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 because I want to start exchanging Christmas cards, and certainly not because I want any special consideration on this project or any other. My work stands on its own, or it doesn’t stand at all.”

For a moment Damien says nothing, but I think it is respect that I see on his face. Then he nods—just one simple incline of his head. “Go on.”

“This is a unique, innovative project. I’ll admit I didn’t want to be a part of it at first, but I’m invested now. I lost out on the deal in Atlanta because of you, Stark. I’m not losing Cortez, too. Not without a fight.”

I press my lips tight together. I know that Jackson blames Damien for the Brighton Consortium deal in Atlanta falling apart because Damien swept in and bought up key parcels of land. But Damien has told me that Jackson doesn’t have all the information, and that the deal was badly run. According to Damien, if he hadn’t stepped in, then Jackson and everyone else involved, including my old boss Reggie Gale, would have found themselves embroiled in a huge mess.

I’m not entirely sure what “a huge mess” means, but my fear is that there was some sort of criminal real estate scheme going on, and I intend to ask Reggie the next time we meet for lunch. But I’ve told none of this to Jackson. I didn’t see the point until I knew what to tell him. Now, of course, I’m wishing I’d said something. And, honestly, I expect Damien to clear the air.

Damien, however, says nothing, and during his silence, Jackson glances at me. His gaze lingers for less than a second, and yet even in that brief span of time I see the heat on his face. The need in his eyes.

“I walked away once before from something that was important to me.” He doesn’t look at me again, and yet I know without the slightest doubt that he is talking about me. “That was a mistake. I should have stayed. I should have fought.” He cocks his head. “I’ve learned my lesson, Stark. You want me gone, I’ll go. But I’m not leaving until I’ve done my damnedest to convince you to let me stay.”

I realize I am holding my breath, and I try to fill my lungs without gasping. So far I’ve managed to fade into the seat cushion, but now Damien turns to face me, his expression entirely unreadable. I expect him to ask me to leave. Instead, he levers himself out of his chair and crosses to his window. He stands there for a moment, looking out at the world like a monarch surveying his kingdom.