Claim Me

  "Drink first," she says. "Tour later."

  "Come on, then." I lead her to the marble stairs and we climb up to the third floor. The second floor is really more of a balcony or mezzanine and has no enclosed rooms. Instead, it is an area that is accessed from either a set of stairs near the kitchen or from the small service elevator. What makes the floor unique is that it serves as a library, and as our climb takes us even with that level, I hear Jamie suck in air. "Wow," she says.

  "Amazing, huh? The workers just finished the shelving a few days ago. I have no idea where Damien was storing all those books." From our perspective on the stairs we appear to be completely surrounded by cherrywood bookshelves filled top to bottom with every volume imaginable, ranging from rare first editions to spine-broken sci-fi paperbacks that Damien has read over and over again.

  Like the rest of the house, one entire wall is made of glass and looks out over the ocean. This glass, however, is especially designed to block damaging rays that could harm the books. Four leather armchairs make up the focal point of the reading area. They are a deep, chocolate brown and they are covered with a buttery soft leather that I happen to know feels wonderful against naked skin.

  Even with no enhancements, the library would be awe-inspiring. Tonight, though, it is magical. Damien must have had a crew working all day, because the intricate iron railing now sparkles with strings of white lights. They glow softly, invitingly, and when we ascend the stairs and pass by them, the twinkle of lights gives the illusion that we are passing by the stars and entering heaven.

  I've brought my Leica tonight, despite the fact that my camera bag does nothing for the stunning blue dress that Damien bought me, and I pause on the stairs long enough to take a photo of Jamie with the lights shining behind her.

  I tuck the camera back into the bag and we continue up to the third floor, then step out onto the landing. Beside me, Jamie gasps. I do, too.

  Because the first thing I see is me, my naked body, standing strong and bound for the world.

  "Not a bad way to greet visitors, eh, Texas?" Evelyn smiles broadly as she hurries over to envelop me in a very un-LA-like bear hug. Evelyn is not an air kiss kind of woman. "You are as gorgeous in that painting as you are in real life," she says, adding another squeeze to the hug.

  She releases me and turns to face Jamie. "And you must be Jamie."

  "I guess I must be."

  "Well, then, turn around and let me have a look at you."

  I've never seen Jamie intimidated, but I think she's a little bowled over by Evelyn because Jamie spins without complaint, showing off the red sheath dress she purchased for the party.

  "Good ass, nice tits. Definitely got the face and the hair."

  "What?" Jamie asks, deadpan. "Is there something wrong with my legs?"

  Evelyn snorts and looks at me. "I like her." She turns back to Jamie. "Texas tells me you're an actress."

  "Trying to be," Jamie says.

  "Well, assuming you can actually act, you've got the right equipment to make it in this business. And between you and me, your assets are good enough that you can probably even make it without that pesky talent thing."

  "I can act," Jamie assures her.

  "You find me later. We'll talk. I may not be in the business anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't still have a hand in the pie."

  "Sure." If Jamie smiles any broader, she's going to injure her facial muscles. "Thank you. That would be great."

  Evelyn turns to signal one of the waitresses, and as she does, Jamie faces me. Wow, she mouths. I know, I reply.

  When the waitress arrives with a tray topped with wine and champagne, Evelyn hands a glass to each of us. "Come on in, girls. No point in standing here on the landing all night." She indicates the room, which is now sparsely furnished in the same style as the first floor. Considering the care that Damien took in decorating the library, I assume that these furnishings are for tonight only, probably leased from a company that stages real estate for sale.

  Scattered among the tables, chairs, and small sofas are easels displaying Blaine's work. Unlike my portrait, those canvases are actually on sale tonight. The artist himself fidgets with one easel, adjusting the angle of a small canvas featuring a nude on an Oriental rug. Evelyn lifts her hand in a wave, but Blaine doesn't see her.

  "Come on," she says, taking my friend's arm. "I'll introduce you to the man of the hour. Nikki, if you're looking for Damien, he said he was going to go change. By the way, looks like great minds think alike. Turns out he did help Giselle get the paintings back from Palm Springs. Edward was bringing some in from the limo yesterday when I was finishing up."

  "Oh." Her words surprise me, because Damien hadn't mentioned that he'd seen Giselle, and I feel a little finger of irritation start to claw at me. I force myself to shake it off. I'm just sensitive because Giselle is suddenly, inexplicably in my orbit, what with Palm Springs and Tanner's strange comment. And now past jealousies are poking up their little heads. But I don't want to be that girl, and I smack down their green-eyed little faces.

  As Evelyn leads Jamie to Blaine, I head into the kitchen, planning to drop off my camera bag and continue to the closet.

  I don't get that far, however, because as I'm hooking the Leica strap over my arm and putting the bag in one of the cabinets, I see Damien coming down the hallway from the bedroom area. I stop what I'm doing, and stand frozen, simply staring at him. He's wearing pressed black pants and a collarless black jacket over one of the starched white shirts I love so well. It's unbuttoned, and the open shirt paired with the jacket gives him the quality of a powerful rebel. He looks so breathtakingly sexy that I have a hard time believing that he is real, much less that he's mine. On the contrary, he must be a fantasy that I have conjured. A dream in which I'm now living. A perfect dream from which I do not wish to wake.

  He's holding his phone and speaking low, so that I can only make out a few words. But from his tone, I can tell that the subject is urgent, and that he is bothered.

  I think about last night and wonder if this is more fallout. Maybe it's his father. Or maybe it has to do with Stark International's legal troubles in Germany.

  After a moment, he frowns, ends the call, and slides the phone into his pocket. For a fleeting instant, I can see the irritation on his face. Then it is wiped away, as if he has willed the universe to behave, and the universe has no choice but to agree. Damien Stark is a man who gets what he wants, however he wants.

  When he looks in my direction, I see in his eyes that what he wants right now is me.

  His smile is as potent a greeting as any kiss could ever be. It is like something inside me has come undone and I rush to him, then throw myself in his outstretched arms. He pulls me close, and the last wisps of jealousy disintegrate under the touch of this man.

  When I've had my fill of him--though, really, I can never have my fill of him--I ease back and smile. "Missed you."

  "Missed you more."

  "Is everything okay?"

  He eyes me oddly. "Of course. Why?"

  "I saw you just now. On the phone, I mean."

  For a moment, the irritation is back. "It's nothing," he says. "Something I thought was under control has turned out to be more volatile than I expected. Nothing to worry about, though." He tilts my chin up and gazes into my eyes for so long that I feel as though I am going to fall in. Then he smiles, so slowly and sweetly that I cannot help but sigh. "You look beautiful," he says, after we've stood like that, lost in each other, for what feels like a lifetime.

  "Thank you for the dress." I do a small turn to show it off. "And for the bed." I'm looking right at him as I speak, so there is no missing the shadow that crosses his face. "Damien? What is it?"

  He hesitates, and I see the ghost of a frown before it fades into a smile. "I'm just very pleased you like them."

  "Of course I do." Worried, I look in his eyes, the dark one seeming to draw me in and the amber one bathing me in a warm, loving glow. Whatever hesitation I t
hought I'd seen has faded, but I am not soothed. There are things he wants to say to me, and yet he is not saying them. I start to press, but hold back. Now is not the time.

  "We should join the party," I say.

  "In a minute." He pulls me closer to him, so that my breasts are pressed against his chest and my chin is tucked onto his shoulder. I breathe deeply, memorizing the scent of him, all musk and masculine spices.

  "How is it that I can miss you so much when you're not beside me?" he asks.

  "I don't know," I whisper. "But I could ask the same question."

  "Oh, Nikki." The last sound of my name is cut off as his mouth closes roughly over mine.

  My body melts against him, and I feel myself opening up. I want him. I want him now. Here. On the goddamn stove if we have to, but I want to know that this man is mine. I want to claim him. I want to fuck him.

  And I'm frustrated as hell because none of that is going to happen. Not now, with our friends on the other side of this wall, just a few feet away.

  Reluctantly, I break the kiss, then extend my hand to him.

  "Are we observing formalities, Ms. Fairchild?"

  "We are, Mr. Stark."

  He laughs, then presses a soft kiss to my palm that makes my thighs tremble and my nipples tighten almost painfully.

  Damien eyes me, a smug smile on his beautiful face. "Me, too, Ms. Fairchild."

  I aim a prim smile at him. "I don't know what you're talking about. But I will say that you look dashing as usual." I nod toward the next room. "Shall we mingle?"

  We leave the kitchen and join the other three, who have moved to the balcony. Evelyn is entertaining Jamie with stories about her television and movie deals back in the day, and Blaine presents a mock frown of frustration as Damien and I approach. "We've lost them," he says. "Once she starts talking Hollywood, she never stops. And I think she's found the perfect audience."

  "She has," I agree, lifting my camera to take a few shots of the two women deep in animated conversation. "Jamie can talk classic television and old movies for days, but she's just as happy if the conversation shifts to current sitcoms."

  "In other words, they're going to keep each other occupied all night," he says.

  "Not all night," I say. "I need some Evelyn time, too." I say the words lightly, but I'm completely serious. It feels as if it's been years, but it was only yesterday we spoke at my office. Evelyn knows about something that's going on with Damien. Something she says I don't need to worry about. But I am worried. And I intend to get answers.

  I focus on Blaine and force a smile. "Right now, I want to see your other paintings," I tell him. "Will you show us?"

  "Sure." The three of us head back inside and Blaine leads us around the room, pausing at the various canvases so that he can describe what he was going for in a particular scene. There is a similarity in all of them, both in color and in theme. Blaine has bound each of the models in some way, and though the images never cross the line into what I consider bad taste, some do display an intimacy that I would never have agreed to. Some even remind me of the pose Damien had me in last night.

  There is one that particularly catches my eye. The model is on a chaise, her legs draped over either side. Two black ribbons bind her legs in position. Another ribbon ties one arm up above her head. Only one hand is free, and it is draped between her legs in such a way that it is clear she is touching herself. Her nipples are erect, her areolae puckered. The muscles in her belly are taut. Though her face is partly turned from view, there is no hiding her arousal.

  I don't bother to ask Blaine what he intended with that image; I know only too well. There is an excitement to being bound. To being helpless. A sensual thrill that comes from trusting fully and abandoning modesty at the command of your lover.

  Damien presses his hand lightly against my back, and I shiver, imagining that it is me touching myself, and Damien who is watching. I tense, my skin suddenly too sensitive and too damn hot. I feel tiny drops of perspiration bead at my hairline and take a step forward, needing to either break contact with Damien or beg him to take me right there on the floor.

  As I move away, I catch his eye.

  Yes, he mouths, and his smile holds so much wicked promise that I go weak in the knees.

  Honestly, it's a miracle that I don't just melt.

  Blaine, thank God, is so caught up in his procession of art that he doesn't notice our near tryst. We move from canvas to canvas, Blaine pointing out details about the composition or the color, telling stories about the models and how they came to him. Most were simply girls looking to make a little extra money. Some posed for free because they wanted the experience. And at each portrait, there is Damien's hand on my back, and my body becoming increasingly, desperately needy.

  My nipples, now erect and sensitive, rub provocatively against the soft chiffon with every step I take. My sex feels swollen, begging to be touched. I am wildly turned on, and there's not a thing I can do about it.

  It's torture, but as torment goes, it's pretty damn sweet.

  Evelyn calls Blaine back out onto the balcony just as we've moved to another canvas, and I cannot help my sigh of relief.

  Damien steps behind me and puts his arms around my waist. "This feels like the night we met, Ms. Fairchild. You and I surrounded by erotic art, and me unable to think of anything but fucking you."

  My breath is shaky. "We met six years before that, Mr. Stark."

  "So we did," he says, his lips brushing my ear. "I wanted to fuck you then, too."

  "Do you always get what you want?" I tease.

  "Yes," he says, easing closer behind me so that I feel his erection pressed against my rear. "I thought you knew."

  "Why Mr. Stark," I say. "I thought you told me it was bad form to host a party with a hard-on."

  "True," he says. "Perhaps we should escape to the powder room. I can think of a rather pleasant way to prevent a social faux pas."

  "Keep talking," I say. "You just might tempt me."

  His hand grazes over my skirt, and I feel the material snaking very slowly up my thigh.

  "Stop it," I say, my voice low as I push his hand down. I shift a bit in his arms, then freeze at what I see on the far side of the floor--Giselle stepping into the room through the kitchen. I tense, because Giselle is not one of the people who knows that I am the girl in the portrait, and I don't understand why she's here early. I tell myself that she owns the gallery. That it's not like she hasn't seen nude paintings before. And surely she doesn't know it's me. That was part of our deal, and Damien is a man of his word.

  I tell myself all that, and I've almost convinced myself, too. But then Bruce steps into the room behind her, and I freeze, my body like one solid block of icy mortification. My naked portrait hangs on the wall, and my boss is looking right at it.

  "You're very tense," Damien teases. "Again, I can suggest several ways to loosen you up."

  I realize that he hasn't noticed them and that he doesn't know why I've gone still. Nor can he see my face, or the confusion that must surely be rising in my eyes. Do they know? How could they know?

  His thumb grazes over the filmy chiffon. "Tell me, Ms. Fairchild," he murmurs. "What will I find if I slide my hand under your skirt? Did you wear panties tonight?"

  "Why are Giselle and Bruce here already?" I ask.

  His body goes tense. "What?"

  I pull out of his arms and turn to face him. "They don't know it's me in the portrait, do they?"

  He's not looking at me, but I can see that his eyes have found the couple. His jaw is tight, but that's the only reaction that I see. "They're not supposed to be here," he says, his voice calm and even.

  "No," I say. "Because they don't know. Right?" I shift a bit so that I'm standing in front of him. I feel strangely frantic, as if I'm precariously balanced and if I'm not careful I'll be tumbling without a net. "Damien? Did you tell them?"

  For a moment, his face goes hard. He's the businessman, the negotiator. The man Ollie warned me
was dangerous. The man Evelyn told me is an expert at keeping secrets.

  And then his expression softens, and it is as if all he sees is me. "Yes, but, Nikki--"

  That's all I need to hear. "Oh, God. How could--" I clap my hand to my mouth and breathe in hard through my nose. I'm tumbling now, and I was right--there is no net to catch me.

  Anger bubbles through me. Anger and hurt and humiliation, all black and cold and desolate.

  My anonymity was a vital part of our deal. I'm naked up there. And not just naked, but revealed, so that anyone who sees the portrait--who sees the scars--also sees my demons.

  How could Damien be so cavalier? He saw me melt down at the first session with Blaine. He's the one who soothed me, who I thought understood me.

  And now it feels like he's the one who's slapped me.

  I blink, because I am not going to cry. Instead, I concentrate on the fury that is cutting through me like a knife, giving me both strength and a weapon. Because so help me, I want to wound Damien as he's wounded me. This cut is deep, all the more so because he is the one person I trusted most to never hurt me.

  He reaches for me, his face now as gentle as I've ever seen it. "Nikki, please."

  "No." I hold up my hand and shake my head as I choke back a little sob. "And for the record," I say, coolly meeting his eyes, "of course I wore panties. Game's over, remember? The rules no longer apply."

  I see the hurt in his eyes, and feel it cut sharply through me. For a moment, I regret the lie. I'm overcome by a desperate longing to lose myself in his arms. To hold him and comfort him, and to let him comfort me.

  But I don't. I can't. I need to be alone, and so I let my sharp words hang in the air as I lift my head and walk steadfastly away.

  But my exit doesn't give me any satisfaction. Our game may be over, but I don't want the relationship with Damien to end.

  I think about the bed and my fear that it was a portent. About Giselle and Bruce and the trust that has cracked like a mirror. I think about the secrets that I know Damien keeps from me, and about the depths of this man who is still so much a mystery to me.

  All of that haunts me. And, yes, I'm afraid.

  Not of the ghosts of his past, but of the possibility that we will have no future.