not those images that Jackson wants me to see. Instead, he takes me to the first pillar and the full color photograph that hangs there. It is of the Winn Building in Manhattan, a glass and steel skyscraper that rises like royalty over the city, with so much retail, office, and living space that it is practically a city unto itself.
Jackson says nothing as we look at the image, and I estimate that a full minute passes before we move to the next pillar and the framed image of the new Salzburg Opera House, with its curved facade that seems to flow like music in perfect harmony with the mountains that frame it.
The last photograph is not of a commercial project, but of a house in the mountains outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Its burnished exterior blends with the stone and rock, and though the single-story residence is obviously both new and state of the art, it flows over the landscape with the kind of bold confidence that suggests it rose fully formed from the mountains that bore it.
“What do you know about these?”
I tell him, giving him the details that he already knows. How the Santa Fe getaway for a well-known philanthropist finally earned him the recognition he deserved and jump-started his architectural career. How the opera house thrust him into the design-build arena when he branched out from strict design work to the full spectrum of property development. And how the Winn Building was a major victory for Steele Development, as it marked his company’s foray into the lucrative New York market, and resulted in the first project in which he retained an ownership interest.
I don’t mention the murder and suicide that took place at the Santa Fe house not long after it was completed. It doesn’t seem relevant and, frankly, I’m afraid that kind of gossip might spoil whatever progress we’re making.
Nor do I mention that the rental income from the Winn Building must have at least quadrupled Jackson’s net worth overnight. But we both know that I am aware. You can’t work for a man like Damien Stark for all these years and not gain some understanding of the monetary potential for the kind of projects Jackson now commands.
In other words, Jackson doesn’t need the income from The Resort at Cortez. And considering how fast his star is ascending with the documentary and the possibility of a feature film, he doesn’t even need the publicity.
All I have to offer is the challenge. I can only hope that will be enough.
I turn so that I am facing him, my back now to the pillar. “So? How did I do?”
“Not bad. You’ve been watching my career.”
“No,” I say, the lie coming easily. “But I’m good at my job. And that means I know who I’m recruiting.”
“Recruiting,” he repeats. He takes a single step toward me.