"You're here," I say stupidly.
"I'm here," he says.
"Right." I look around the condo that has become so familiar to me over the last few days. Right then, it looks like alien territory. I set my bag down on the ground, then ease myself off to the galley-style kitchen. With the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, I'll have a moment of privacy to gather myself.
Except he follows me, then leans up against the refrigerator. I turn away from him toward the sink, but I can feel his eyes on me as I grab a glass from the dish drainer and fill it with water. "So, how come you're here?" I ask brightly, then chug the whole thing down. Only after I've refilled the glass do I turn to look directly at Damien.
His eyes are locked onto me, holding me in place. "I wanted to see you," he says. From his expression, though, I know what he's really saying: I wanted to see if you're okay.
I smile, understanding that his discretion means he hasn't told Jamie what happened. "I'm good," I say. "I went shopping."
"And what woman wouldn't be good after that?"
I raise my brows. "Stereotypical, much?"
He chuckles. "If the shoe fits, Ms. Fairchild."
"Mmm." I try to fight my grin, but lose the battle.
Jamie sidles in from the living room, a vicious grin on her face. Her eyes dart between the two of us. She's in pajama bottoms and a cheap white tank top covered with paint. "I am so freaking late," she says. "I have totally got to run." She practically sprints for the door. "You two be good."
"Jamie! What the hell?" I make a motion with my hand that vaguely indicates her outfit.
"I'm just going next door," she says.
"Douglas?" I hear my voice rise. She is not going over there again. Especially since I know the only reason she's popping over to Mr. Mark On Her Bedpost is because our apartment is now too crowded by one.
"Just a friendly chat," she says. "Cross my heart," she adds, then makes the appropriate motions. Like that's going to make a difference. But she yanks open the door and slips out before I can stop her, and I blurt out a curse contemporaneously with the sound of the door slamming shut.
"We don't like Douglas?" Damien asks.
"Douglas is bad for her," I say. I look him in the eye. "Please tell me that's a concept you understand."
"It is," he says. "I'm also familiar with a number of corollary concepts."
"Such as?"
"Maybe Douglas isn't bad for her at all. Maybe there's just something about him that frightens her. Or you."
"You're very smart, Mr. Stark."
"Thank you."
"But that doesn't mean you know everything."
His mouth twitches, and I feel a little trill of pleasure. I've managed to zing Damien Stark. I wonder how many people can say that?
The humor in his eyes fades quickly, though. "Nikki," he says, his voice as soft and soothing as velvet. "What are you afraid of?"
My stomach twists into knots as I turn away from him and use a hand towel to dry the already dry dishes in the drainer. "I don't know what you mean," I say to a coffee cup.
"Yes, you do," he says. He moves like a cat, so I don't hear him come up behind me. But I feel the change in the air even before he speaks. Even before his hand rests lightly on my shoulder. "You bolted." Gently, he turns me around, then brushes my cheek with his fingertips. "Do I scare you?"
God yes, and in so many ways. Not the least of which is that Damien Stark terrifies me precisely because I feel safe with him. And I can't become complacent. It's when those walls come down that your heart gets shattered.
"Nikki?" His brow is furrowed. He looks miserable, and I can't stand the thought that I'm the cause.
"No," I say, and even though it's not the truth, it's also not a lie.
"Then why?"
"I ... I was embarrassed."
"Were you?"
I glance at the floor. The pull of Damien's touch is so intense that I'm having a hard time thinking. And this is a danger zone. I need to keep a clear head. "Yes," I insist. "I said no, but then you made me so hot that I forgot myself, and when I was able to breathe again I just ran."
"Bullshit." There's disappointment in his voice. And, I think, a little bit of anger.
I swallow.
He takes a step toward me, and I take a corresponding step sideways, easing away down the length of my kitchen counter. Clear head. I need a clear head.
He exhales, and I can sense the exasperation. "I don't like seeing fear in your eyes."
"You're going to be my knight in shining armor?"
The corner of his mouth lifts into an ironic smile. "I think I'm a bit too tarnished for the job."
I can't help but grin. "I guess you'll have to be a dark knight, then."
"I'll fight whatever dragons you want me to," he says with a seriousness that belies my teasing tone. "But you don't need a knight. You're strong, Nikki. Hell, you're exceptional."
I conjure up the Social Nikki smile. "Is that a line you give to all the women you date?"
"Date?" I hear the hardness creeping into his voice. "I've escorted a lot of women around this town, and I've fucked a hell of a lot of them. But I didn't date them."
"Oh." I'm not sure if I'm surprised or angry or sad or relieved. True, I need to end this with Damien; I need to protect myself and my secrets. But that implies that there is something to end, and now I fear that I was right all along--I'm just a conquest. A fast fuck before he moves on. And all that bullshit Jamie said about him wanting me was exactly that--bullshit.
Damien is watching my face, but I can't get a read on his expression.
I turn back around and pick up an already dry bowl and start attacking it with the dishrag I'm still holding. "So that's it? You just fuck them and dump them?"
"That's a bit harsh," he says. "Dump suggests they wanted something more, and I'm quite certain that all they wanted was to be photographed on my arm and have a bit of fun in my bed."
"All of them?" I keep my back to him. This conversation has turned surreal.
"I've gone out with a few women who wanted more. I disentangled myself from those women. And no, I didn't sleep with them."
"Oh." The dish is bone dry, but I'm still moving the rag over it. "So you just don't do relationships?"
"Not with them."
"Why not?"
His hand closes gently on my shoulder and I feel the now-familiar heat. "Because none of them was the woman I wanted," he says as he turns me so that I have no choice but to look at him. His eyes are dark and intense, his voice is like a caress. My heart pounds in my chest, and breathing has suddenly become difficult. I think about the way he looked at me six years ago, that one glance that inspired so many fantasies. But that's not what he means; I know it can't be.
"But you did date someone not too long ago," I say, then immediately regret the words when I see his expression darken. Nice turning to ice.
For a moment, I don't think he's going to answer. Finally, he nods. "Yes," he confirms. "I suppose I did."
So was she the woman you wanted? The question seems to hang in front of me, but I can't say it out loud.
The silence thickens and I feel like an idiot for mentioning the woman in the first place. Finally, I lick my lips. "I heard that she died. I'm so sorry."
His face is hard, his jaw tense with the effort of holding in a strong emotion. "It was tragic." His voice sounds unnaturally tight.
I nod, but I don't pursue it any longer. I don't know why he told me that he didn't date at all when it's so clear that this woman meant something to him, but I'm not going to push. Considering the secrets I'm keeping, I can hardly fault him for holding on to a few of his own.
I'm tired now, though, and I want to be alone. I want to find Jamie and go to the corner store and get ice cream and cookies. I want to watch sappy old movies and sit on the couch and cry.
I want Damien Stark out of my head.
Mostly, I want to try to forget the way his touch makes me feel,
because I need to abandon even the fantasy of Damien Stark. It's too raw, too real. And despite the fact that I know I have to, the thought of pushing him away rips right through my heart.
I pull out Social Nikki and smile brightly as I toss my dish-towel on the counter. "Listen, it was nice of you to come by to check on me. But I'm fine. Really. And I'm actually in a little bit of a hurry. I don't mean to be rude, but ..." I trail off, looking meaningfully at the door.
"Do you have a date tonight, Ms. Fairchild?"
"No!" I blurt out the word, then immediately regret it. If I did have a date--if I was already seeing that special someone--I'd have the perfect excuse for brushing off Damien Stark.
"Where are you going?"
"What?" I blink, because that's not the polite way to play the game. Then again, I haven't yet seen evidence that Stark follows the traditional social norms. Why I thought he'd start now ...
"If you're not going on a date, then where are you going?"
I can hardly tell him about my new cry-on-the-couch plans, so I fall back on a version of my original itinerary. "As a matter of fact, I'm going to grab a smoothie and then go hike Fryman Canyon Park."
"By yourself?"
"Well, I could take the Royal Guard, but I think they're busy."
"It's going to be dark soon."
"It's not even six yet. Sunset's not until eight-thirtyish."
"The sun may not dip below the horizon until then, but there are foothills involved. And once the sun starts to sink, it gets dark fast."
"I'm only going to take a few shots of the view and the sunset. Then I'm coming back. I promise you I won't let the boogey-men get me."
"They won't," Damien says, "because I won't let them. I'm coming with you."
"No," I say. "I appreciate the concern, really I do. But no."
"Then don't go at all. Let me bring the sunset to you."
I can't argue with that, primarily because I have no idea what the hell he's talking about. "What?"
He leaves the kitchen, then comes back in view with a brown paper-wrapped package. From the size and shape, it's obviously something framed. "It reminded me of you."
"Really?" A little trill of pleasure swirls through me.
He puts the package on the kitchen table. "I had intended to give it to you earlier, but you were called away so quickly that I didn't have the chance."
I smirk, but if this is his way of extracting an explanation from me, it is not going to work.
"Maybe I should be grateful," he says. "This way I get to see where you live."
"I haven't really put my stamp on it yet. Jamie's taste runs to Early American Garage Sale."
"And yours?"
"I'm much more refined. I go for Mid-Century Flea Market."
"A woman who knows her own mind. I like that."
From the way he's looking at me, I'd say he likes it very much. I clear my throat and glance at the package. I know I should tell him that I appreciate the thought, but that I can't accept it. But I'm curious to know what's inside it. And I'm warmed by the mere fact that he brought me a gift.
"May I?"
"Of course."
I leave the safety of the kitchen counter and venture to the table. I keep a chair between us, but even that is too close. I can feel his presence, that sense of the air thickening with awareness. I have to work hard to keep my hands steady as I slide my finger under the tape and start to peel back the wrapping.
I see the frame first and know that this is no ordinary trinket. It's simple, but made with incredible craftsmanship. But it's the canvas that truly takes my breath away. An Impressionist sunset that conveys both realism and a heightened sense of reality, as if the viewer were looking at the horizon through the lens of a dream.
"It's stunning," I say, and I can hear the awe in my voice.
I turn to look at him and see pure pleasure reflected in his face. It strikes me that he's been silently anticipating my reaction. Nervously, even. The thought delights me. Damien Stark, worried about what I'd think about his present. "Evelyn mentioned you were enjoying the sunset."
The statement, so casually made, sends another frisson of pleasure through me. "Thank you," I say, the simple words too small to hold the fullness of my feelings.
There's something familiar about the painting, and it takes me a moment to realize its frame matches the ones that lined his reception area. I remember the array of canvases, including the two stunning sunsets.
"Is this from your office?"
"It was. Now it has a new home with a woman who appreciates its beauty."
"Didn't you?"
"Beauty should be shared."
I shift the painting so that I can prop it safely against the wall. And when I do, I see the faded label on the frame. "A Monet? This is a copy, right?"
"It's an original," he says. "If it's not, I'll be having some very stern words with Sotheby's."
"But ... but ..."
"It's a sunset," he says firmly, as if that should quell all my protests. "And it reminds me of you."
"Damien ..."
"And, of course, this gift isn't nearly as precious as the one you left for me in the limo." His eyes sparkle and his grin is devious. I feel a tug of heated pleasure between my thighs.
"Oh," I say.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bit of white satin. Slowly, with his eyes never leaving mine, he lifts the panties to his face and breathes in deep. I see his eyes darken with lust and feel a corresponding tug of longing between my thighs. I clutch the back of the chair to steady myself.
"They made the ride from the restaurant to my house much more enjoyable." His voice slides over me. I want to wrap myself inside it, but all I can do is shake my head.
"Please," I beg. "Please don't start."
For a moment, I think he's going to argue. Then he slips the panties back into his pocket. I swallow, thinking of them there, with him. I wonder if he'll ever give them back. I hope that he doesn't.
We lock eyes, and for a moment it's as if the air has been sucked out of the room. Then he moves toward me, and suddenly I can breathe again as the real world rushes back in around me.
I raise my hand to ward him off. "Damien, no."
"I assure you, Ms. Fairchild, your messages here and at my apartment have been well received." His expression tightens, but I see the humor around his eyes and relax a little.
"Oh. Good. That's good." I take a deep breath. "It's just that you look--"
"How?"
"A bit like the big bad wolf."
"And would that make you Little Red Riding Hood? I may want to devour you, Ms. Fairchild, but I promise you that I'm capable of controlling my urges. Most of the time, anyway."
"Of course. I'm sorry. You just make me ..."
"What?"
"Skittish," I admit.
"Do I? Interesting." He looks pleased by the thought. I frown, feeling exposed.
"Listen, thank you for the painting. It's amazing."
"But you can't accept such an extravagant gift?"
"Hell no. I love it." And I love that he wants me to have it. "I'm perfectly happy to keep it if you really want me to have it. Despite, well, you know ..."
I trail off, and he laughs. "Good. I was afraid that since you're in the habit of denying yourself things that you so obviously want ..."
Zing. Well, he definitely got me with that one.
"Actually, I was going to say that good manners would require me to offer you a drink." I smile sweetly. "But I'm not going to, since I'm hoping you'll leave."
"Because I make you skittish?"
"Pretty much," I confess.
"I see."
Apparently he doesn't, though, because he's still standing there in my apartment.
"Well?" I ask.
"Well, what?"
I sigh. "Well, are you going to go?"
His eyes widen with surprise. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you wanted me to. I thought you were speaking hypothetically.
"
Now it's my turn to laugh. And as I do, I realize I'm not feeling quite so skittish anymore. "I'm going to have a drink. Of course my bourbon's probably not up to your exacting standards. But if you'd like one anyway ..."
"So I can stay?" He looks very smug and self-satisfied. And sexy as hell.
"I guess you'll have to. We only have two highball glasses, and if you take the drink with you, Jamie will get pissed off."
"Wouldn't want to disturb the subtle inner-workings of roommate relations. I accept your invitation."
"Straight up? Or over ice?"
"However you're having it is fine."
I fetch the bourbon from the living room and bring the bottle to the kitchen to pour. "It's a trade-off," I say when I pass him a glass with a few ounces of bourbon and two cubes of ice. "I like it slightly chilled, but if you savor it too long the ice melts and it gets watered down."
"Then we'll have to drink fast," he says, then tilts his glass and tosses it back.
"Sorry, dude. I've already done the wasted thing with you. I'm going to sip mine."
"A shame. You're entertaining when you're drunk." His hand slides into his pocket.
"No way. Don't even go there."
He smiles back at me, and it's a nice moment. Just me and Damien Stark kidding around in my kitchen. Who would've thought?
He pours himself another glass. "I do have one more reason for coming here tonight," he says. "I wanted to check on you, and I wanted to give you the painting. But there's something else, too. I have a proposition for you."
I let the words sink in, trying to analyze my feelings about them. Proposition. That could mean so many things. Something to do with C-Squared. With me. With me and Damien.
I swallow. The best course--the safest course--is to thank him for the present and tell him that I don't even want to hear this latest twist. And yet ...
And yet I want to. I'm playing with fire, and I know it.
But the sad truth is that part of me wants to get burned.
"I'm listening," I say, and then I toss my bourbon back, too. I'm not sure what it is that I'm trying to prove to him, but I meet his eyes with satisfaction.
"Another?" he asks dryly.
"Why the hell not?"
He pours me the drink, then moves close to hand it to me. I stay rooted to the spot. I can feel his heat. I could reach out right then and run my hand over his chest. I could watch as my skin cracked and burned from the fire that is Damien Stark. I don't, but I have to clutch my glass hard against the impulse.