She disconnects the intercom as I approach, then shoves a folded newspaper section at me. “Look at it later,” she says, “but you look fabulous.”
“What’s going on?”
“He’s in there with Aiden. Go!”
“With Aiden?” As the VP of Stark Real Estate Development, he’s my immediate supervisor on this project, and the fact that he’s in with Damien—and that they are both looking for me—knocks me sideways. “What happened?” I’m certain she’ll know. Being at this desk means being aware of pretty much everything.
“Aiden got a call from one of the island’s investors.”
“Aiden did? Who? When?”
“I don’t know. He called Damien and they met up here. Damien’s been here for about half an hour and Aiden was right behind him.”
“Shit.” I glance at my phone. Sure enough, it’s dead. I shove it at her. “Charge, please.”
“On it,” she says, then thrusts her arm out toward the door again. “Go,” she adds frantically.
I go.
“Good, you’re here,” Damien says without preamble. He stands by his wall of windows, looking out at the spread of downtown. Aiden is on the small couch in the sitting area and he acknowledges me with a nod. Originally from London, he moved with his family when he was a teen. I confess I love the way he talks, very East Coast with just a hint of British accent.
Despite his years in the States, he’s got that upper crust Brit thing going for him. Bearing, class, the whole nine yards. Someone told me that he’s number one hundred and something in line for the throne. Looking at him, I believe it, though I doubt he’s holding his breath.
Now, he pours me a glass of water, then sets it on the table across from him. I take the chair closest to the water, then sip it gratefully. “Rachel told me the bare bones,” I say. “What happened?”
“Dallas Sykes called me at home,” Aiden says, referring to the CEO of one of the country’s largest department store chains. “He was rather discombobulated.”
I raise a brow at his choice of word. Dallas Sykes is gossip rag material—a sexy bad boy who inherited his position and spends most of his time bouncing from woman to woman. Somehow, “discombobulated” doesn’t fit. And I can’t imagine what could have happened to bother him anyway. I say nothing, though. I’m certain either Aiden or Damien will elaborate.
I’m proven right when Damien turns from the window to face us both. “Apparently a reporter called Dallas just after dawn this morning. Word is out the project is dead.”
“What?”
Damien meets my eyes, but doesn’t pause. “The reporter knew that Glau quit—which can be attributed to Glau’s own people—but he also heard that our first potential alternative said a big fuck you to working for Stark International.”
I feel a sharp pain in my chest, as if someone has thrust in a knife. “That’s—” I start to say ridiculous, but it really isn’t. Jackson pretty much had said that. And he’d given me only one way around it—a way I have no intention of taking.
“I don’t know where the reporter could be getting his information,” I say. “Steele hasn’t said yes, but he also hasn’t said no.” I fidget with the newspaper in my lap. “And if this spreads to the rest of the investors …”
I stand, tossing the newspaper onto the coffee table as I do. It lands open to a picture taken at the gala. I’m standing close to Jackson, who has his arm around the exceptional brunette. Seeing them twists something up inside of me, and I bite back a curse.
“Dammit, I handled this whole thing badly,” I say. “Not only did I not manage to lock Steele in last night, but I somehow managed to create a leak.” I look from one man to the other. “I’m sorry.”
The truth is, I don’t actually know where I went wrong, but this project is my responsibility, and if something got fucked up, then I’m the one shouldering the responsibility.
“Did you tell anyone that Steele was our go-to alternative for Glau?” Stark asks.
“Cass and Wyatt,” I say. “But they have no vested interest.”
“And Steele?” Aiden asks.
“Well, of course. But considering I was approaching him, that would have been self-evident anyway.”
One brow quirks up in a way I consider very British, and he glances toward Damien. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he says.
I turn my attention from one to the other. “Wait a minute. You’re suggesting that Jackson Steele leaked this to a reporter? Why on earth would he do that?”
