He flashed his most charming smile at his brother. “Make no mistake, I’ll call you out the second I think you’re doing something to fuck up Cortez, but as for Damien Stark the man? Maybe you’re not the devil I thought you were.”

“Don’t spread it around,” Damien said. “I have a reputation to protect, after all.”

“My lips are sealed.” Jackson glanced down to check his watch. “Should we head back?”

“In a minute. Detective Garrison asked me to see him tomorrow,” Damien said flatly, referring to one of the two detectives who’d spent the morning grilling Jackson.

A cold, hard knot formed in Jackson’s gut. “Why?”

“Presumably because they think my half-brother committed murder. More specifically, because you also work for me, and as I think I mentioned once, I’ve met Reed a time or two. But all that is just speculation.”

“Well, shit. I’m sorry.”

Damien’s brows rose slightly. “Sorry?”

“That this mess is screwing with you, too.”

“Murder isn’t the kind of thing that stays contained.”

“So what are you going to say to him?”

“That I don’t think you did it.”

Jackson studied him. “That’s not what you said a few minutes ago.”

Damien didn’t smile, but Jackson saw the hint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m not talking to the police right now, am I? I’ll tell them that I don’t know you that well, but I do know you’re not stupid. And killing him just a few days after beating the shit out of him would be very, very stupid.” He waited a beat, then leaned closer, his elbows on the bar. “Jackson, stupid doesn’t run in our family. Jeremiah’s a shit, but he’s not stupid, either. If he did leak our relationship—he had an endgame.”

“Like what?”

Damien leaned back. “I have no idea. But you wanted to know who else might want Reed dead. I say add him to the list of possibles. Jeremiah knew Reed. You said so yourself.”

Jackson considered, then nodded slowly. “I’ll talk to Harriet. Have her keep an eye on him. Maybe he’ll end up being my reasonable doubt.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Damien said.

“No, you convinced me.”

“I mean, it’s already done.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Is it?”

Damien lifted a shoulder. “Like I said, Jeremiah Stark always has an endgame. I’d like to know what it is. Besides,” he added with a significant look to Jackson, “maybe he did kill Reed.”

“Anything’s possible,” Jackson said dryly. “But what would he gain?”

“I don’t know,” Damien admitted. “If he were another man, I’d say maybe he was trying to protect you. Keep the movie from being made. Keep Reed from suing you for the assault. Maybe even protect his granddaughter.”

“He doesn’t know about her,” Jackson said tightly.

“Are you sure?” When Jackson stayed silent, because, dammit, he wasn’t sure, Damien continued. “It doesn’t matter. My point is that Jeremiah Stark looks after one person and one person only.”

He met Jackson’s eyes. “So watch your back, Steele. Because you may not see him coming.”

eleven

Since it is already the end of the workday and I am still too riled about that damn photo to focus, I decide to grab a few files and head home to work there.

Home, of course, is the operative word. Because Jackson and I have been spending more and more time on his boat since his drafting table and other work tools are there. And as for me, I like to stretch out on his comfy lounge chairs with a glass of wine and relax to the sound and rhythm of the ocean. I’d like to do that tonight, in fact. But I can’t, and that pisses me off.

Because tonight, the boat isn’t my destination; my condo is. Not that I don’t love my condo—I do. But I’d rather be in my place because I’m craving my own stuff. Not because the damn paparazzi are messing with our lives.

And, yes, I trust that the property managers at the marina are doing their job. None of those cockroaches are getting access to the boat or even the parking lot. But that didn’t stop them from taking those pictures last night, and that was invasive enough for me.

Tonight, I sleep in my own bed.

It occurs to me as I reach Santa Monica that the press might be staking out my place as well, but when I pull my Nissan up to the entrance to the underground parking garage no one is there, and my shoulders dip in relief. It’s possible there are a few stragglers by the main entrance to the building, but that’s outside on the Third Street Promenade, and since I’m coming in through the garage, I don’t even have to see them.