“I’m not going anywhere.” She spoke with such bold finality that Jackson had to bite back a grin. He’d forgotten that she knew his father, of course. Jeremiah Stark might not be close to Damien, but Jeremiah was the kind of man who’d infiltrate himself anyway. And undoubtedly that meant that Sylvia’d had the dubious pleasure of dealing with him on more than one occasion.
“Suit yourself,” Jeremiah said. “I’ll say what I came here for and then I’ll leave. But, boy, you need to get in front of this thing. You need to publicly endorse that movie.”
The words, so out of left field, struck Jackson like a blow.
“What the hell are you talking about?” It was Sylvia who asked the question. Jackson was still reeling from the absurdity. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“Motive,” Jeremiah said. “Do you think I want to see a son of mine behind bars? You need to play this game smart, son. You need to make sure any argument they might have as to motive is soundly shut down.”
“That movie is not getting made.” When it had been a question of movie or blackmail, Jackson had made the choice to protect Sylvia. To stop fighting the movie and protect his little girl with love and care. To hold her close, keep her safe, and try to protect her from the glare of an unwelcome spotlight.
But Reed’s death had neatly solved the problem of the blackmail photos, and Jackson was no longer pulled in two directions. Now he was going to fight as long and as hard as he could to keep Ronnie out of such a scandalous spotlight. Hell, he’d fight it from a jail cell if he had to, but there was no way he was sitting back and allowing a film about all the tragedy in his little girl’s life to hit the screen.
“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Jeremiah said. “Because that movie’s going to happen whether you try to stop it or not. You think you have that kind of power? Think again. And now that they know Damien is tied to you there’s going to be even more push to get it made. And what if you cause enough of a stink that they rewrite it as fiction? So what? Everyone will still know. The gossip will still be out there.”
Beside him, Syl was squeezing his hand, sharing her strength. And dammit, right then all he wanted was his father gone and his woman in his arms. Forget the photographers, forget the press, forget the man standing right in front of him. In that moment, Jackson needed nothing more than Sylvia. To take her hard, to bend her body to his. He craved the feel of her against him, and the desire to push her to the edge—to manipulate her pleasure—cut through him like a wild thing, fierce and demanding.
His pulse kicked up as he anticipated watching passion build in her eyes, knowing that he was responsible for taking her far. That if nothing else, he had control over this woman—her body, her release, her satisfaction.
So much around him was fucked up—spinning out of control. His father. Reed’s murder. Even the bullshit sabotage of the resort. His life was a goddamn tempest, and Syl was the eye of the storm. Right now, he needed her.
Hell, he fucking craved her. And it pissed him off that he couldn’t take her right then, right there, because the man who was his father was still standing in front of them, blathering on. “Say you support the movie, and you’ll have erased motive. No point in killing him if you don’t care about the damn film, eh?”
“You need to leave,” Jackson said coldly. “We’re going inside. You’re not invited.”
“I’m trying to look out for you.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Dammit, son—”
“Son? Are you sure about that? Because from where I was standing I was never your son. I was some obligation tucked off in a corner somewhere. The little boy no one was supposed to know about. God forbid Mom or I caused a scandal and messed up the flow of gold-flavored milk from your cash cow.”
He heard the fury in his voice—the decades’ old hurt—and he wished he’d said nothing. The last thing he wanted was to reveal himself to this man.
“I was only looking out for you and your mother.” His father was an attractive man with the air of a well-aged movie star. Now, though, he just looked red in the face and flustered.
But those words were empty excuses, and the look of disdain that Jackson shot at his father said as much.
“I was bringing money in,” Jeremiah continued. “Keeping food on the table.”
“Yeah. You’re a real saint.” Beside him, Syl shifted. The movement was almost imperceptible, but he knew what she was thinking. She wasn’t seeing Jeremiah, but her own father, and Jackson was struck by the similarity between those two men who played their children like pawns on a chessboard.
