He obliged her, swinging her out, then catching her and balancing her on his hip. He gave her a big kiss on the cheek and received a sloppy wet kiss of his own in return. And when she held out her arms and demanded kisses from Sylvia, too, a wash of emotion so clean and crisp that it had to be joy swept over him.
In front of them, Betty was now standing by the Mercedes, having emerged from the car while Jackson was scooping up his little girl. She was a tall woman in her early seventies with silver hair and the manner and bearing of royalty.
Now, she met Jackson’s eyes and nodded. Just the slightest tilt of her head, but it told Jackson everything he needed to know. As far as the paternity action went, Betty was on his side.
With one last dramatic swoop, he swung Ronnie down to her feet.
“Let’s go see Grammy,” he said as he took her little hand in his left. At the same time, he reached out for Sylvia with his right. She squeezed his hand, her smile bright, her eyes glistening with tears. Not of pain, but of joy.
He wanted to hold her close and tell her everything she already knew. That he loved her. That she was the only woman for him. That she made him desperately, passionately happy. That he wouldn’t be able to get through everything that was to come if she wasn’t at his side.
“Ready?” he asked instead, and when she nodded, he stepped forward toward the future.
They were almost to the Mercedes when the passenger’s and driver’s doors of the Oldsmobile opened and two men in suits stepped out. They headed toward him, walking in long, confident strides. And when they reached him, one held out a Santa Fe police badge.
“Jackson Steele?”
Fear, as ice-cold as a knife, cut through Jackson. He pushed it back. Kept his expression flat.
“How can I help you, officer?”
“Detective,” the taller man corrected. “I’m Detective Parker. This is my partner, Detective Jamison. We’re going to have to ask you to come with us.”
Sylvia’s hand tightened in his. “Why? What’s going on?”
“We’re working in cooperation with the Beverly Hills police department.” Parker kept his eyes on Jackson. “And you’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Robert Cabot Reed.”
The murder of Robert Cabot Reed.
Though the words ring through my head, I have to work to understand what they mean. I’m too numb. Too shell-shocked.
Reed is dead.
The man who abused me, raped me. The man who starred in my nightmares, who made me afraid.
The man who would have made a movie that exposed a little girl’s life to the worst kind of scandal.
The man I hated.
He is dead. He is gone.
And though I want to dance for joy, I can’t.
Because Jackson is about to be ripped from me, and I don’t know how I will survive without this man beside me.
This man who maybe, just maybe, killed the man who tormented me. Who tormented us both.
I think about his temper. About how far he would go to protect me. To protect his daughter.
I think about what I know he fears, and what I know he is capable of.
I could lose him, I think, this man that I love.
Only two things are certain now:
That everything is going to change.
And that I am very, very afraid.
Jackson Steele and Sylvia Brooks are back
in the powerful finale of J. Kenner’s
provocative, sizzling hot new trilogy
Read on for a sneak peek.
one
There is peace in these moments between sleep and wakefulness. In the soft minutes that seem to stretch into hours, warm and comforting like a gift bestowed by a benevolent universe.
This is a world of dreams, and right now it is safe. It is right. And I want to stay here, wrapped tight in the comfort of his arms.
But dreams often turn into nightmares, and as I move through the corridors of sleep, dark fingers of fear reach out to me. My pulse pounds and my breath comes too shallow. I curl toward him, craving his touch, but he is not there, and I sit bolt upright, my skin clammy from a sheen of sweat. My heart pounding so hard I will surely crack a rib.
Jackson.