Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (20)

And then he turns from me, takes two long strides, and melts into the crowd, leaving me scrambling to remember the code and figure out where exactly I’m supposed to go.

Five minutes?

Shit.

Still, I try to put the time to good use, and as I plow through the crowd and make my way to the upstairs doorway, I keep my head down and my eyes focused on my iPhone as I try to organize some photos. Because, dammit, I don’t have a projector, much less any sort of PowerPoint presentation. I’m going to have to entirely wing it—and I burst into the corner conference room with forty seconds to spare, albeit slightly out of breath and more than a little frazzled.

More so when I see Jackson. He’s already in the room, seated at the far end of a polished mahogany table. He leans back as he silently studies me.

Whereas I am certain I look disheveled and out of breath, Jackson appears just the opposite. He is strength and power.

Most of all, he is completely in control. Everything from his choice of this room to his selection of a seat. Hell, even his decision not to rise when I entered was a deliberate power play.

It’s a trick I’ve seen Damien use over and over. The idea is to intimidate. To claim control of the room and make sure that everyone who enters knows who holds the power. All in all, I have to admit that Jackson is putting that trick to pretty good use. Because right now there is no doubt that I’m the supplicant here. And pretty damned intimidated, too.

Yeah, well, to hell with that. Aren’t I the one with the opportunity? Aren’t I the one who can hand him the project of a lifetime?

Damn straight, and so I take a step forward, determined to make him realize that while he might have granted me this meeting, I’m now the one who is running the show. “You said ten minutes, Mr. Steele. I can convince you in five.”

His expression is almost amused. “I’m listening.”

“I don’t blame you for rejecting the idea initially. I understand that our past factors into this, and that seeing me was a shock. But that’s a knee-jerk reaction. This isn’t personal. It’s business. And you’re about to see just what an excellent business opportunity it is.”

“Not personal? Everything between you and me is personal, Sylvia, and you damn well know it.”

“Because you’re making it that way. You want to be pissed? Fine. Be pissed. But take me out of the equation.”

“You’re not the only stumbling block, I assure you.”

“So I’ve heard. The rising star Jackson Steele doesn’t want to be lost in the sweep of Damien Stark’s shadow. Well, let me tell you something about Damien Stark,” I say before Jackson has the chance to get a word in. “The man is brilliant at business. He’s a goddamn powerhouse on the tennis court. And if the last charity event I saw him at with his wife is any indication, he’s one hell of a fine dancer, too. But he can’t do this.”

I slide my phone across the table, open to the image of the Winn Building that is the first in a slideshow of Jackson Steele buildings.

“That’s you,” I say as the images scroll. “Your buildings. Your talent. What you do with form, with structure, it takes my breath away.” I pause just long enough to emphasize my point. “This isn’t just a Stark project. This is my project. And with you on board it will be a Jackson Steele project, too.”

I can tell I have his attention, and I take a step toward him. “Damien Stark isn’t the only one who casts a long shadow, Mr. Steele. How many men have documentaries made about their lives and work? How many men are the subject of a feature film?”

His eyes narrow. “That’s not going forward. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Oh.” I stumble a bit, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. “But that’s not even the point. This isn’t about your reputation as a man or as an architect. It’s about what you create. What you will create. Your buildings have caught the attention and sparked the imagination of the world, and yet you have never once worked on a property like this. An entire island, completely undeveloped. It’s a blank slate, and I’m offering it to you.”

I see what I hope is a spark of interest in his eyes and hurry on. “You don’t want this to be just another Stark project? It won’t be. It couldn’t be. Because you and I both know that the resort you design will shine on its own. I want the best, Mr. Steele. I want you. And unless you’re an idiot, you should want it, too.”

I take a deep breath, and then, as if to signal that I’m finally done, I pull out a chair and sit.

For a moment, Jackson does nothing. He doesn’t even move. Then he stands and crosses to the window. The glass is tinted, so I can see his reflection superimposed upon the view, such that it is. A roof. The side of the multiplex. Some traffic on Hollywood Boulevard. Nothing spectacular. Not that it matters. Even a view as stunning as the Matterhorn wouldn’t have drawn my attention from this man.

“I want to know something,” he finally says.

“Of course.” I expect him to ask me about the budget. Or timing. Or the construction firms we routinely work with. Anything but the words that come out of his mouth.

“I want to know why you ended it.”

My chest tightens and I have to resist the urge to hug myself. I can feel the anxiety reaching for me even now, along with the nightmares and twisted memories that slink along, too. Slithering out of the night to fill my days. I shake my head, determined to keep it all banished, far and away. “It doesn’t matter.”