On My Knees - J. Kenner Page 0,42
the downside?”
“He has a reputation for being difficult,” I admit. “But despite that he’s very in demand. Which raises the second mark against him—his schedule is incredibly tight. I talked to his people, and he’s finishing up a project right now, but he was planning on taking three months off. If we bring him in, he’s going to up his fee to cover the inconvenience of canceling his R&R.”
Damien nods, taking it all in. “Who else?”
I open the next folder. “Allison Monro.”
“She did the Petri Museum in Seattle. I’ve met her.”
“She’s also done some really interesting residential work that I think might translate to the island bungalows.” I’m passing a photograph of one of Monro’s houses to Damien when his intercom buzzes.
“I know you said no interruptions,” Rachel says, “but Mr. Steele is here. And since you’re already meeting with Ms. Brooks, I thought I should let you know that he’d like a moment of your time.”
I realize that I have frozen in place, my arm outstretched, my body tense. I’ve been that way since Rachel said his name.
Damien looks at me, then takes the photograph, and the movement seems to break the spell. I sit back, hoping desperately that Damien cannot tell how violently my heart now beats against my rib cage.
“All right,” Damien says as he puts the Monro photograph on the coffee table, right on top of the Phillip Traynor file. “Send him in.”
A moment passes, then another. Then the door opens and Jackson strides in.
That morning, he’d told me that he intended to spend the day on his boat, working out of his office there on some minor projects that his New York staff is handling. So when Rachel announced him, I expected to see him in casual attire. Not swim trunks, but nothing more tailored than nice jeans and a starched button-down. Probably even with canvas shoes and windswept hair.
But that is not the man who enters.
Jackson strides into Damien’s office as if he owns it, and he’s certainly dressed for the role. He wears a charcoal gray Armani suit with a crisp white shirt and an arctic blue tie that almost perfectly matches the color of his eyes. It’s the uniform of a corporate warrior, and Jackson has come to do battle.
He moves toward us without hesitating, apparently unperturbed that Damien has not risen in greeting. He stops at the edge of the oriental rug that defines this area of Damien’s huge office, then inclines his head. “Stark,” he says, then turns to me without waiting for a reply. He takes two steps toward me, then takes my hand and very gently kisses my fingertips. “Sylvia. I’m very glad you’re here.”
His eyes linger on mine for a moment, but though I search his face for a hint of what is to come, I see nothing. He is cool and confident and holding his cards very, very close to the vest.
Damien indicates an empty chair. “Please. Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself.” He leans back in his own chair, his control just as intact, his expression just as unreadable. And in that moment, it finally strikes me that, yes, these two men really are brothers. “What can I do for you, Steele?”
“You can let me back on the resort.”
Damien steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “And why would I do that?”
“Because you made a mistake when you fired me.”
“Did I? Or are you just hoping to coast on a misplaced belief that I’m going to be swayed by familial loyalty?”
“Not hardly,” Jackson says, taking a step forward. “As far as my work is concerned, family doesn’t mean shit. I’m here because I’m the best. You came to me because I’m the best. You wanted me on this project because of my vision and my talent, and yet you tossed me off for reasons that have nothing to do with my work. Honestly, Stark. You surprise me.”
“And yet you were the one who raised the issue of family. And not when you were brought on board—when it would have made rational sense to mention it. No, you waited, timing the revelation to suit your own purpose.”
“No purpose,” Jackson says. “No agenda. I told Sylvia because I didn’t want that secret between the two of us, but I’ve told nobody else, and I don’t intend to. And I told you because I couldn’t in good conscience expect her to keep that large a secret from the man who employs her. That was my purpose, Stark. Not