Page 6 of Possess Me

“Always,” he teases. He knows as well as I do that jealousy is pointless. For me, there’s only Damien, for now and for always.

His arms tighten around me, and a sensual buzz cuts through me along with the unspoken message—you’re mine.

As I revel in Damien’s touch, Jackson steps in behind Sylvia, his hands resting on her shoulders as she leans against him.

Like Damien, Jackson has dark hair, a striking jawline, and a way of standing and walking that conveys both confidence and power. They’re friends now, as well as brothers, but the early months after Damien learned of Jackson’s existence were tough on all of us. Thankfully, that’s all in the past. Now, Damien and Jackson and Syl and all of our kids make up the core of the close-knit family I’d always wanted, but never believed I would have.

“They’re shutting things down,” Damien says, opening his jacket so I can see the plastic-wrapped journal tucked safely into an interior pocket. “Shall we grab a drink in the lobby?”

“They’re going to say no,” I say, with a nod toward Jackson. “Kids waiting on the boat.”

“The kids should be asleep on the boat by now,” Jackson says, moving to Sylvia’s side and hooking her arm through his. “I think a nightcap sounds great. We can make plans for a longer get-together when we’re all back home.”

“Perfect,” Damien says. He brushes a kiss over my forehead. “And after that, Mrs. Stark, I have a surprise for you.”

“You sure you’re okay to walk?” Damien asks as we stand with Syl and Jackson—all of us now slightly tipsy—in the Pavilion’s ornate lobby to say our goodbyes.

“I’m fine,” I assure him.

“It’s not far,” he promises.

“This is why women wear heels and have the babies,” Syl says, shooting a grin in my direction. “At the heart of it all, they’re the ones who are wimps.”

Jackson chuckles, and he and Damien share a look. “Sounds fair,” Damien says with a shrug.

“Very astute assessment,” Jackson agrees, making Syl and I break into a fit of giggles that probably has more to do with the cocktails we drank than the actual humor of our banter. We’ve just managed to control ourselves when someone across the lobby calls out, “Mrs. Steele!”

I turn in that direction as Sylvia waves. “Dr. Hart! I didn’t know you were here.”

Dr. Hart turns out to be Dr. Franklin Hart, who Sylvia introduces to us as a Los Angeles-based psychologist. “And an occultist,” Damien adds. “It’s good to see you again, Franklin.”

I look between the three of them. Dr. Hart doesn’t look at all like a man who cavorts with ghosts. Sylvia and I have had Tarot readings for fun, but I didn’t think she was into the occult. And while Damien is fascinated by everything, I doubt he’s been using a paranormal consultant to help build Stark International. Which boils down to my question: “How on earth do you all know each other?”

“Sophia,” Damien says flatly, referring to the woman who had almost been a sister to him—and had once tried to kill me. “She had regular sessions with Dr. Hart for a few years,” he says.

I only nod. I’ve forgiven Sophia a lot, but as far as I’m concerned, the sessions never did her much good.

As for Syl, she explains that they met through her lifetime bestie, Cass, who has a bit of a woo streak. “She dragged me to a lecture—sorry, Dr. Hart, but it’s true. I was all prepared to be bored and unconvinced.” She grins. “But it was fascinating.”

“We’ll have to come to one of your lectures,” I say, glancing at Damien, who doesn’t look convinced but smiles politely.

“I’d love to hear your impressions,” he says, and Sylvia adds that she’ll send me the info to sign up for Dr. Hart’s newsletter.

“Were you at the auction?” Damien asks.

“I was. In fact, I bid against you on that journal.”

I stand up a little straighter. “I thought your voice was familiar. I couldn’t see who else was bidding.”

“Why would you want the journal?” Syl asks, voicing what would have been my next question. “Is there something odd about it?”

“I’m a collector of Hollywood memorabilia,” he says. “But to be honest … well, yes. The journal holds a special interest for me because of its connection to her house.”

I nod. “You mean the rumors that her house here on the island is haunted.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Hart says. “If she wrote that journal while in a haunted house, some of that energy might have been absorbed.”

“Oh.” I glance toward Damien, feeling suddenly as if the journal inside his jacket is emitting protoplasmic waves. Or whatever kind of a vibe haunted things give off.