Jackson’s initials—and they are marking me.

I sigh and reach back, pressing my palm flat over the tat. I’d gone to Cass the day I returned from Atlanta. I didn’t explain, didn’t say a word. It was at least a month before I told her anything about Jackson and me. But I’d needed the ink right away. I’d needed the pain that marked the memory. And I’d needed a piece of him to be with me always.

There are other tats. On my breasts, between my shoulder blades, marking my hips. A silent path winding through the pain in my life. All discreet, so that no corporate skirt and blouse would ever reveal my secrets. But all there when I need them.

Right now, I tell myself, I don’t need them. I’m doing fine. I have a career in which I’m advancing, good friends, a great boss. I’m moving forward in my life; I no longer have to stand naked before a mirror and trace the path of my triumphs and tragedies to give me strength.

And for years, I’ve felt strong and capable and in control.

But now the world is getting gray around the edges again, and the control I’ve always clutched so desperately is slipping away as if I’m holding tight with buttered fingers.

Fingers of panic are creeping back in through the cracks in my veneer, and I know why. Because instead of conquering them, I hid from them. I ran as fast as I could from Jackson, and then curled up into a little ball, living an anesthetized life.

But he’s back now, and I’m tingling all over, just like a numb limb coming back to life, and I honestly don’t know if I can handle this.

No, that’s not true. I know that I can’t handle it. I know, because I couldn’t handle it the first time.

Somehow, I need to get Jackson Steele out of my head.

Except, dear god, I want him.

There, I’ve said it, even if only in my head. I want him.

Time and distance haven’t lessened the desire any more than hurt and anger have.

I want his touch. I want his hands. I want everything he has to offer.

But god help me, I don’t want to lose it again. I don’t want to be so overwhelmed that control is ripped away from me. I don’t want to be scared of my own reaction.

I can’t handle that sensation of being lost outside myself—as if someone else is feeling things. Doing things.

And I sure as hell can’t handle the nightmares that come with it. Nightmares that I’ve mostly left behind—and that I do not want coming back. Not now. Not ever.

Even more, I don’t want to be used.

I don’t want to be chattel.

Just the thought of it makes me panic, and I have to close my eyes and hug myself and breathe in slowly and steadily.

Hell, maybe I should be grateful he tossed me that ultimatum. Because I was an idiot to think that I could work with him, even if that was the only way to save the resort.

No. I can’t give up. Not yet. Not until I’ve tried everything.

Which means that my plan is to dig into the extensive array of files that the company has on every building project around the world.

And even though I already know that every potential replacement is fully booked for years, I also know I have to try.

There’s a red line station at Hollywood and Vine, and since the red line lets off just a block from Stark Tower, I decide that the best plan is to wear my cocktail dress to the office, change into the spare outfit I keep there, and get busy.

I skip the shower, dress quickly, then hurry to the station. Most of the outside is a matte gray metal, but the interior glows with yellow light from the dozens of golden and yellow-green glass tiles that line the interior, providing illumination as the escalator and stairs reach down into the actual station.

I don’t have my pass, but I do have a credit card, so I grab a ticket and hurry to reach the train that’s just pulling into the station. I’m lost in a crowd of tourists, and I let the mass push me along. It’s standing room only, but when we reach the stop at Western, a guy in a business suit gets off. I collapse gratefully into his vacant seat, and as I do, I see a familiar face in the crowd.

Jackson?

I blink, and when I look again, he is gone.

I know it must have been an illusion. Someone with his eyes, his hair. But it doesn’t matter. I still feel sad and more than a little lost.

Mourning, I think. And it’s true. I’m mourning my career and the resort, which will never have the chance to be. But mostly I’m mourning the promise of Jackson that died five years ago. A promise that I soundly and painfully killed when I told Jackson to leave.

I’d awakened in a cold sweat, the sheets soaked through, memories of Jackson’s face merging with Bob’s still filling my mind.