He hands me a glass of wine, and I take it gratefully. "I was scared and alone and overwhelmed. But I did see a counselor, and things started to get better and finally I stopped." I take a sip. "My mother has money," I admit. "Nothing like you have, but she inherited the family oil business when my grandfather passed away, along with a pretty hefty bank account." I don't mention that Mother's ineptitude drove the company into the ground and she ended up selling it. Now she's living on what's in the bank, and the fortune is shrinking every year because she hasn't got a clue how to manage it and refuses to hire an advisor. That's one of the reasons I'm determined to learn how to run a business before I actually have a business to run.
"Anyway, Mother cut me off financially after I declared my majors. Science wasn't what she wanted for her little girl. But that was the best thing for me, because suddenly I didn't have her looking over my shoulder. I didn't have to be perfect. I didn't quit immediately, but it started to get better, and after a while I didn't need to cut anymore."
My words have been pouring out of me. It's more than I've ever told anyone. Even Jamie and Ollie only learned the truth in small doses. But it feels good to get it out, even though the price is the growing ferocity I see in his eyes.
Still, I haven't told him everything....
He puts our glasses on a table by the bed and moves the tray with the food out of the way. Then he pulls me into his arms, so that my head is resting on his shoulder. Slowly, his fingers trail up and down my arm. "I understand, baby. I promise you, I understand."
I squeeze my eyes tight. I believe him.
"But what aren't you telling me?"
I blink at him. "I--how do you know that?"
"The way you ran from me," he says simply.
I ease out of his embrace and roll over on my side.
He presses his palm to my shoulder. I close my eyes.
"What if I say 'sunset'?" My voice is a whisper.
His fingers tighten, then relax. "If you need to." He reaches over me and takes my hand, then twines his fingers with mine. "Or you can just hold tight."
I don't know where to begin, so I start with the easiest. "I never slept with Ollie," I say. "Not the way you understood me, anyway."
He is silent, and so I continue, telling my story to the night sky and to Damien. "It was about a week after Ashley's birthday, a few years after the suicide. I'd mostly stopped cutting, but sometimes--well, sometimes I needed it. But I was getting better. Ollie knew. And Jamie. And they were helping me."
"What happened?"
"I got drunk. I mean wasted drunk. My mom had called and given me some head trip. I missed Ashley something fierce. And I was dating this guy. Kurt. We'd been going out for months, and it had taken me a while, but we started sleeping together, and he would tell me how he didn't mind the scars, that I was beautiful, that it was about me, not my scars or my tits or any of that stuff. Just me and him and our connection. And I believed him and, honestly, the sex was good. We had fun together."
I suck in a deep breath to give me courage to continue. "But this night, we both got wasted. Honestly, I don't even know how he managed to get an erection. But he did, and we did, and afterward he looked at my legs and he"--my voice breaks with the memory--"he told me I was lucky I had a pretty face and such a sweet pussy because I was one totally screwed-up bitch, and my scars made him want to puke."
I take deep breaths, keeping my eyes on the sky and my fingers tight in Damien's hand. Even now, the memory makes me feel sick. I'd trusted Kurt, and he'd completely ripped me apart.
"I went to Ollie," I continue. "He knew about my scars and he was my friend and I knew he was attracted to me. And I tried to seduce him."
"He wouldn't sleep with you," Damien says.
"He wouldn't fuck me," I clarify. "But he took off my jeans and he told me that for some of those scars he remembered what I'd been through, and he told me that he thought I was strong. That he didn't want me cutting anymore. That I was better than my mother and I needed to forget assholes like Kurt and finish school and get the hell out of Texas. Then he held me until I fell asleep."
I manage a watery smile. "I thought he got me through it. Guess I still have some issues to work through, huh?"
I've put a light note in my voice, but Damien doesn't respond to it.
"Damien?" I roll over to look at him, then immediately sit up. He looks angry, like he's barely holding in his fury. I take his hand. "He's ancient history."
"He will be if I ever meet the fucker. What's his last name?"
I hesitate. Considering Damien owns half the universe, I think better of saying it. "No. It's all in the past. I'm over it," I lie.
He eyes me but I look back blandly. "What about the other men you've slept with?"
I frown, surprised by the question. "There haven't been any others. Just my first when I was sixteen--some prep school idiot my mom fixed me up with. And then Kurt." I shrug. "It's okay, though. I mean, I dated and fooled around, but mostly I've been focused on school. I haven't been sitting in an ivory tower wondering why no one's unlocking my chastity belt. And I own a really nice vibrator."
The last makes him burst out laughing. "Do you?"
I can't believe I said that. I consider lying and telling him it was a joke, but instead I just nod.
"Well, maybe someday you can show it to me." His hand slides over my bare ass, and I have to admit that his suggestion sounds pretty tempting, though I'm not sure I'd have the nerve. Then again, where Damien is concerned, I seem to be able to find the nerve for a lot of unexpected things.
"And after Kurt?" Damien asks. "Did you cut anymore?"
"No. There were a few times I really wanted to, but no."
"The garage?"
I remember the figure of a man as I searched for my keys. "That was you?"
"I was worried about the way you left."
"I was scared of what you'd think. You were ... I wanted you, but you were about to see them, and--"
He presses a kiss to my forehead. "I know, baby. Did you cut yourself?"
"I thought about it," I admit. "I even jammed my keys into my flesh. But did I cut?" I shake my head. "No. I didn't."
"And you won't." His voice is hard, earnest. He presses his palms to my cheeks, cupping my face. "You asked if I'll hurt you," he says. "There are a lot of things I do--things I want to do with you. And if there's pain, it's only to bring more pleasure. Okay?"
I nod.
"I won't draw blood. That's not my thing. But even if it was, I wouldn't do it with you. Do you understand that?"
I swallow and nod. I'm slightly embarrassed--this is starting to feel like a counseling session. But at the same time, his words and his concern are making me feel cherished. Like I'm more than just the girl in his bed for the week.
"Do you still need the pain?" he asks.
"I didn't think so," I say. "But then in the car--I wanted it, but I fought it."
"If you need it, you tell me." His voice is hard. Urgent. "Do you understand?"
I nod and curl up close to him and let him stroke my hair. Because I also hear what he doesn't say. That if I need to feel grounded--if I need the pain to feel centered and real and here--then Damien is the one who'll stand at my center. Whatever I need, he'll give.
I shiver a bit. I've never been so exposed to another person, not even Ollie, not even Jamie. And I've never felt more taken care of.
"And what about you, Damien?" I finally ask. "What do you need?"
He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to tell me the secrets he's kept buried deep inside. That he's going to give me a clue as to what really makes Damien Stark tick. Considering how much I opened up, it only seems fair. But then his expression shifts and I see only a playful spark in his eye.
"You," he says, and then he closes his mouth over mine.
22
"Blondie, I swear you are on fire today." Blaine grins at me as I stand in the red robe with the morning light creeping in throug
h the open windows. "So you think you're good? We can take it slow again if you need to."
"I'm good. Thanks. Damien told you why I freaked?" I'd asked Damien to explain to Blaine that my meltdown yesterday didn't have to do with posing as much as it had to do with what Blaine would be painting.
"He did, and I'll tell you exactly what I told him--except for the fact that your scars mean you've been hurting, I am one-hundred-percent cool with having them in the painting. Some models, especially the professional ones, it's like painting air-brushed people. Give me something raw any day. Honest, Nikki. I'll do you right."
"I believe you." I shift a little, and rest one hand on the foot of the bed, my palm cupping the ball at the top of the bedpost. With my other hand, I reach for the drapes. "Something like this, maybe?"
"I'm not sure," Damien says from beside me. His hands close over my waist and he shifts me toward the window. "Maybe if we set up a fan outside? Really get the drapes billowing?"
"You'll need to put back the two you took down," I say with a smirk.
"Huh?" Blaine says, and Damien laughs.
"What do you think?" Damien directs the question toward Blaine and sidesteps my comment about the drapes.
"You're the boss."
"And you're the artist."
Blaine raises an eyebrow and smirks at me. "That's a first. According to Evelyn, our benefactor doesn't take direction from anybody."
"I'm not taking direction," Damien says. "I'm asking your opinion. I didn't say I would accept it."
Blaine studies me, circles me, and finally moves me a few inches to the left. Then back to the right. Then slightly at an angle.
He stands back, his chin in his hand, and looks at Damien, who moves me a few inches forward. Then shifts me to a slightly different angle.
"Boys!" I'm beginning to feel like the paid chattel I am.
"Actually, that looks good," Blaine says. "Stay there. I think I'm having a moment of brilliance."
I try hard not to move, while at the same time looking sideways at him.
"How do you feel about a reflection?" Blaine asks Damien, then brushes past me before Damien can respond. "I swear, this is going to be amazing." He pulls out one of the window panels, leaving the wall mostly open except for one pane of glass in front of me. "You see? I'm right, aren't I?"
He moves back toward the humongous canvas he's propped up against a table. He shifts a bit as if looking for something, then points. "There. Her reflection on the glass, the breeze, and the woman herself facing out. It will be stunning."
"Her face?" Damien asks.
"Hidden. Probably looking down. And the reflection will be muted. Nothing graphic. Trust me. It will look exceptional."
"I like it," Damien says. "Nikki?"
I force myself not to turn to face him, in case that messes up the composition. "I have a say?" I ask playfully. "I thought you bought me lock, stock, and barrel."
"Stocks are tempting," he growls, moving into my line of sight. He glares at Blaine. "Yes. I want the reflection. I want as much of her as I can get. I haven't had enough this morning."
My cheeks flame because that's a rather private joke. We'd been in the shower when Blaine had pounded on the front door. And not just getting clean. I'd been about to follow up my breakfast of fruit and cheese with a delicious serving of Damien. But Blaine's arrival put a damper on that--and I'm afraid it left Damien a little grumpy.
I smile sweetly again. "By the way, isn't it Tuesday? Aren't you supposed to be out of town?" I remember Carl saying that the original meeting was bumped to Saturday because Damien would be away on business at the time of the originally scheduled slot.
He looks at me blankly, and then his face clears. "No," he says. "I have no plans outside of the office today."
"Oh." It takes me a second, but I figure out what he'd done. He wanted to see me sooner rather than later, and he'd lied to Carl to make that happen.
"Somebody broke a rule," I say. "No lying."
His grin is pure evil. "I never said the rule applied to me."
Blaine laughs, and so do I. But some small part of me can't help but cringe. I never said the rule applied to me.
I know he's teasing, but at the same time, I'm certain he means it. The rule doesn't apply to him. Has Damien been lying to me? Maybe not maliciously, but simply because he can? Because sometimes it's easier?
I think about the questions he's avoided, the times he's shifted our conversations. Is he just being a guy? Silent and unsharing? Is he simply inscrutable?
Or is he hiding something?
I recall what else Evelyn said. About how after Damien's rough youth she couldn't blame him for being closed off. For being a little damaged.
I think about the Damien who's held me and kissed me and laughed with me and teased me. I've seen a lighter side of Damien Stark. A side that most people don't know. But have I yet to see the dark?
"Yo. Blondie!"
Blaine's voice pulls me from my thoughts. He's motioning for me to move again. I do, and then finally--finally--settle into what Blaine deems the perfect pose.
Damien slides in to press a kiss to my forehead. "Tonight," he says. "I have meetings all day, but I'll text you with the details. Edward's ready to take you home whenever you're done."
"I could keep her here all day," Blaine says. "She's a fabulous subject."
"All day?" I squeak. I've been posing for no time at all, and my muscles are already stiff.
"I said I could," Blaine clarifies. "I think Mr. Big Shot Businessman will fire me if I tire you out or keep you too long."
"I certainly will," Damien says. He lowers his voice. "I have plans for her." His voice curls around me, running through me, sending blood pulsing to all sorts of interesting places.
"There you go," Blaine says. "I like that color on your cheeks, Blondie."
I can't move, of course, but I'm seething as Damien leaves, chuckling softly as he descends the marble staircase.
After he's gone, Blaine is a whirlwind of activity, in constant motion, looking, sketching, giving orders, adjusting lights. Despite the overtly erotic nature of his work, he's actually a hoot to work with, and as far as I can tell there's not a dark bone in his body.
"Evelyn's dying to see you again," he says when we're finally wrapping up. "She wants the gossip on Damien."
I slip the robe back on and tie the sash around my waist. "Really? I get the feeling she's the one who has all the gossip. On Damien and on everybody else."
"Sounds to me like you've got my lady nailed."
"I really do need to give her a call," I admit. "I've been wanting to see her, too. Maybe we can see each other tomorrow."
He gives me an odd look and shakes his head. "Get out of here, Blondie. You're messing with my concentration."
"Oh." I'm not sure how the conversation slipped away, but maybe Blaine is just showing off an artistic temperament. "You're sure it's okay if I go? I mean, how can you paint me if there's no me to paint?"
"It's amazing how much of painting from life doesn't actually require the living to be present." He makes a shooing gesture with his paintbrush. "Go. Edward's probably bored out of his mind."
"He's just waiting out there?" I had assumed I'd need to call him or something.
I get dressed quickly, then grab my stuff and hurry down the stairs, but before I do I also grab the Leica and take a few quick shots of the room, of the painting in progress, and of Blaine. "This kind of thing doesn't happen to me often. I'm keeping a record."
"Blondie," Blaine says, "I know the feeling."
Edward isn't at all put out by how long I've taken. Apparently he likes to sit in the Town Car and listen to audiobooks. "Last week it was Tom Clancy," he says. "This week, Stephen King."
On the ride from Malibu back to Studio City, Edward listens to his book and I listen to my thoughts. Or I try to. There's so much going on in my head--Damien, my job search, Damien, the portrait, the million dollars, Damien, Jamie and Ollie. And,
oh yeah, Damien.
I lean my head back, half-dozing and half-thinking, and before I know it, Edward has pulled up in front of the condo and is walking around to open the door for me.
"Thanks for the lift," I say as I climb out.
"It was my pleasure. And Mr. Stark asked me to be sure you got this. He said to tell you it's for this evening." He hands me a white box tied with a piece of white twine. I take it from him, surprised to find there is essentially no weight to the box at all.
I'm curious about the box, but I'm more curious about my job prospects, so I toss the box on the bed as I enter my room, where I immediately fire up my computer and pull up my resume. This probably qualifies as anal, but I don't want to call Thom, my headhunter, without having my resume in front of me. What if he has a question about the exact date one of my apps went on sale? What if he needs to know the title of the research paper I presented during my summer internship two years ago. What if he wants me to change the font and then resubmit the thing?
As soon as I've printed a copy, I dial Thom's direct dial. "I know you just got my resume yesterday," I say, "but I wanted to check and see if you'd had any nibbles."
"I've had more than a nibble," he says. "I've had a bite."
"Seriously?" A sudden image of Damien asking why I didn't just go work for him pops into my head. "Wait. With who?"
"Innovative Resources," he says. "Familiar with them?"
"No," I admit, sagging a bit with relief. I'm having a perfectly lovely time lost in my fantasy with Damien. But while silk sashes and blindfolds may get me hot in the bedroom, I don't think I want to bow to the amount of control Damien would demand in the boardroom. "What kind of bite?"
"They want to schedule an interview. They're short-staffed and they're busy. They'd like to see you in the office tomorrow afternoon. Can you make it?"
"Absolutely," I say, certain Blaine won't mind. If I set the interview for two, that should be plenty of time to get in a full session, return to Studio City, get changed, and make it to wherever Innovative is located.
Thom promises me that he'll set it up, and that he'll pull some information on the company and send it over so that I can prep. I hang up the phone, drop the professional attitude, and do a wild dance out of my bedroom and out into the hall. I pound on Jamie's door, but she's not there, so I take my dance into the kitchen, pop the top on a Diet Coke, and go wild. Because it's a celebration, I even dig into my secret stash and pull out the frozen Milky Way I keep hidden behind the ancient TV dinners.