Claim Me

  "That's where my mother screwed up," I say. I don't mean to speak aloud, and when I look at Damien's face, I see soft understanding in his eyes.

  "She made bad choices," he says. "You won't."

  "I'm not so sure. I've made plenty of bad choices in the past."

  I don't do it intentionally, but I realize that my thumb is idly stroking the scar on my inner thigh.

  "Just the fact that you're being so careful and asking so many questions proves to me that you're going to be fine. And so is your money. I work with several brokers and managers. If you like, I can have Sylvia set up some meetings, get them into the office today if you want."

  "That would be great," I say, then immediately take it back. "No. No, never mind."

  "All right," he says slowly, but I can see the hurt in his eyes. "Whatever you want."

  "That's the thing," I say. "I already know who I want." I take a deep breath. "Will you manage it for me? I can't imagine there's anyone I would trust more than you."

  There is no trace of the hurt left on his face. Instead, there is only something soft and tender. His smile is slow, and the shake of his head is even slower. "No," he says, and I gasp in surprise. "That's not what I do. But I do oversee my own managers with such microscopic interest that I imagine they consider me among their most irritating clients. Fortunately, the percentage they earn off the growth is sufficient to quell that irritation. I won't manage your money, but I will babysit it. I'll introduce you to my manager, we'll get you set up, explain your goals, and then I'll watch over your nest egg. Sound good?"

  "Will you explain the investment choices to me?"

  "I'll explain anything you want. We'll do this together, okay? And who knows. Maybe next you'll be asking me to help with your start-up."

  "Don't push," I say. I've explained to him why I want to take it slow, though I think he is on Jamie's side of the equation. Damien would simply jump in and do brilliantly. I want to wade in slowly and do brilliantly.

  He holds a hand up as if in self-defense. "I'm not pushing. Why would I push you to go out on your own when I'd much rather get you set up as a division of Stark Applied Technology?"

  I laugh. "Once I'm out there on my own and raking in the dollars, then you can buy me out for some obscene amount of money. But I'm starting on my own."

  "Fair enough," he says. "I just want to see you actually start. I'm waiting, you know. I fully intend to license some of your software for use in my offices. The cross-platform note system you told me about could come in quite handy."

  "All the more reason not to jump in before I'm ready," I say firmly. "I don't want to let you down."

  "You could never let me down," he says. He pulls me in for a quick, firm kiss. "And, Nikki? Thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For trusting me to help you with the million."

  I nod slowly. Have I made this decision because a man I trust happens to be brilliant with money? Or am I following the pattern of last night, surrendering control to Damien instead of coping for myself?

  He's told me more than once that there is strength inside me. And though the words are a comfort, I'm not sure I believe them. I didn't feel strong last night. And every time I think about the press going apeshit over my personal business, nausea crashes over me.

  But Damien is looking at me with such tenderness that I say none of that. "I've trusted you with my heart," I say, because that is an undeniable truth. "Why wouldn't I trust you with my money?"

  I speak the words lightly. His expression, however, is serious. "You do know that I trust you, too?"

  "Of course," I say.

  "Just because it takes me time, doesn't mean I trust you less."

  "I know that," I say, because in my head, I do get it, and I have to admit that he's already told me so much. In my heart, though, I want him to spill out everything still locked inside. But do I want that so that I can be strong for him as he is for me? Or am I simply being selfish, looking for a tangible confirmation of how he feels about me, even though I already know from every glance and every touch that I am cherished?

  For the rest of the afternoon, we do little more than laze about in bed, our arms touching, our legs crossed over each other. Damien reads various reports that Sylvia emails to his iPad. I flip through magazines, folding down pages with clothes that I like or that I think might look good on Jamie. Sometimes I see an interesting piece of furniture and show the picture to Damien who tells me to mark the page, then promises me we'll go to the Pacific Design Center soon and try to find some of these pieces for the Malibu house.

  "I thought decorating your house was something you did on your own," I say.

  "No. I said everything in the house is special to me. And if we pick something out together, it will be even that much more precious."

  His words are as tender as a caress, and I scoot even closer, leaning in as he hooks his left arm around me and holds his iPad with his right.

  "I thought you were taking the day off," I say.

  "Do you have a better suggestion?" he counters, a delicious deviousness in his voice.

  "As a matter of fact, I do."

  I don't think that Damien is expecting my suggestion that we make popcorn and more mimosas, then lounge in bed for the rest of the afternoon watching old Thin Man movies, but he takes it in good grace. And I'm surprised to learn that he actually knows the movies as well as I do.

  "William Powell is brilliant," he says, "but I think I have a crush on Myrna Loy."

  "I have a crush on her wardrobe," I admit. "I could have lived back then. Fitted dresses and flowing evening gowns."

  "Maybe we need to take you shopping."

  "I'd love it," I say. "But you've already filled up a closet for me in Malibu, and the house itself is sitting empty." I toss him the copy of Elle Decor I'd been skimming earlier. "If we go shopping, it's for furniture."

  "All right," he says. "It's a date." But neither one of us says when. I know it's ridiculous to hide in Damien's apartment; if I wanted to hide, I should have taken him up on the offer to leave the country. I've never been to Switzerland, after all. But right now, lounging casually beside Damien, it's not the horrors of the press that's keeping me here, it's the sweet pleasure of the man beside me.

  We've just finished the first movie and started on After the Thin Man when my cell phone rings. I don't recognize the number, and I hesitate to answer, but if I ignore calls, then I really am hiding away, and I don't want to be that girl. "Hello?" I say tentatively.

  "Nikki? It's Lisa. We met in the cafeteria."

  "Oh!" I'm surprised to hear from her. "If you're looking to do coffee, I'm not in the office today." I don't mention that I won't be in the office ever again.

  "I know," she says. "Listen, I heard what happened, and I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. The press are a bunch of vultures, and it sucks that they're shitting all over you."

  "Thanks," I say.

  "I dropped into the office to see you, and after I learned what happened, Bruce gave me your number. I just wanted to let you know that my offer for lunch or coffee is still open. Anytime. Just call me."

  "I will," I say, and I'm not just being polite. I'd thought when I met her that it would be nice to have a few more friends in LA. And I'm happy to know that this one isn't going to run screaming now that I'm the object of ridicule.

  Blaine and Evelyn also call, equally horrified, equally supportive. Blaine tells me he feels guilty--after all, it's the erotic nature of his art that has the press all hyped up.

  "It's not," I lie. "It's all about the money."

  I don't think he's appeased, but I promise him that I'm okay, and that Damien and I will come see them both soon.

  I hang up, then realize that the only person I care about that I haven't yet heard from is Ollie. I almost mention that to Damien, but I don't. As far as he's concerned, Ollie is at the top of the list of suspects in the leak, and the lack of communication would only fuel that fire.

  T
hen again, considering how brilliant and observant Damien is, I'm quite certain that he's already noticed that Ollie hasn't made the effort to check on me.

  I don't think Ollie is the leak, but I can't deny that my feelings are a little hurt.

  "Do you want more popcorn?" Damien asks.

  I roll sideways to face him, and just stare, drinking in that gorgeous face and the eyes that see me better than anyone. "Damien," I say.

  "What?"

  "Nothing." I smile. "I just like saying your name."

  "I like hearing it." He reaches over and strokes my neck above the collar of his shirt.

  "Damien," I say again.

  "Yes?"

  "Would you mind very much if we skipped the movie? I have something else in mind."

  "Do you?"

  I get out of bed and hold out my hand, then put a finger to my lips. "No talking," I say. "Not until we get back in the bed. Those are my rules. Okay?"

  In the spirit of the game, he nods. I grin, take his hand, and pull him to the bathroom.

  It's at least as impressive as the one in Malibu, but I'm not interested in the multi-jet shower or the humongous closet or even the heated towel rack. All I care about is the insanely large tub. I turn it on and let it start to fill. Then I return to Damien and slowly, wordlessly, I begin to undress him.

  It's a delightful process, because I allow myself a kiss with each tiny bit of skin that is exposed. His shoulder. His arm. His pecs. A tongue flicking across his nipple. A long lick above his navel.

  And then there are the jeans that come down so slowly, and I brush my lips over his hip. Over those tight, sexy muscles of his lower abs. And his penis, erect and ready for my kiss when I peel down his briefs.

  He doesn't break the rules, but when I close my mouth over the head and taste the salty, musky flavor of him, his fingers clench in my hair, and that is as potent a reaction as him crying my name aloud.

  I taste and tease and explore his cock. I stroke and lick his balls. I explore every inch of this man whose body I have come to know so well, and who knows mine with equal intimacy.

  And I take immense satisfaction at his hand clutching the glass shower stall, because I know that without that support he would topple over, and that it is me who has brought him there.

  I don't let him come, though, because that's not part of my game. Not yet. But I continue my exploration of kisses until the tub is full and Damien's eyes are so heated that I know I will be thoroughly fucked.

  The thought makes me smile.

  I have added some bubble bath to the water, and now I step in, then hold out a hand to him in invitation. He follows me, and though this is clearly my game and I have been calling the shots, I realize soon enough that Damien has reached his limit. It's his turn now, and when he grabs me by the waist and pulls me toward him, the violent movement sloshing water out of the tub, I do not protest.

  On the contrary, I spread my legs in anticipation, and I'm rewarded when he settles me on his lap. I shift a little, using my body to stroke him, then cry out in surprise when he grabs my hips and settles me firmly and deeply on his cock. He grins, then lifts a finger over his lip. Gloriously wet and incredibly turned on, I lean forward, relishing the pressure of his cock inside me and the sensation of his pubic hair against my clit.

  I begin a slow, steady rocking, the movement designed to drive us both crazy, and if the expression on Damien's face is any indication, my plan is working to perfection.

  Again and again the pleasure builds and the only noise is the sloshing of the water and the slick sound of our bodies meeting. That sound alone is a turn-on, and it makes me that much hotter, that much more excited. And as I ride him, Damien's hands on my hips and his strong arms helping me to piston my body on his rock-hard cock, I drink in this sexual symphony, and I look deep into his eyes as we both silently, quietly, explode in each other's arms.

  The next morning I wake up alone and immediately slide out of bed, planning to go find Damien. The sound of voices, however, makes me pause, and I double back to the closet in search of something to wear.

  As in the Malibu house, Damien has filled a closet for me. I pull on a black T-shirt and a denim skirt, then head toward the living room to see who's here.

  What I see makes me stop short. Damien stands shirtless in the center of the room. He wears gray sweatpants tied loosely around his hips. He's balanced on one leg, his arms outstretched. I am behind him, and I can see the muscles in his back as he moves his arms in slow, controlled motions. He is power and grace and it is only after my chest starts to feel uncomfortably tight that I realize I am actually holding my breath.

  I suck in air, and Damien puts his foot down, then turns and smiles at me. "Tai chi," he says, without waiting for me to ask. "It keeps me flexible. Come on in. Go ahead, Charles. You were saying?"

  The sight of Damien had given me tunnel vision, blocking out everything else around him. But now my vision expands and I see Charles Maynard on the steel and leather couch, an array of papers spread out on the coffee table. The room is flooded with light from the wall of windows and that--along with seeing Damien--makes me smile despite all that has happened.

  "We managed to keep all images of the actual artwork out of the more prominent venues," Charles says. "I'm somewhat surprised that the various editorial staffs caved to yesterday's demand letter, but I'll attribute that to your reputation and deep pockets. No one wants to get in a battle with Damien Stark."

  "They probably know that if they push me on this, I'll just buy them out."

  "If you mean that, I'll certainly share that information if I get any pushback."

  "I mean it," Damien says. "If that's what it takes to make this go away, then that's what I'll do." He's looking at me as he speaks, his expression so fiercely protective it makes my knees go weak. I cross to the sofa and sit on the arm.

  "Blaine faxed back his affidavit yesterday," Charles continues, "so we filed the Application for Temporary Restraining Order first thing this morning."

  "You can actually keep them from talking about this?" I ask.

  Charles turns to me, his expression compassionate but businesslike. "I'm afraid we can't do that. We could sue for defamation, but that requires a false statement, and Damien assures me that the rumors are true."

  My cheeks heat, but I nod. "Then what are you doing?"

  "We want to stop the publication of the painting itself. Or any other of Blaine's works. It's his style that's partly fueling the fire. The idea that the image is dark and erotic."

  "Oh." My cheeks burn even hotter. "But how can you keep them from printing photographs? I saw the reporter taking pictures at the party. And there must be dozens of Blaine's paintings in Southern California. Anybody could invite a reporter in to take a few snaps if they want some extra cash."

  "The owner of the painting doesn't own the copyright," Damien explains. "That remains with Blaine. So that's how we're handling it."

  "Of course, they can still print photos of you," Charles says, and I know that there are many, many photos of Damien and me together.

  "I understand," I say. "I suppose every little bit helps. But how on earth did you pull all this together so fast?"

  "I'm sure you realize that Damien is one of my most important clients--"

  "One of?" Damien interrupts indignantly.

  "My most important client," Charles corrects with a laugh. "When he sends me a text outlining an urgent matter, I set the wheels in motion."

  I glance at Damien, realizing that sometime last night, despite everything else, he actually found the time to do this for me.

  "Thank you," I say. "Thank you both."

  "It's only a start." Damien looks at Charles. "Did you bring the footage?"

  Charles pushes some papers on the coffee table aside and comes up with a DVD. "Everything that's aired so far, and as much of the raw footage from outside Nikki's condo as we could obtain."

  "Why?" I ask.

  "Someone leaked this sto
ry," Damien says. "I intend to find out who."

  "But you just said that if it's the truth there's nothing you can do legally."

  "No," Damien says with a thin, dangerous smile. "There's not a damn thing I can do legally. But I want to know who did this to you. Don't ask me to stop, Nikki. Because I won't."

  "I'm not going to ask," I say. The truth is, I want to know, too. "But how is looking at the footage going to help?"

  "I'm going to identify all of the reporters asking you questions," he says. "And then Charles or I will have a little talk with each of them."

  It is probably very wrong of me, but I can't help but wish that I could be a fly in the room during those conversations.

  "Anything else?" Damien asks.

  "Not about this." Charles glances toward me. "But Germany is heating up, Damien. They have the janitor now. We need to expect the worst."

  "I always expect the worst," Damien says. "It's how I've survived so long."

  "There are other issues in Europe," Charles says. "You really should--"

  "I know," Damien says, with a quick glance toward me. "But I'm tied up here at the moment."

  "Wait," I say. "I may not know the details of what's going on, but if the company's having legal trouble overseas and you need to be there, then go. I'll be fine."

  "She's right," Charles says. "You're needed in London."

  I'm surprised that Charles has mentioned London and not Germany. "Sofia?" I ask, and can't help but notice the surprised look that Charles shoots at Damien.

  "There are financial problems I need to take care of," Damien says.

  "You can handle everything in a few hours," Charles adds. "But you need to be on-site."

  "Fine," Damien concedes. He crosses to the window and looks over the city spread out beyond the glass. "I'll leave Friday night."

  "That's the tennis center dedication," Charles says. "Damien, you should go."

  "But I'm not going. I've already said why. That's final."

  I look between the two men. It's a standoff, and my money is on Damien.

  Soon enough, I'm proven right.

  "Fine," Charles says. "You'll leave Friday, then. If you're out of the country, that's another excuse we can throw to the press."

  "I don't give a damn what you say to the press," Damien says, his voice sharp with irritation. "There and back again, Charles. And if you can't get me in and out quickly on commercial flights, then tell Grayson we're taking the Lear."