“Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not. No.”

I gape at him, my head shaking a little bit as I try to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. “Jackson,” I say gently, “there are paparazzi everywhere. I saw the pictures of you and Damien walking to the Biltmore, so I know you’ve seen them. And last night at the marina? And if you didn’t already know it, then let me be the first to tell you that those fucking bastards have splashed pictures of you and me and your dad all over social media.”

“I saw.”

“Well, then, hello? The boat is really not the place we want to be now.”

A muscle in his cheek twitches, and I tense, because more and more it’s become clear that he’s not just in a mood—he’s in a dangerous mood.

“Okay,” I say. “What happened?”

“The walk down was fine, but when we were ready to leave we saw that they’d practically swarmed the Biltmore. Phil got us out the service entrance,” he says, referring to the bartender he chats with sometimes. “And I felt so damn smug all the way back to the Tower and into my car, because Damien and I went into the Tower the same way, through the loading dock in the back.”

“So you beat them.”

“We snuck around like rats,” he said. “Or like criminals.” He meets my eyes as he says the last, his voice harsh and hard and angry.

“Jackson—”

“No. I’m not living my life that way. We’re going to the boat. We’re going about our business. We’re going to pretend like the fuckers don’t even exist.” He draws a breath. “Pack your things, Sylvia. You’re coming with me.”

I press my lips together, because I get it now, fully and completely. I understand where he’s coming from. What he’s trying to do.

I once told Jackson that his work was all about power and control, and he agreed with me. But he’d taken it further. “It’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.”

Those words from so many years ago come back to haunt me now, because that is the root of his anger—his inability to control the scandal, to tame the media storm. He wants to press a reset button and return everything to normal, and he can’t.

So yeah. I get why he’s frustrated. Why he’s hurting. And, yes, I understand why he wants to go back to the boat.

I understand it. But I’m not going along with it.

Slowly, I shake my head. “We’re staying here tonight.”

“The hell we are.”

“Goddammit, Jackson,” I say, my temper rising to match his. “I’m sorry the world isn’t operating to your liking right now, but you can’t kill a man and then act like nothing has changed.”

He’d taken a single step toward me, but now he takes one back, his head cocked slightly to the side as he studies me. I stand there, breathing hard, aware that something has shifted for him, but not entirely sure if I’ve made my point or simply pissed him off further. Finally, he speaks, his words coming slowly and without inflection. “I think if I kill a man, that’s exactly how I should act. Not guilty.”

“I’m talking about being smart. I’m talking about just staying the hell away from the press. Don’t go walking in right under their noses. Don’t give them any fodder.”

His expression softens. “You truly think I killed him.”

“I—” I close my mouth, suddenly unsure.

“And yet you’re still right here.”

“Where else would I be?” My voice is gentle. “Whatever you did, you did for me. For Ronnie. We’ve talked about this, Jackson. I know you’ll always protect me. All I’m trying to do now is protect you, too.”

He closes the distance between us, this time coming so close I am breathing in his scent. Musk and wood and just the hint of scotch. “Baby,” he says, his voice filled with heat, “that’s not what I need from you right now.”

I gasp as he pushes me against the wall, then lifts my arms and holds them in place above my head, his right hand encircling my wrists. I open my mouth to speak, but his mouth closes hard over mine even as his left hand slips down into my yoga pants. His fingers roughly stroke me, then thrust inside. I moan, my body responding immediately as it always does to Jackson’s touch.

But while there is no question about the desire that has flared between us—that heated connection, that primal need—I don’t know its source. Is this about control? Is he taking from me what he can’t get from the world?