"And now you say she's better." A heavy fear clings to me. I want her to be better--she's important to Damien. But I'm so afraid that he's wrong. She's smart and sneaky and I don't want to be hurt again. More than that, I don't want Damien hurt again. "How the hell can you be sure?"
"I am," he says. "So are her doctors."
I tilt my head up and blink because I can't cry again. Not after having fixed my makeup twice now. "You love her."
I see the pain in his eyes as he nods. "You know I do. She's like a sister."
I nod slowly, organizing my thoughts. "You walked away from her because of me. Not financially--you took care of her. But emotionally. You just cut her off."
"Of course," he says. "After what she did, of course."
"And now you want to bring her back in."
"Time's passed, and things have changed. She's changed."
"But what if she hasn't? Damien, we're going to have a baby."
He looks as though I've slapped him. "She would never hurt--"
"You don't know that." My voice has risen in pitch.
He draws in a breath, looking shattered. "I would never risk you or the baby. Never. And if you tell me to send her away, I will. But she's not asking to be in our life, or our child's. All she wants is to see you. To apologize and move on."
There's an earnestness in his voice that I rarely hear. A vulnerability that I'm certain only I have seen.
"I know I fucked up," he continues. "I know I hurt you. And it's a lot to ask for you to trust me, but--"
I lunge for him, pressing my lips to his for a kiss. Because I need that connection. And, yes, because I need him to stop talking.
His fingers twine in my hair as he deepens the kiss. It's wild. Rough. Teeth clashing, tongues warring, and when I pull back, I'm breathing hard.
"Nikki," he begins, but I press my finger to his lips and shake my head.
"I do trust you," I whisper. "But you hurt me."
"I know. Baby, I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so goddamned sorry."
I nod furiously, blinking again because those damn tears are determined to make one more curtain call. "I trust you," I repeat, forcing the words out past the thickness in my throat. "But I'm scared."
"You don't need to be." He strokes my hair, his eyes never leaving mine. "There's nothing to be scared of."
I don't argue, but I'm not so sure. And I don't know if I'm being stubborn or he's being blind. Maybe it's a little of both. But this is Damien, and in the end, I really do trust him.
"All right," I say, then take his hand in mine. "If you want me to, I'll see her."
He says nothing, just slowly inclines his head. But that's enough. I know that he understands how much seeing her will cost me. And he understands, too, that I'm agreeing only because of him. Because I love him.
I guess in the end, that's reason enough.
"You look beautiful," he says. "Absolutely elegant. I like the lipstick, too."
It's a deep red that is not my usual color, and now I smile slowly.
"Red lips and your blue eyes. You're like living flame."
"But I don't burn," I say, then laugh. "Well, maybe just a little."
He trails his fingertips over my bare shoulder, then down along the plunging neckline so that he is tracing the curve of my breast, making my pulse kick up, and my entire body tremble with desire. "Damien," I say, and I see the answering smile on his lips.
"Shhh." His hand continues down, sliding over the soft, clinging material and making me bite my lip to hold back a moan. Then he moves lower still, until his fingers find the top of the slit that reveals my thigh. "Interesting."
"Damien," I murmur. I'm desperately wet, and I long for a more intimate touch. For his fingers to ease upward and thrust inside me.
"I love the feel of your skin," he whispers as he strokes my thigh from slit to knee and then back up again, touching only what the dress reveals.
I whimper.
The corner of his mouth crinkles. "We're almost to the theater."
I shift on the seat, spreading my legs, my entire body thrumming. "I don't care."
He meets my eyes, his dual-colored ones looking back at me. I see the heat flare in his amber one, but it's the passion reflected in the depths of the pure black one that has my core clenching in response.
Slowly, he moves closer, inching toward me on the seat and then leaning over so that he can cup the back of my head with one hand and brush soft kisses on my neck while his other hand eases higher beneath the dress.
The slit is completely unreasonable, so there's not far to go, and I close my eyes, lost in the sensation of his mouth on my neck, my ear. And his fingers so delicately tracing the soft skin between my thigh and my pubis, coming close to where I want him, but never quite reaching, so that instead of quelling the wild desire inside me, he's fueling it.
"Tell me what you want," he orders, pulling back from my neck.
"I want you to touch me."
"No," he says, a sharp command in his voice. "Tell me what you want."
I gasp as his finger traces along the top of my panties, crossing over my pubic bone and teasing me relentlessly. I feel the shift in the limo as we exit the freeway, and I bite my lower lip. We're close. I should tell him I want him to stop. That there's no time, and we can finish this later.
Instead, I say, "I want your fingers inside me. I want you to make me come."
"I like that answer," he says, his finger slipping over the tiny triangle of my thong to find the string that is really no coverage at all.
I suck in air as he tugs it aside, then strokes my slick skin as I writhe against his touch, spreading my legs even wider.
"That's it, baby," he murmurs as his thumb finds my clit and a wild electrical shock makes me gasp, a precursor of things to come. Then he slips his fingers inside me--two, three, I can't tell--but the sensation of being filled is overwhelming. I crave more--I crave his cock, the pressure of his body over mine as he thrusts deep inside me--but there's definitely no time for that, and I just grind shamelessly against his hand as his thumb continues to tease my clit.
"I see the line," he says, referring to the line of limos that is part and parcel of these kinds of events. "Come for me," he demands. "That's it, baby," he says as he increases the pressure on my clit, the surprise sending thousands of electrical charges to gather between my legs, building and building and then finally exploding with all the power of a star going supernova.
I shake, gasping and clinging to Damien's shoulders as I try to claw my way back to reality. His mouth closes over mine, and I'm vaguely aware that he's readjusting my thong and smoothing my dress.
"I love you," he says as he pulls away.
I smile. "I know."
With a wicked grin, he gently traces my thigh again, this time in the opposite direction. He stops at my bare ankle, swollen today from my pregnancy. "Something's missing," he says.
I start to tell him that I accidentally left it at home when he reaches into his suit coat and pulls the slim box from the interior pocket. He opens it, and the anklet sparkles in the dim interior lighting.
I smile, unreasonably relieved to have it here. "Put it on me?"
He bends to do just that, but he can't get the clasp to connect. With my ankle so swollen, the bracelet is about half a centimeter too small.
"It doesn't fit," I say, stupidly stating the obvious.
"It's okay," he says, tucking it back into its box, and then into his pocket. "I'll keep it safe."
I nod, but it's only for form, and I turn away, ostensibly to look at the crowd lining Hollywood Boulevard in front of the Chinese Theater.
In reality, though, I'm fighting a new wave of tears. Because even though I know it's silly, I can't help but think that not being able to wear the anklet is a very bad omen.
18
We're helped out of the limo by two young men in the kind of black pants and red vests that give the illusion that we're back in old Hollywood and these ar
e eager young movie ushers.
Immediately, the questions begin. Shouts about my pregnancy, about fainting in Dallas, about the children's foundation and the movie and everything under the sun.
Cameras flash wildly, but instead of making me cringe, I simply smile and wave one hand while I hold onto Damien with the other. And as we move down the red carpet, I lean over and whisper, "I'm glad you shared my limo."
"Did I?" he counters. "Funny. I thought you shared mine." And then he pulls me close and kisses me as the crowd applauds.
When we pull away, I'm laughing, and the heavy little knot that had appeared in my stomach when Damien had slipped the anklet back into his pocket starts to dissolve.
The red carpet is set in a serpentine pattern so that it heads from the street toward the pagoda of the original Chinese theater for the photo op and on-camera meet-and-greets, then curves around toward the ballroom where the pre-party is being held.
We follow it, pausing when we see Wyatt, who's set up in front of the step-and-repeat publicity poster with the Stark Children's Foundation logo. There's no time for chatting, but I give Wyatt a quick hug after our photo, then promise we'll see him inside. Then we continue down the path, and everything is so bright and shiny and festive that I feel a bit like Dorothy heading through Munchkinland.
I see Jamie up ahead, and though she's fighting a grin, I can tell she's in heaven.
"And here we have Damien and Nikki Stark, looking ravishing as always," she says, in full-on reporter fashion. She stands by me as she speaks to the camera. "Tonight's event is sponsored by the Stark Children's Foundation. Mr. Stark, could you tell us a bit about what this exceptional organization does?"
"Of course," Damien says smoothly, then gives a succinct rundown of the foundation and its mission to help abused and at-risk kids.
Jamie wraps that up, manages to shift seamlessly from the mission of the foundation to the designer of my dress, and then thanks us both for our time. "And be sure to stay tuned in," she adds before she lets us escape. "There's big news in the Stark family, and you'll get all the scoop in my exclusive interview later this evening."
She flashes a quick grin and I manage an out-of-camera wink as we continue toward the ballroom, and Jamie turns to Academy Award winner Francesca Muratti, who's coming up the red carpet behind us.
"This really is an amazing event," I tell Damien.
"It is."
"Modest much?"
He laughs. "I don't have to be modest. It's not my personal doing. That's why I hire exceptional people."
I just grin. I know how hands-on Damien is about all aspects of Stark International. But the SCF is his passion project, and he's been intimately involved in this event from the get-go.
Lyle Tarpin waves to us from the door, where he's greeting folks individually as they enter the ballroom for the pre-party. Most are celebrities themselves, but some are civilians who bought or were given the pricey event tickets, and in the few moments it takes for us to reach him, I see two young girls practically swoon as they take in his Midwestern good looks and piercing blue eyes.
"I'm never washing this hand again," the taller girl says to her friend as they enter the annex, giggling.
I'm fighting a smile as we reach him. "Look at you," I say. "Reduced to a doorman."
"It was Lyle's idea," Damien says, and I can tell from his tone that he's impressed. Honestly, I am, too. Most celebrity sponsors just mingle inside this kind of party. They believe in the cause, sure. But they don't usually work the door.
"I want people to see how invested I am," Lyle says. "You've done good here, Damien. I'm proud to help."
"We're proud to have you," Damien says as Evelyn steps up to join us, a drink in each of her hands.
She hands one to Lyle, who sets it on a small table beside him, keeping his hands free for greeting arrivals.
"It's the subservient side of my role as his agent," she quips. "He's going to be huge after tonight's premiere. I don't want him getting any ideas about trading me in for a new model."
"Never," Lyle says, shaking hands with an A-list actor whose name I can't remember.
Damien and I continue inside the ballroom, which is set up with standing bars and appetizer stations, all with different themes. The placement of the food and drink stations gently leads party-goers farther inside toward the jazz band and the silent auction.
The main room is decorated with posters taken at the foundation's summer and after-school camps, as well as images of the kids when they were first brought into the system, usually after being removed from their homes and put into foster care. The laughing, smiling children in the camp photos stand in stark contrast to the somber, sad-eyed faces from the earlier images, and I squeeze Damien's hand in silent recognition of what he'd hoped to build--and what he's truly accomplished.
"Mr. Stark!" An enthusiastic young woman bounces across the room and gives him a rib-breaking hug, then bounces some more. "I got accepted! I'm actually going to MIT!"
"That's wonderful, Karen. I had no doubts at all."
As he speaks, I notice a picture of the girl on the opposing wall. In the photo, she's younger than she is now but older than the other kids pictured--probably fourteen or fifteen. For the most part, she looks the same--certainly, there's no overt sign of abuse--but her eyes in the photo seem dead. Not at all like the vibrant girl now quivering with energy and promise.
She gives Damien another hug and then bounces off. "I wrote her a letter of recommendation," Damien explains.
I look at him innocently. "Your staff does everything?"
He smirks, then shuts me up with a kiss.
"Don't you two look cozy?"
I look over Damien's shoulder to see Sylvia grinning at us, Jackson at her side, with Cass and Siobhan a few steps behind, Siobhan's red hair practically crackling under the lights.
"We are," Damien assures her, then pulls me closer.
"You did good," Jackson tells his half-brother. "This is a hell of an event."
When I'd first met Damien, neither one of us knew that Jackson existed, though looking at the two of them now, the resemblance is remarkable. Not so much in specific features, but in the way they hold themselves. All power and control and defiant self-assurance.
Jackson had been secreted away by their shared father, a man whom I revile. Jackson had known about Damien, but had been ordered by their father to stay quiet.
Jeremiah Stark had not only kept Damien away from his brother but he'd also known about the horrible abuse that Damien had suffered as a child at the hand of his coach. He'd allowed it to continue because Damien's athletic success fueled Jeremiah's financial dreams. And now that Damien has made more of himself than anyone ever anticipated, Jeremiah is still constantly in our lives, popping up here and there as he looks for some new angle that will squeeze a dime out of his son. We haven't heard from him in months, though, and I have to assume that the rumor that he's gone to visit friends in Australia is true.
"We're going to see what kind of trouble we can get into bidding in the silent auction. I'm hoping a cruise is up for grabs," Sylvia muses. "I've never been on a cruise."
"She's looking to get into trouble," Cass corrects from behind them. "I'm looking to see how many bidders I have so far."
Cass is Syl's best friend. She owns a tattoo parlor and donated a package to the cause. And, according to Syl, is about the most frugal person on the planet.
"Don't worry, sweetie," her girlfriend Siobhan says with a wicked gleam. "I'll bid if no one else does."
Cass laughs. "Thanks. I was hoping to not be the silent auction wallflower, though."
I can hardly imagine Cass being a wallflower anywhere. She's tall and dark and exotic. Today, her long hair is dyed black with a single streak of blue that matches the tail feathers of the magnificent bird tattooed on her shoulder.
"Well, I'm bidding," Syl says.
"Another tat?" Cass asks her.
Syl shakes her head mischievously.
"I'm thinking it'll be a gift for someone," she says with a meaningful glance at Jackson as she taps the base of her neck.
"We'll see," he says in a tone that sounds more like, "No way in hell."
I laugh. "Thank you both for donating," I say to Cass and Jackson, because Jackson donated a residential design, which considering his standing in the architectural community, is pretty damn generous.
The girls head on to the auction set-up, but Damien pulls Jackson aside, mentioning something about building a rec center on some property in Ventura County that the foundation is looking to acquire.
I linger behind, and am glad I do when Dallas, Jane, and Noah step up to say hi. I'm congratulating Jane again on the movie--and on her incredible red dress--when Damien returns. He kisses Jane's cheek and shakes hands with Dallas and Noah.
"I appreciate the ticket," Noah says. Noah Carter is the tech genius that Damien has been heavily recruiting to join Stark Applied Technology.
"Anything to bring you over to the dark side," Damien says.
Dallas shakes his head in what is clearly mock regret. "I thought he was my friend, but he's leaving me for the lure of a more tech-centric job."
"What exactly did you do for Dallas?" I ask Noah. Dallas Sykes is the CEO of a longstanding department store chain, and before he married Jane, he'd earned the nickname the King of Fuck because of his reputation as a playboy heir who romanced women, spent money, and basically wasted his life.
That's not the Dallas I've gotten to know, and I'm curious about what exactly is hidden under that fine-looking exterior.
"There's tech in retail," Noah says noncommittally.
"And he'll still do freelance work when I need him," Dallas adds, with a clear edge to his voice.
"Always," Noah says. "You know how invested I am."
Dallas nods, and I try not to show how completely baffled I am.
"I know I shouldn't talk work," Damien says to Noah, "but can I borrow you for one second?"
"And I've lost him already," Dallas says with a laugh as Noah steps aside with my husband.
"He didn't bring a date?" I ask Jane. "I'm certain we sent him two tickets."
"He gave the second one to the receptionist at his hotel. Apparently, she's a huge Lyle Tarpin fan."
"That was sweet. But why not--"
"His wife was just pronounced dead," Dallas says softly. "About three months ago."