Part 9 (2/2)

He doesn't finish the sentence because the door opens at the end of the hall. For the flash of an instant, my imagination runs wild, and I picture Jackson in an orange jumpsuit, his wrists bound in cuffs.

The image is so vibrant, so horrible, that it propels me to my feet. And when I really do see himunfettered and striding toward me with his usual confident airI can't help myself. I race to him and launch myself into his outstretched arms.

”You're here,” he says as Harriet moves away toward Ollie to give us privacy.

”Of course I am.”

My legs are wrapped around his hips and he's holding me up by the waist. Now, he releases me, and I slide down his body, relis.h.i.+ng the sensation of being with him. Of being able to touch him. Of the world having righted itself.

When my feet are on the floor, I hook my arms around his neck and he bends forward, his forehead pressed to mine.

”How was it?”

”I'm not in a cell. I'm counting it as a win.”

I frown. ”Don't joke about that.”

”Sweetheart,” he says, ”I'm not joking.”

I look at his faceat the tension there, at the exhaustion. And worry swirls in my gut. ”Oh, G.o.d. What do they know?”

He runs his hand over his hair. ”Not much. Not yet.” But then he meets my eyes. ”My number on his cell phone. I called him on Halloween before I went to his house.”

”Oh, G.o.d.” I reach for the wall and then drop down onto the nearby bench. Jackson immediately sits beside me.

”No,” he says. ”No. All they know is I called. And as Harriet says, why would I do that if I was going to kill him? Leave an electronic trail? That wouldn't be smart.” He tilts my chin up with the tip of his finger. ”And we both know I'm smart.”

I hug myself to ward off a chill, but I nod. He is. Smart enough to double back, create false leads. To plan a murder if he wanted to. Or angry enough to fly off the handle and let all that intelligence fly right out the window. Either way the cops play it, that's a piece of a much larger puzzle. A piece that I wish didn't exist at all.

Jackson's hands twine with my own. ”Hey,” he says softly. ”I'm a free man right now. Let's celebrate that, okay, and not the what-ifs?”

I nod, feeling raw and hollow and like I could use a good long cry. I'm overwhelmed, I know. Battered by emotions. But what I want to be is numb.

”I'm glad you're here,” he tells me again. ”I don't think I could get through this without you.”

I manage a tremulous smile, because I know that he needs to see it. ”You won't ever have to,” I say, and even as I speak, the horrible, awful reality that has been poking at my subconscious breaks through, and it is all that I can do not to bury my face in his s.h.i.+rt, hold him close, and cry.

Because I have spoken the truth: I will always be there for him.

But if he's arrestedif he's convictedthe same won't be true for me.

I'll be alone.

And I honestly don't know if I'm strong enough to survive without Jackson at my side.

”This one is completely impossible,” Rachel says as she hands me an envelope addressed to Damien.

I've spent the last hour helping her sort through various pending items that have built up as she's manned Damien's desk. I'm glad for the work. Jackson and I had a quick celebratory breakfast on the way to the office, but just because the ax hasn't fallen doesn't mean it's not still poised to do just that. And I can't spend the day wondering what's going to happen next.

With Rachelwith the jobI'm forced to focus. And that's a good thing.

I pull a card from the envelope and see that it's an invitation to Senator Robertson's daughter's wedding, and Senator Robertson is the kind of man with whom conglomerates like Stark International want to stay friendly. Considering the stress in Rachel's voice, I realize that she knows that. I also know why it's impossibleDamien will be in China, along with the heads of other multibillion-dollar corporations, to discuss all manner of business with Chinese government officials.

”Should I just decline and send a gift?”

”Yes, but Damien needs to send a personal note, too, explaining that he'll be out of the country. And,” I add as I remember something, ”there's one more thing.” I'm standing behind her desk so that we both have a view of mywell, today it's hercomputer monitor. I bend so that I can reach the mouse, then open up the file we keep on Senator Robertson. Then I lean back, smiling with victory as I point at the screen. ”There.”

Rachel skims the article that I've copied into the filea small piece from the Was.h.i.+ngton Post about the senator's wife and her involvement in a retired greyhound adoption program. ”Check with Damien, of course, but that's a cause he'll support.”

”Send a note to the senator along with a donation for his wife's cause?”

”See how good you're getting at this job?”

She makes a face. ”I spent the entire morning rearranging meetings and dealing with Dallas.”

”Sykes? Or the city?” Cold fingers of worry flicker up my spine.

”The manno, no, it's not the resort.” She hurries to rea.s.sure me, and I realize my face must be revealing more than I want it to. ”He's throwing some party in San Diego to celebrate a new store opening and he wants Nikki and Damien to go, but both their schedules are insane, and”

”Yeah,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder. ”Believe me, I get it.”

”Advice?”

”Learn the subtle art of saying no.”

She scowls.

”Hey, if you want this desk . . .”

”If we weren't at work, I'd have to call you a nasty name.” She smiles brightly. ”But I'm at work and on my best behavior, so I'll just leave that to your imagination.”

I laugh, genuinely amused. The more time I spend with her, the more I like Rachel, and I'm glad that she'll be taking over for me when I move full-time to the real estate department. If I move full-time, I amend. That's not happening until the resort happenson time, on budget, and with all the other trappings of success. But with land mines, scandalous photos, hacked emails, and murder trials, I'm having to fight harder and harder to get my resort off the groundall at a time when I'm horribly distracted.

”So how are you doing?” Rachel asks, and I jump, realizing that I'd slid off into my own little world of anxiety. ”I mean, the two of you, and all this stuff with Jackson's arrest. Are you okay?”

I nod. I'm not okay, of course. I'm a nervous wreck. I'm terrified that Jackson will be taken away from me. I'm terrified of what it will mean if he is. Of what it will mean for me. For Ronnie.

Jackson and I haven't talked about that since the one vague conversation on the airport tarmac. And that is scaring me, too. That uncertainty. If he goes to jail, do I become Aunt Sylvia? Do I become Mommy?

And if so, what do I do then? How the h.e.l.l am I supposed to cope without him?

I give myself a solid mental shake, because those are the kinds of things that I'm not letting stay in my head. That way lies madness. Or at the very least, bone-deep terror.

<script>