Claim Me

  I would appreciate it if you would do me the honor of wearing this dress tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild. And then perhaps you will do me the even greater honor of taking it off.

  I realize too late that Jamie is behind me, reading over my shoulder. "How did you get so lucky? The guy is seriously swoon-worthy."

  "Totally," I agree, smiling.

  She flops down on the bed while I unzip the garment bag, and then laugh. I'd fallen in love with the dress while we were shopping yesterday. It hits mid-thigh and is made out of dusty-blue chiffon. It's not fitted, but the pleated front and flowy design make it fun and flirty, and I cannot wait to put it on with my favorite pair of clunky silver sandals and a matching silver bangle.

  I hold it up for Jamie to see. "What do you think?"

  "I think you're going to look hotter than sin in that dress," she says. "Can I raid your closet? I'm bored out of my mind with my clothes."

  "Jamie, you're a size four. I haven't been that small since I escaped from Mother and learned about the existence of that mysterious substance I like to call food."

  She sighs and eyes my new dress lustfully. "I need my own billionaire boyfriend."

  "I don't disagree," I say. "I find him a highly desirable accessory."

  "Wanna go shopping?" Jamie asks. "I'm serious about my wardrobe crisis."

  I glance at my phone. Still no word from Damien. "Sure," I say. "But give me a sec to change and feed the cat. And can we get some real dinner while we're out? Vodka isn't one of the major food groups."

  "It's not?" Jamie retorts, displaying her stellar acting skills by putting real bafflement into her tone. She heads to her room as I go to the kitchen. Lady Meow-Meow appears the minute I pop the pull-top on her kitty food, and she head-butts the back of my leg until I finally put the food dish down in front of her.

  I'm in my room stripping off my work clothes when Jamie calls to me. "How'd he get in the apartment?"

  "Beats me," I say, though I can guess. He probably bribed the manager, who's just wacky enough to have been amused by the thought of a surprise bed delivery.

  I change into one of the math T-shirts Jamie maligned earlier--friends don't let friends derive drunk--and a pair of jeans. It's the first time I've worn jeans since Blaine started the portrait, actually, and I hesitate before zipping them up, feeling a bit naughty. Like I'm breaking a rule.

  I'm not, of course. The game's over. If I want to wear jeans, I can.

  And if I want to go pantyless under a skirt? Well, I can do that, too.

  I'm grinning as I leave my bedroom, but my mood shifts when I get back to the living room and the giant bed that overwhelms the space. I'd been so happy when I walked in and saw it there, as if I were being bathed in a flood of special memories.

  Now that happiness is mixed with a tinge of some unpleasant emotion, though I'm not entirely sure what is troubling me.

  I move to the bed and press my palm against the smooth round ball of the footboard. I'm thrilled that the bed wasn't shipped off to a warehouse somewhere or sold to an antiques store, but at the same time, I'm undeniably melancholy.

  "It doesn't belong here," I say, when Jamie returns and asks me what's wrong.

  "The bed?"

  "It's supposed to be at the Malibu house. Not here," I repeat. "It feels like an ending somehow."

  I remember the story Damien told me. About how he sacrificed a deal he was passionate about in order to save the tiny gourmet food producer. I didn't like the story then, and I like it even less now.

  Jamie is silent for a moment as she stares intently at me. "Oh, shit, Nik," she finally says. "Don't even."

  "What?"

  "Don't go all Psych 101 on me. You're looking for all sorts of meanings that aren't there. You do this all the time."

  "I do not."

  "Well, maybe not all the time, but you did it with Milo."

  "That was freshman year of high school."

  "So maybe 'all the time' was a tiny exaggeration," she concedes. "My point is that you had a crush on him and he was a senior, remember?" I nod, because I remember it well. "And it was cold one day, and he lent you his letter jacket."

  "And we spent a week trying to analyze what his underlying motivation was." Oh, yes. I remember.

  "Turns out he was motivated by the fact that you were cold and he was nice."

  "And your point?"

  "Do you like the bed?" she asks.

  "I love it," I admit.

  "Does Damien know you love it?"

  "Sure."

  "So there you go. You like the bed. Damien likes you--understatement of the year, but there you have it. I'm sure that when you move in, you can take the bed back there with you."

  "When I move in?" The idea is both terrifying and exciting.

  "That's what you want, right? Not that I'm trying to kick you out, but a girl's gotta face reality."

  Yes, I almost say, but then I close my mouth and start over. "It's too soon to even think about that."

  "Shit, Nik. You want it. Own it."

  "Fine," I say. "I want it. But leaping into things that we want isn't always the best course of action. Sometimes, a little thought and discretion make a lot of sense."

  "This isn't about me," she says, totally catching on to the way I've shifted the subject.

  I sigh. "Maybe it should be. You're not exactly one to be giving relationship advice."

  "True. But you asked. So which one of us is the idiot here? Besides," she continues as I stifle a grin, "maybe I'm turning over a new leaf. Monogamy can be fun. I mean, I can't imagine getting tired of Raine." Her face turns dreamy. "Actually, after last night I don't think I can imagine Raine getting tired."

  I laugh, but have to silently admit that I know the feeling.

  "So I keep the bed?"

  "Hell, yes, you keep the bed. For that matter, keep it in the living room for a day or so. Margarita sleepover tonight after shopping?"

  "With movies?"

  "Nothing sappy," she says. "I'm not in the mood to cry. Action. I want to see shit being blown up."

  And right then, that sounds like a pretty damn perfect evening to me.

  9

  After stuffing our faces at Haru Sushi & Roll Cafe and emptying our wallets at the Beverly Center, Jamie and I settle in with a blender full of tequila, frozen limeade, and just a splash of Cointreau. We already had sake with dinner, and we're both tipsy enough to sing along with the Christmas-themed rap song at the beginning of Die Hard.

  We're right at the point when Bruce Willis is making fists with his toes in the bathroom when Jamie's phone rings. She glances at it, then squeals and jumps off the bed before running to her room for privacy.

  Bryan Raine, I presume.

  I debate continuing with the movie--for all I know, she's going to stay on the phone with him all night--when my own phone rings. I don't bother looking at the screen; I just tap the button on my headset and answer the call. "Damien?"

  "Are you okay?"

  It takes me a minute to realize what he's talking about. The paparazzi. "How is it you know every little thing that happens to me? Did you task a satellite? Are there tiny transmitters hidden in the clothes you've bought me?"

  "Every person in the world with a smartphone and a social media account saw pictures of you today," he says. "And, frankly, I like the satellite idea. I'll get my aerospace division to look into that."

  "Great."

  "I asked you a question, Nikki. Are you okay?"

  I want to snap at him for not giving me credit for taking care of myself, but the worry in his voice is genuine. So I say simply, "Yes. I'm fine."

  "They mentioned Ashley." His voice is as gentle as I ever heard it, and it is that tone as much as the mention of my sister that brings tears to my eyes.

  "I know what you're thinking, but it wouldn't have mattered," I say. "No one was around the building when I arrived. They came later. Even if Edward had driven me, he would have been long gone by then."

  "We'l
l talk about it later," he says, and though I know I should argue, I'm happy to shove the topic off into some future neverland. "Tell me about the rest of your day," he says.

  "Do I have to?"

  "Not good?"

  I consider the question. "Not bad, but I spent most of the day with this guy on my team named Tanner who turned out to be a backbiting little prick. Jamie thinks he's the one who called the paparazzi."

  "And made a few suggestions about corporate espionage?" I'm surprised to hear amusement in Damien's voice. "I must say you're a most lovely spy."

  "You're not pissed?"

  "I'm livid," he says. "I don't take those kinds of accusations lightly. If your little prick initiated them, I'll find out."

  "Oh. You sounded like you thought it was funny."

  "The situation, no. I'm merely anticipating the joy of decimating whoever started a rumor like that. I will stand for a lot of things, but corporate espionage isn't one of them. And suggesting that my girlfriend is my spy makes it that much worse."

  I swallow. I tease Damien about the extent of his empire all the time, but sometimes I forget just how wide a net he casts and just how much power he really has. He will find out who started that rumor, be it Tanner or someone else. And I do not doubt that he'll destroy them.

  Like Ollie has said--Damien is dangerous. To his enemies, at least.

  "This is not my first choice for a topic of conversation," he says.

  "Nor mine," I say, relieved. "Tell me about your day."

  "I'd rather hear what you're doing right now. Where are you?"

  "On our bed," I say. "Thinking of you."

  "Are you really? I can picture you," he says. "Lying back, hair on the pillow, your naked body stretched out on top of the duvet."

  I can't help but laugh. "As much as I love the fantasy, jeans and a ratty T-shirt are closer to the truth. Jamie's in the other room. Which reminds me--where are you? You're not still in Palm Springs, are you?"

  "The day was interminable. I'm in the limo now, getting close to LA. I'm going to send a driver to pick you up. I want you home when I get there." The heat from his voice is enough to melt me, and I make a little sighing noise as I lie back with my eyes closed and let the whiskey-smooth words wash over me.

  "I want you in bed," he continues. "I want you naked."

  My smile is lopsided and a little drunk. "But the bed's here," I remind him. I roll over and stretch my arm out across it, pretending that I'm reaching for Damien.

  "The apartment," he says. "The security desk will give you the codes to get inside. Naked, Nikki. Leave your clothes in a pile by the door so I can see them when I get home. I want to know you're inside and that you're wet and that you're waiting for me."

  My lips are parted, and my breathing is shallow. Little shivers of electricity race across my skin, and I close my eyes, lost to the power of his words.

  "There's wine in the fridge. Pour yourself a glass and sip it. Take it to the living room. You'll be thinking of me, Nikki, alone in my house. Alone in all those places I've fucked you. You'll lie down on the couch with your wine beside you. One hand on the glass, one hand on your breast. Maybe a dab of wine on your fingertips as your hand drifts lazily over your body. You'll be thinking of me, won't you, baby?"

  "Yes." I can barely speak.

  "Your breasts. Your nipples. The insides of your thighs. I want you wet for me, baby. A little drunk and a whole lot wet."

  "Damien." I barely breathe his name. His words have gone to my head like the wine he wants me to drink--like the margaritas I already have drunk. My teeth graze over my lower lip, and I realize that I'm making small, gyrating movements with my hips, the pressure of the seam of my jeans against my throbbing sex taking me so very, very close.

  "Do you understand?" he asks.

  "Mmm."

  "And when you get my text that I'm pulling in to the garage, I want you to go in the bedroom and lie facedown on the bed. Then spread your legs. I'll be there soon, and when I step into the bedroom the first thing I want to see is you wide open and wet for me. I've missed you today, Nikki," he adds, his voice a low, demanding growl. "I need to touch you. I want my hand on your cunt when you come, and I want to hold you tight as you tremble in my arms. Mostly, I want to hear you scream my name."

  I can't help myself--I moan aloud.

  "What?" Jamie calls from her bedroom. Her voice fills the apartment. And completely erases the sensual haze to which I have succumbed.

  I sit up, my head throbbing with both the motion and the realization that I was very close to getting off with my best friend in the next room.

  "Nothing," I shout to her. "I'm just talking to Damien."

  "Sorry, what?" she says, poking her head out of the door. "I'm off the phone. Ready to start the movie again?"

  "I--" I hesitate, drawing in a deep breath. I'm still limp and tingly simply from Damien's words, and I want nothing more than his touch. But I've seen so little of Jamie lately, and now we're in the middle of a girls' night and--

  I draw in a breath. "Hang on," I tell Jamie. "I'm on the phone."

  "Oh. Sorry." She disappears into the kitchen.

  "You still there?" I say into the phone.

  "Always."

  "Listen, what you just said, it sounds wonderful--"

  "I'm very glad you think so."

  "But I can't. Not tonight."

  There is silence.

  "Damien? You there?"

  "I'm here." I can tell nothing from his tone.

  "It's just that Jamie and I are doing a girls' night, and--"

  "It's okay," he says, and this time I hear the emotion in his voice. There is regret, yes. But I think there is also understanding. "I'm disappointed."

  "Me, too," I say. "You going to survive without me?" I add, trying to add some lightness.

  "It will be hard," he says, "but it's probably for the best."

  "Thanks a lot," I say, and laugh.

  "I have a stack of reports I need to get through this weekend. If I can get through them tonight, then Saturday and Sunday are yours."

  "In that case, I have no guilt whatsoever. Go forth and review, buy, trade, or barter. Whatever it is you do to keep the Damien Stark universe from collapsing."

  "I'll get right on that," he says evenly. "And I'll see you tomorrow. You can tell me all about your first day then."

  "Okay."

  "Until then," he whispers, "think of me, touching you."

  "I always do," I say, before we end the call.

  I'm grinning as I toss my phone down beside me on the bed, and when I turn and see Jamie come back from the kitchen with a bag of chips and a bowl of salsa, I can't help but smile even wider. "How can you even think about eating more? I'm stuffed."

  "Like anyone could be too full for chips." She crawls back onto the bed and nods at the phone. "Did he want you to come over tonight?"

  "He wanted me at the apartment when he got home from the desert," I say. And, yeah, I'm still smiling. I may not be going, but the thought is still nice.

  "Seriously?" Jamie leans over and feels my forehead.

  I shrug away. "What are you doing?"

  "Checking for fever. Are you ill? I thought that all Damien had to do was crook his finger and you'd come."

  "I told him we were hanging out tonight," I say. And then, because I just can't resist, I add, "And for the record, you're right. He crooks his finger, and I most definitely come."

  Jamie rocks with laughter, and after another slug of margarita, I join in. We settle back against the pillows and watch as Alan Rickman joins the party. Soon Bruce is kicking butt and taking names and we're glued to the screen. Since this is Jamie's favorite classic action flick, I've seen it at least a dozen times, but I still jump when Rickman kills the boss.

  Naturally, that's when my phone rings again.

  It's Ollie.

  "Hey," I say. "What's up?"

  "Are you with Stark?"

  It's an innocent enough question, I supp
ose, but I stiffen anyway. "No. Why?"

  He sighs, and I realize he heard the terseness in my voice. "I just didn't want to interrupt. Swear to God."

  "Sorry. No, I'm at home."

  "Yeah? That's cool. So would you be up for getting a drink?"

  "Now?" The truth is, there was a time when I wouldn't have hesitated. So what that I'm supposed to be in the middle of a girls' night in? Ollie could totally come over and join the movie marathon, or we could all go out and get plastered.

  But things have shifted so much between us that instead of being psyched to hang with him, I'm wary. And that saddens me. Lately, every time I see Ollie, bits of my life come crashing down around my ears. And I do not want another piece to get chipped away if I can help it.

  Still, this is Ollie talking, and I'm not ready to give up on us. "Do you want to just hang?" I ask. "Or is there something you want to talk about?"

  He's silent for a moment, and I know he's also aware of the storm clouds between us. We know each other too well. "Both," he finally admits. "Oh, hell, Nikki. This is bullshit, and you know it, too."

  I do know it, but I'm not inclined to admit it. "What is?" I say.

  "Charles mentioned the party at Stark's tomorrow," he says, referring to Charles Maynard, his boss and the attorney who's represented Damien for over a decade. "He just assumed I was invited, too, what with me and you being me and you." He's trying to be matter-of-fact, but I hear the hurt in his voice.

  "Ollie--"

  Beside me, Jamie shifts her attention from her iPhone to me. Apparently this one-sided conversation is more interesting than clearing out her junk email.

  "I think this is the first time you've thrown a party that I wasn't invited to," Ollie says.

  "I'm not the one throwing it," I say, but the words are hollow despite their truth. If I'd asked, Damien would have let Ollie come to the party. If it was important to me, I am certain that he would have pushed his disdain aside.

  But I hadn't asked, because I understood why Damien didn't want Ollie there. I'd chosen the man in my bed over my lifelong friend, and I do not regret the decision.

  He sighs. "It's just--look, I'm sorry, okay? I get that you're with the guy. And, yeah, I have my issues with him, but if this means that we can't be friends anymore ..."

  He trails off, and I squeeze my eyes closed tight. "I don't want to screw up our friendship, either," I finally say, and then I let the thought hang. As far as I'm concerned, Ollie's the one who's built the wall. He can damn well be the one who starts tearing it down.