The pink fades and her mouth turns down and I want to kick myself.
“Santa Barbara?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I just assumed. I had dinner with my old boss, and he mentioned that he’d bumped into Trent in Santa Barbara. And I know you guys are going out, so I thought . . .” I trail off with a shrug and a weak smile, a string of shit, shit, shit running through my head.
“Nope,” she says, her voice just a little thin and possibly a little hurt. “But maybe he was scoping out a place for a wild weekend.”
“Probably. Or more likely it had nothing to do with anything. Maybe he has family there.”
Her head tilts to the side. “Actually, I think he does.” She nods firmly, as if she’s just solved a sticky problem and is ready to put it away. But there’s still a haunted look in her eyes, and I have a feeling that I may have just opened a nasty can of worms for Trent.
Honestly, considering how discreet I can be about Damien’s personal business, you’d think I would know how not to open my mouth and insert my foot.
Damien’s door opens and he steps out, and I swear I want to kiss him just for breaking up the moment. “Rachel, I’m going to meet Aiden at the Stark Plaza site before my meeting with Dallas.”
I frown. “Should I come? Are you talking about his investment?”
“Not at this meeting, no. Dallas is still on board.” He meets my eyes. “I’m sorry, Syl, but Tarrant Properties pulled out. I don’t have confirmation, but I think they’ve been courted by Lost Tides,” he adds, referring to the competing Santa Barbara resort that is my nemesis.
His voice is tight, reflecting my own coiling anger.
“Do you know who made the overture?” The developers of Lost Tides have been playing PR games, keeping the participants under wraps, with their early marketing documents claiming that it’s the resort that matters, not the names behind it.
To me, all that means is that they don’t have a name as big as Jackson’s.
Damien shakes his head. “Once they start actively signing investors, they’ll have to be more transparent.”
“Good,” I say. Whoever started that damn resort copied the idea from me. Even if I can’t stop them, I want to know who it is I hate.
Damien’s expression is knowing. “Don’t worry about the competition,” he says. “Just worry about making Cortez the best it can be. The rest will fall into place.”
“Assuming we don’t lose all our investors.”
“No one else has bolted.”
“But there’s no arrest yet.” I don’t mean to say that. I don’t mean to shift the focus from the resort itself to Jackson. But the words slipped out—the worry that Jackson is going to end up behind bars is just too close to the surface with me.
“And if it comes to that, we’ll deal with it, too,” Damien says gently. “We’ll meet for an update after my lunch.”
I nod, and he’s heading toward the elevator when the doors open and Jackson bursts out. “Have you seen the latest bullshit?” he asks as he thrusts his phone into Damien’s hand.
“Well, hell,” Damien says. “Though I can’t say that I’m surprised.”
I hurry to them—and even Rachel abandons the desk to join us. I stand between the men, my hand on Jackson’s shoulder so I can rise up on my toes to see better.
All I can read is the headline—Another Alcatraz off the California Coast?
I look at Jackson, confused. “What—?”
“It’s a bullshit editorial. About Reed’s murder. The assault. And my alleged involvement in both of those and the Cortez project. And then, to milk the absurdity properly, the writer pulls in Damien, too.”
“A murderous dynamic duo,” Damien reads, his mouth curving down with a frown before he looks up at Jackson. “You can be Robin. And I’m not wearing a cape.”
I take the phone from Damien and start to skim.
“It’s not funny,” Jackson says.
“No. It’s not,” Damien says. “But it’s also not unexpected.”
I’m barely listening to the two of them. Instead, my stomach is twisting more and more as I read. “This is another dig on the project,” I say. I look at both men in turn. “Like the land mine bullshit. This isn’t gossip about Jackson or your relationship or Reed or any of it. This is about shutting down Cortez. A tainted island,” I read. “Bathed in blood and tragedy. How much do you want to bet that every one of the investors will get this in their inbox?”
