The dress I've selected for tonight hangs at the front, still in protective plastic from the few minor alterations. I use the library style ladder to retrieve my garment bag from a top shelf, then slide the dress inside. I zip it securely and fold the bag over to carry like a soft-sided suitcase. There's a shoe pocket on the outside, and I find the black stiletto sandals I'd picked for the evening and put them inside, then grab my travel cosmetics case, because I'm going to need to do some makeup repair before I'm picture-ready.
Finally, I open the jewelry safe and pull out the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet that Damien bought me when we first started dating. It will be hidden under the dress, but that doesn't matter. I've worn it to every event we've attended together, and I'm not going to stop tonight.
I set it in its box on the granite island in the center of the closet, then consider how best to carry it. I know I'm overthinking--it's not like I'm going to lose it just going to the car and then a motel, but I can't help but be paranoid. The thing probably cost more than Air Force One--and it has a hell of a lot more sentimental value.
Since I'd foolishly left my purse in the car, I decide to tuck it into the outside, zippered pocket on the garment bag. I'm about to do that when I realize I'm not alone. I turn--and there he is.
"What the hell, Nikki?"
He's standing in the closet doorway in khaki shorts and a white henley that accentuates his tan. Over the last couple of years, he's started playing tennis again, and he's all muscle and sinew, the material of the shirt straining against his broad shoulders and strong upper arms.
"I'll see you at the premiere," I say, wishing I didn't want to touch him. "I've arranged for my own limo." That's true enough--on the way home from the spa, I had my driver contact dispatch to make all the arrangements.
His head tilts just slightly, as if I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve. "All right," he says slowly. "Where are you going in the meantime?"
"I don't know." I hook the strap of the garment bag over one shoulder and hold onto my cosmetics case with both hands, squeezing so tightly that I'm certain my knuckles are going to turn white. "A hotel. Sylvia's. I'll figure it out."
I can see only the question in his eyes. Other than that, his expression is like stone, revealing nothing. I have to fight the sudden urge to slap him. I have so many masks that I show to the world, and Damien has always been able to see through all of them. And yet here he stands, revealing nothing, when I'm standing before him, bloody and broken.
"You son-of-a-bitch," I snap, everything just suddenly getting to me. "You goddamn son-of-a-bitch."
"Nikki--"
"No." I hold up a hand to stop him. "Trust you?" I say. "The entire time you were asking me to trust you this morning, you had your finger on a goddamn nuclear trigger."
"What are you talking about?"
"Sofia. You. Santa Barbara. Ring any bells?"
I can see from his face that it's ringing a lot of them.
"Fuck," I say. For a moment, I'd foolishly hoped I was wrong.
I tighten my grip on my case. "Call me when you learn that trust doesn't mean keeping secrets when it's convenient for you, okay? I thought we'd come farther than this, Damien. I thought--"
But I can't finish. I don't even know what I thought. That everything was perfect? That all the bumps that had plagued our early relationship had been smoothed out? That we would be bringing a child into a family without drama and secrets and skeletons hiding in closets.
I don't know. I don't care. I just know that I need to leave, and so I turn and run from him with no real idea of where I'm going or what I'll do when I get there.
I'd meant it when I told Damien I didn't know where I was going. But now that I'm in the back of the car and maneuvering through the twisting Malibu roads as we head down toward the Coast Highway, I figure I need some sort of plan. And since Jamie has always been my first and best go-to in all my relationship-related emergencies, I automatically dial her number.
"Hey!" she says, answering on the first ring. "Guess where I am--in a chair in network makeup. How cool is that?"
"Exceptionally cool," I concede, then bite back a cringe--I'd been so wrapped up in my own drama, I'd actually forgotten that this was Jamie's big day. Obviously, I'm the worst friend ever.
"What's up?" she says.
"Not a thing," I trill. "I just called to wish you good luck."
"Oh, please," she retorts. "Who needs luck when you have all my talent."
I bark out a laugh. "Can't argue with that. Love you, James."
"Back at you, Nicholas. See you on the red carpet."
"Absolutely," I say, then end the call with a sigh. Because now where the hell am I going to go?
I'm about to lean forward to tell the driver we're heading to the Pacific Palisades and Sylvia's house, when I realize there's someplace else I'd rather be. Because the truth is, right now I want a full-on, maternal-style hug. And since no matter how hard I wish otherwise, I'm sure as hell not getting that from my own mother, so I tell the driver to head for Evelyn's Malibu beach house.
Five minutes later, I'm standing on her small front porch, my garment bag in hand, hoping like hell that she's actually home. I'm about to regret not calling first when I hear footsteps and then see her peer out through the peephole.
Immediately, the door opens, and she's standing there in all her effervescent glory, ushering me into the house with, "Well, what the hell, Texas, you always are full of surprises."
She takes my bags from me, then waves the car away before shutting the door behind me. "Let me guess. Trouble in paradise?"
I start to answer, then find myself crying instead. Immediately, she pulls me into a momma bear-style hug, and I cling to her, feeling lost and found and mortified all at the same time.
When I can breathe normally, I back away, then smile wryly. "I shouldn't have bothered with the spa this morning. I'm going to have to completely re-do my makeup."
"Unless you want to go to the premiere looking like a raccoon, I'm going to agree with you."
I laugh, and the last of my tears dry up. That's why I love her. Evelyn Dodge is brassy and bold and says exactly what she thinks. She's a breath of fresh air in this town, and is one of the first friends I made when I moved here.
She's been in the business forever, and was actually Damien's agent back when he was on the tennis circuit. She's held every job in the industry, retired for about five minutes, and is now back doing the agenting thing. She actually represents Jamie. And, unless I'm misremembering, she represents Lyle Tarpin, too.
"I do, indeed," she acknowledges when I ask her. "I'm going to be his date for the evening, actually."
"Really?" Evelyn's usual date is her live-in younger boyfriend, Blaine, but lately he's been spending a lot of time on tour with his paintings. But what I don't understand is why Lyle is going with his agent and not an up-and-coming actress. I've had my fill of gossip for the day, though, so I don't bother asking. "Then I guess you don't want to share my limo," I say instead. "But is it okay if I stay here until it's time to go?"
"I'd love the company. And I've got a girl coming in half an hour to do my hair and makeup. I'm sure we can squeeze you in, too. There's only so much damage control I can do at this point."
I snort. I'm guessing Evelyn's in her late fifties, but she looks absolutely amazing, and I tell her as much.
"And there's another reason I like you, Texas." She glances down at my luggage. "You just leave that there and follow me. We'll get juice for you and something more nutritious for me, and we'll sit on the balcony and exchange sob stories until it's time for hair and makeup. How are you feeling, anyway?"
"Physically? I feel okay right now. The nausea comes and goes." I'd told her I was pregnant by phone the other day when I called to invite her to Sunday brunch, but this is the first time I've seen her in person. "Emotionally, I'm a little under the weather."
"We'll get you fixed up," she says, and I follow her into the kitchen, fee
ling a bit like a grateful puppy.
Less than five minutes later, we're on her balcony looking out over the Pacific. I'm sipping sparkling cider and eating shortbread cookies, and she's drinking scotch and drawing on an unlit cigarette. "I could find the lighter, but what with you being pregnant, I'm going to at least pretend like I have manners."
"Thanks," I say, forcing myself not to laugh. "I'm glad I came by. Thank you so much for not tossing me out on my ass."
"Oh, please. Misery loves company."
I frown, remembering her earlier "sob story" comment. "Are you and Blaine okay?"
She takes a long swallow of scotch, then refills the glass, forgoing ice this time. "Well, things aren't dead. Let's just say they're on life support."
"I'm really sorry to hear that." I'd met Evelyn in this house when she hosted a show for Blaine, who's a talented artist whose work has a decidedly erotic edge. In fact, Blaine was the artist Damien hired to paint the nude portrait of me. So it's fair to say that I feel something of a personal connection to both Blaine and Evelyn.
"He's a good man, my Blaine. A talented man. But we've been living in two different worlds for a while now. Not age--well, maybe it's partly age. He's barely thirty, and I've crossed the half a century mark. He wants to get out in the world and build his reputation. I've done my homesteading. Now, I want to sit back in my castle and play in the world I've built. I'm not slowing down--well, maybe a little--but I am playing closer to home."
"I'm sorry," I say.
She shakes her head. "No, no, there's no malice here. Just sadness. But there usually is with change. So," she continues, stubbing out her unlit cigarette on the tabletop, "lots of changes on your end, eh, Texas?"
"Damien and I are fine," I say automatically and forcefully.
She laughs. "You're not, or you wouldn't be with me before a premiere party. But you can be not fine without the world crashing down."
I scowl. "It feels like the world's crashing down," I admit as the tears start to flow again.
"Aw, hell, Texas, it's okay. Get the waterworks over with now before we get you fixed all up like a movie star again."
"I'm okay. Just hormones," I say. Then, "No. It's not hormones. It's Sofia."
"Well." Evelyn's eyes go wide, and she sits back in her chair. "Well," she repeats, and I know two things. First, she didn't know. And second, this is damned unexpected. Because it takes a lot to shock Evelyn Dodge.
"So you didn't know she was back."
"Back?" she repeats. "Wait a minute, Texas. You need to start from the beginning."
Evelyn already knows about Damien's past and what happened between him and Sofia. She was there during the bad years when Damien was playing tennis, and his abusive coach was forcing him and Sofia to do those vile things together--often with a camera around. And Evelyn was there for the aftermath, when Sofia had come back with the photographs, threatening to release them if I didn't walk away from Damien.
From the reports, Sofia doesn't even remember a lot of that, because she was in such a dissociative state. But as far as I'm concerned, none of that makes it easier. And when I tell Evelyn that Damien went and saw her without telling me--and then flat-out lied to me--she nods her head and says, "Yes, yes, I see."
"Did you know she was back?" I ask.
"I knew she was doing well," Evelyn says. "I didn't know she was in the States."
"He should have told me. Especially since I've been getting harassing messages." I pass her my phone to show her the email that came in today, and then recite the other three texts for her. "And, gee," I say rhetorically, "who's harassed me in the past?"
"I'm sure Damien's had the same thoughts. He probably hopes it wasn't her. For that matter, he may believe it wasn't her. From what Charles has told me, Sofia's doing remarkably well. Not clinging to the past. Not clinging to Damien."
"I don't believe that," I say, the words coming automatically.
"Which Damien would also know," Evelyn says sagely. "And he might not believe it either. Might be why he waited to tell you any of it. Might be why he went to see her first. Because he wanted to get the lay of the land."
I swallow. She may be right, but I don't want to admit it. "I don't know." I turn to look out at the ocean and the waves crashing up on the shore. A little girl of about three is splashing in the surf as her mother chases her, smiling and laughing. I sigh, then put my hand gently on my belly. "I don't know," I repeat. "Maybe."
She reaches across the table to take my free hand. "Would you like to join Lyle and me in our limo?"
I shake my head and manage a smile. "No way am I spoiling your date."
"Oh, please. That boy's my second choice--and no, I'm not saying Blaine was my first," she adds, obviously reading my expression.
"All right. I'll bite. Who was your first?"
"Let's just say he couldn't join me. Out of the country traveling." Her lips curve into a small smile. "Right about now, I think he's in Ireland."
My eyes widen, and I'm just about to ask when Evelyn lifts her hand to cut me off. I'm not sure if she's silencing me on purpose, or if her mind's just moved on, but it's just as well. I'd rather just savor the idea of Evelyn and my dad getting together.
I'm still smiling at the thought, but it fades when Evelyn asks, "Do you want to call Damien? Tell him you're here?"
"No." I've heard everything Evelyn said, and I know that it all makes sense. But that's a head thing. My heart's still hurting.
"Besides," I add, "this is Damien we're talking about." I think about my new phone. "If he wants to come to me, I'm sure he knows exactly where I am."
"Well," she says with a laugh, "you're probably right about that."
We chat for a bit longer until the girl for hair and makeup arrives. I let her repair my makeup, and then I change into my outfit once Evelyn's in the hotseat. I'm about to put on my shoes when I realize I don't have the anklet, and I remember that I'd been distracted by Damien entering the closet.
I close my eyes and curse softly because I hate the thought of not feeling it against my skin.
Finally, Evelyn's housekeeper comes to her dressing room to announce that my limo's arrived, and I twirl for Evelyn, getting her rousing endorsement before promising to see her at the event, and then rushing toward her front door where the chauffeur is waiting. I stop short when I see him. "Edward? I assumed you'd be driving Damien."
He looks a bit sheepish. "I saw this call come through dispatch, Mrs. Stark."
"Oh. Well, thank you." Edward is my favorite of the drivers that work the Stark International fleet, but he usually works as Damien's personal driver. Normally, I'd advise against leaving Damien to another driver without prior approval, but I'm sure Edward knows as well as I do that since it's me who's the alternate, Damien's not going to say a word.
The thought makes me feel a little smug, as if I've won points in some sort of marital competition.
That feeling lasts only until I step into the limo--and all my points are totally revoked. Because there on the seat, holding out his hand for me, is Damien.
I freeze, not sure if I'm angry or relieved to see him. "Dammit, Damien. I wanted--I just--"
He moves to me, crouching in the limo as he leads me to the seat beside him. "You're hurting," he says gently. "When have I ever stepped away when you're hurting?"
I flash a wan smile. "But you're the one who hurt me."
His shoulders sag, but he doesn't take his eyes off me. "I know. Oh, baby, I know."
"You should have told me."
"I was going to. That day I saw the text flash across your tablet. But once I saw it--once you told me about the others--I knew I had to--" He closes his eyes as if in defense against a horrible thought.
"You thought it might be her," I say. "You went to Santa Barbara to see her. To find out if she'd sent them."
"To make certain she hadn't," he clarifies.
"And?" I ask, but I already know the answer. If Damien thought for a second that she'd sen
t those horrible messages, he'd have her shipped back to the UK before she had time to draw a second breath. "So why's she here? In California, I mean?"
"You," he says, taking my hands, as if to stop me from running away.
"Me?"
"She wants to see you. Actually, she wants to apologize to you."
"I don't--"
"It's a twelve-step kind of thing."
I nod slowly, absorbing this. "Did you know that's what she wanted before you went?"
He nods. "In general. Charles told me she wanted to see me. He's been working with the court and the institution, arranging her travel and keeping me posted." I remember when she was committed. Damien had asked Charles to continue to represent her. Damien continued to pay the bills, but he needed that buffer.
"Charles saw her first," he continues. "Told me he agreed with the doctors that she was better and that following a twelve-step type program would help cement all the work she's done. It made sense to me, and I want to help her heal, so I went to see her in person."
"You should have told me."
He leans back but keeps my hand firmly in his. "Should I have? I don't know. I thought about it, and, honestly, if it hadn't been for the baby, I would have told you right away."
"Would you have? Because I'm not so sure."
He sighs, then drags his fingers though his hair. "Hell, Nikki, hindsight's twenty-twenty. But I can tell you with absolute honesty that I was trying to protect you. Not from Sofia--I don't believe she wants to hurt you--but from what I knew would make you an emotional wreck. So I decided I should talk to her first. That's when she told me she wanted to talk to you, too."
"You should have," I say with absolute certainty. "You should have told me that she was in California. That you were going to see her."
"It's complicated, baby. She's family. You know that makes it complicated."
"Bullshit." I pull my hand out of his and slide away. "She isn't family. And it isn't fucking complicated."
"Family is what you make of it--you know that."
"Yeah, I do. And she treated us both like shit." I press my hand down hard on the scar on my thigh, well hidden under a layer of silk and sequins. "She tried to taunt me into cutting."
"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think that doesn't haunt me? But I survived my childhood mostly because of her. She's not as strong as you, baby, and she was sick. You've read the original court documents. The doctors' reports."