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.
“Yes.” The word is firm, and I am proud of how steady I feel.
He steps closer, reducing the distance between us to mere inches. I tilt my head back. Even with me in heels, he is a head taller than me, and right now I cannot help but feel small. Vulnerable.
I push that down, though, and meet his eyes, hoping mine show ice and determination.
“Do you remember Atlanta?”
His words are like a slap, and despite all my resolve, I step backward, only to be foiled by the pillar behind me. “I—of course I do.” I lick my lips. “Jackson, I’m sorry about the past. But this isn’t—”
“No,” he says, holding up a finger to silence me. “Do you remember before? Before you tore it all apart. Do you remember the way it felt when I touched you?”
My throat has gone completely dry, and I can feel small beads of sweat at the nape of my neck. “Jackson. Don’t.”
He steps closer, ignoring me. “Tell me, Sylvia. And be honest, because I swear I’ll know if you’re lying.” His voice is low, seductive, and utterly commanding. “Do you remember?”
I shake my head, but that isn’t enough to push away the truth. Of course I remember. I remember every laugh, every touch, every breath. I remember every word of every conversation, the taste of every meal. I remember the glorious sensation of his hands upon me and his cock inside me.
But I also remember when the panic set in. When I started to drown, and no matter how hard I fought to keep afloat I kept getting pulled down into the swirling waters of cold fear and harsh memories.
I’d ended it because I had to. Because the only way I could survive was to destroy everything. Because the only way I could breathe was to push him away.
