Finally Damien puts down the document, then looks at me. He says nothing for so long that I have to fight the urge to fidget. After what feels like way too long, he gets up, then moves around the desk so that he is now in front of me. He leans back against the desktop, and though his posture is ostensibly casual, I know him well enough to see that the opposite is true. His motions are planned, his air of relaxation intentional.
What I don’t understand is why.
Finally, he reaches behind him and pulls a folder from the corner of his desk. “There’s something I think you should see.”
I take the folder and see that it is from Pratt & Associates, the private investigations firm we routinely use for employee background checks. I glance up at Damien, but I don’t yet look inside.
“I like Jackson,” he says, as if we’re just having simple cocktail conversation. “And I no longer believe that he’s behind the problems we’ve been having at the resort.”
“But?”
His eyes dip to the folder in my hands.
It’s clear I can’t avoid whatever is inside. I take a breath, flip open the folder, and then jerk back as if I’ve been bit by a snake.
It’s a petition to establish paternity and parental rights filed by Jackson Steele regarding Veronica Amelia Fletcher.
Veronica. Ronnie.
The boat. Of course. Jackson’s boat is called the Veronica.
She’s his daughter.
Oh, dear god, Jackson has a child.
And never once has he so much as hinted at this new, harsh reality that is now staring me in the face. Even after the night on the boat. Even when he told me all about Megan, he still said nothing.
Oh, god.
My skin feels hot, my throat tight.
I swallow and flip through the document. Attached to the end is exhibit A: a positive paternity test based on DNA analysis. And although the petition was filed recently, the paternity test is several years old.
Nausea wells inside me, and I sincerely doubt that I will get out of this room without throwing up. It takes every ounce of strength I have to remain calm, my expression even.
“I wasn’t sure if I should tell you.” Damien’s voice is gentle. “For all I knew, Jackson might have told you himself. Or it might be the kind of thing you just don’t want to know at all. But considering the press attention both of you have been getting lately, I thought I should show you.”
I look down at the document again so that Damien can’t see my face. I’m angry and hurt and confused.
Mostly, I feel betrayed. And numb.
I pass the file back to Damien. I really don’t want to touch it. “Why do you have this?”
“We do a background check on everyone who works for the company. You know that.”
“We don’t pull pleadings from other states,” I say.
“Actually, I believe the policy is clear that employees or contractors who also happen to be my half-brother are subject to a deeper investigation.”
I lean back, surprised.
Damien shrugs. “I wasn’t searching for dirt. I just wanted to know more about my brother.”
I want to hug myself, because I am cold—so very cold—but I don’t want my veneer to fall. I don’t want Damien to see what a wreck I am, or how much those few pieces of paper have sideswiped me.
I nod, then force a smile. “Well, I appreciate you telling me. I really do. It means a lot that you thought to do that. That you were concerned about me. But the truth is that I already knew. Jackson told me.”
“He did?”
“Of course,” I say, as if there could be no other answer.
How very much of a lie that is.
I push myself up out of the chair, hoping I don’t look as freaked out as I feel. “I’m leaving early today, remember? I should probably go make sure whoever human resources sent up is all set.”
He nods, looking at me in that way he has, as if he can see right into my head and reveal the lie.
I really hope that’s not true.
He watches me for so long that I’m afraid he’s going to start cross-examining me. But then he smiles, all charm and goodwill. “All right,” he finally says. “So I’ll see both of you in Santa Monica in a few hours?”
Drinks. After the lesson with Nikki and Wyatt.
Shit.
“We’ll be there,” I say brightly.
He moves back behind his desk, nods in dismissal, then dives back into his correspondence.
I exhale slowly and head toward the door leading out of his office and to my area. I expect to find one of the floating secretaries behind my desk.
Instead, I see Jackson.
“Hey,” he says. “You almost ready?”