Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (5)

“In other words, we won’t be landing Steele for this project,” Damien says. He glances at his watch, then at Nikki. “I need to get back,” he says, then returns his attention to me. “Call the investors personally. This isn’t the kind of thing I can sit on. I’m truly sorry, Syl,” Damien adds, and it’s the nickname that drives home how real this is. The project is dead. My project is dead.

I tell myself I should be relieved not to risk the memories. That I’ve been a fool to think that I have the strength to tempt my nightmares. That I should just let this project go rather than walk right back into everything I once ran from.

No.

No. I’ve worked too hard, and this project means too much. I can’t just let it go. Not like that. Not without a fight.

And, yes, perhaps there is a part of me that wants to see Jackson Steele again. To prove to myself that I can do this. That I can see him, talk to him, work so goddamn intimately with him—and somehow manage to not shatter under the weight of it all.

“Please,” I say to Damien, as I squeeze my hands into fists and tell myself that the staccato beat of my heart and the clamminess of my skin stem from fear of losing the project and not the thought of seeing Jackson again. “Let me talk to him. We need to at least try.”

“There will be other projects, Ms. Brooks.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “This isn’t your last opportunity.”

“I believe you,” I say. “But I’ve never known you to walk away from a floundering deal if there was any chance of saving it.”

“Based on what I know of Mr. Steele, there isn’t a chance.”

“I think there is. Please, let me try. I’m just asking for the weekend,” I rush to add. “Just enough time for me to meet with Mr. Steele and pitch the project to him.”

For a moment, Damien says nothing. Then he nods. “I can’t keep this from the investors,” he finally says. “But it’s already Friday, and we can make that work for us. Call them. Let them know we need to update them about the project, and schedule a conference call for Monday morning.”

I nod, quick and businesslike. But inside, I am jumping with glee.

“That gives you the weekend,” Damien continues. “Monday morning we’ll either announce that we have Jackson Steele on board, or that the project is in trouble.”

“We’ll have him on board,” I say, with a confidence born more of hope than reality.

Damien’s head tilts ever so slightly to the left, as if considering my words. “What makes you think so?”

I lick my lips. “I—I met him. About five years ago in Atlanta. Right before I came to work for you, actually. I don’t know if he’ll agree, but I think he’ll hear me out.” At least, I thought he would before I learned that he’d already turned down a Stark project.

Now, the entire playing field has changed. Before, I’d thought I was bringing him a kick-ass project on a silver platter. Me, doing a favor for Jackson. Me, in control.

Now I know the opposite is true.

He can walk away. He can say no. He can lift his middle finger and tell me to stay the hell out of his life.

I think about the last conversation we had—a conversation that had ripped me apart.

I need you to do something for me, I’d said.

Anything.

No questions, no arguments. It’s important.

Whatever you need, baby, I promise. You only have to ask.

He had kept his word then. He’d done as I asked, even though it had just about destroyed us both.

Now there is something else I need.

And I desperately hope that once again I only have to ask.





two


“Whatever time he has available today,” I say, holding my phone tight to my left ear and my hand tight over my right. Even so, it’s hard to hear Jackson’s New York–based secretary over the noise of the helicopter powering down.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Brooks. Mr. Steele’s documentary is screening in Los Angeles this evening, so I’m afraid every minute is booked.”

I’m on the roof of Stark Tower downtown, and despite the sensation of literally being on top of the world, I do not feel composed or in control. I want to pull open the door to enter the elevator alcove, but I know from experience that I run the risk of losing my cell signal, and I have a feeling that if I let this woman get off the phone I won’t ever get her back.

So I stand in the wind with the sun burning down on me and the asphalt all around me, feeling decidedly at the mercy of not only the elements, but of Jackson Steele, his secretary, and even the damned cellular provider.

“How about tomorrow?” I ask. “I realize that’s Saturday, but if he’s not going right back to New York—”

“Mr. Steele will be staying in Los Angeles for at least a week.”

“Perfect,” I say, going limp with relief. “When would be convenient?”

“Just a moment, please. I’ll see if I can reach him on his cell.”

I stand there, feeling a little foolish, as the peppy hold music plays. When the phone clicks, signaling that the woman has returned to the line, I straighten my back and shoulders as if springing to attention, then roll my eyes at my own ridiculous behavior.

“I’m afraid there is no convenient time, Ms. Brooks.”