I’m looking at a scene from last night on the boat. It’s an image of the three of us, with me standing just behind Jackson, who is looking at his father with an expression of calm, contained fury. His stance conveys power and control, and though this must have been taken by one of the paparazzi with a long lens, the shot is so clear that the scar that bisects Jackson’s left eyebrow is in sharp focus.
The caption—Daddy Trouble for the Man of Steele?—is little more than a snarky irritation. But the photo itself scares me, and not just because of how closely the paparazzi have crept in, managing to take shots of conversations that should have been private.
No, what scares me is what I see in the image. What the entire world can see now.
Because the camera has captured a man who goes after what he wants, even if that means walking into battle. A man who will protect what is his. A man who will kill if necessary.
A man who, I think, has done just that.
And now I fear that the whole world knows it, too.
ten
Phil, the bartender at the Gallery Bar, slid two glasses of scotch in front of Jackson and Damien. “Anything else, Mr. Steele?”
“Thanks, no. We’re good.”
The bartender hesitated, then nodded. “Well, if you change your mind,” he offered, before moving on to take care of a couple sitting close together at the far end of the long, polished granite bar. Jackson hid a smile. He’d been served by Phil a few times now, and he understood that the young man’s simple comment was more than just an offer of another drink. It was a sign of support as Jackson navigated the rough seas of the tabloid world.
“Friend of yours?”
“No, but he’s good at his job, discreet, and seems to be a good judge of character. He likes me, after all.”
Damien laughed, then took a sip of his drink. They’d left the Tower together, then ignored the calls and questions from the flock of paparazzi that had taken to lingering on the grounds in front of the building.
Questions and camera clicks had followed them as they walked down the hill together. Jackson had felt his nerves twitching—all he wanted was to get out of that spotlight—but he had to admire the way his brother had blinders on, ignoring the shouted questions and demands for photos even as he continued to chat with Jackson as they walked. Damien had put up with this shit for a long time, and now that Jackson understood what it was like to dodge the press, his respect for the brother he was only just getting to know grew even more.
Their destination was the Millennium Biltmore hotel and this historic bar, which was one of its showpieces, not to mention Jackson’s favorite bar in the city. Damien had headed automatically toward a table in the corner, but Jackson had demurred, then led them to the bar. He liked sitting there in the view of the carved wooden angels with the room behind him. He felt at home at the bar, whereas at a table, he felt like a guest subject to the whim of his host.
The thought of whims made him frown. “Do you think she’s right?”
“About the saboteur and the Alcatraz article? Probably.”
“Fuck.” Jackson punctuated that articulate sentiment by tossing back a long swallow of eighteen-year-old Macallan. “We need to know who’s screwing with us. And,” he added, keeping his eyes off his brother as he set his glass back on the bar, “I need to know who really killed Reed.”
He turned to find Damien’s eyes on him. “Honestly, I thought you did.”
Jackson hesitated, then covered the silence with another sip of his scotch. “There’s a lot of that going around. I need to know who else wanted that fucker dead, and why. It plays to my defense. And, frankly, I’d like to shake that man’s hand.”
Damien studied him, and Jackson was certain his brother was weighing the truth in Jackson’s words. Was this for real? Or was Jackson manufacturing new pieces of the puzzle, so that if the police asked, Damien could honestly say that Jackson asked for help finding the real killer, so surely that killer wasn’t him.
He was silent for so long, that Jackson began to fear his brother was going to tell him to fuck off. “Arnold Pratt,” Damien finally said. “He’s a private investigator I keep on retainer. He works primarily for the company—Ryan sends him all our background checks to handle—but he’s done some work personally for me. A few matters that required both digging and finesse. If he has the time, he’ll take the job. And if he doesn’t have the time, my guess is that for the right fee, he’ll make time. Syl has his number. Why didn’t she just suggest him?”
“She probably would have. I told her I wanted to talk to you.”