"I'll arrange it."
He turns to me. "You're sure?"
"There are a lot of things on your resume," I say. "But I'm pretty sure babysitter isn't one of them. Yes. I'm sure."
"Fine, but I want you to stay here while I'm gone."
I cross my arms over my chest. "I'll be fine at home."
"They'll hound you," he says. "And they'll hound Jamie," he adds, because he knows me well enough to know that matters. "Mostly, it will make me feel better. Please, Nikki. Right now I'm asking. Don't make me demand."
It's his way of saying that he's the one making the rules in this game I agreed to continue. I nod in acquiescence. The truth is that I'd rather stay here, too. I want to be strong enough to say that I really don't care if they accost me on the stairs up to the condo. I want to--but I'm not.
"Fine. I'll stay."
"Thank you. Besides, I want to install better security at your place. Charles, on your way out, tell Sylvia to make arrangements for that and to let Ms. Archer know when the installation will happen. What?" he demands, noticing my smile.
"Nothing." Fortunately, I don't think Jamie is going to mind having a security team swoop down on her. And Damien is just being Damien.
As usual, he reads my mind. "Correction," he says to Charles. "Tell Sylvia to ask Ms. Archer if she's amenable to a security system and, if so, when would be a convenient time for the install. Better?"
I nod. "And thanks."
We walk Charles out, and as soon as the door closes behind him, I move closer to Damien and press my palms against his bare chest. "London, huh? I miss you already."
"Just so we're clear, I don't want you to stay in my apartment because I'm worried about you."
"No?"
"I want you here because I like the idea of you in my bed."
"That works out well, then. Because I like being in your bed, too. Mostly, though, I like being in your arms."
20
By mid-afternoon on Friday, I'm craving traffic jams and smog. I want to go out in the world, and damn the reporters and paparazzi and plain old gawkers.
At the same time, I'm enjoying this bubble of domesticity I'm sharing with Damien. He's kicked back on the sofa, his bare feet on the coffee table, his iPad in one hand and a sparkling water near the other. He's wearing a Bluetooth headphone in his far ear, so from my perspective it looks as if he's mumbling to himself. I've long ago tuned him out. As fascinated as I am by Damien in general, I do not need to know the ins and outs of the labor problems that one of his subsidiaries is having in Taiwan.
As for me, I've just finished reading a downloaded copy of The Martian Chronicles, and though I'd started the story with a picture of a young Damien in my mind, by the end, I'd been sucked in by the plot and the characters.
Now, though, I'm feeling at loose ends. I don't have my laptop, so there's not much actual work I can do. I'm not in the mood to start another book, and the television doesn't interest me in the slightest. I consider putting on a fashion show for Damien featuring the clothes he's stocked in the closet, but I can't quite bring myself to do it. I've been dominating his time lately, albeit unintentionally, and though he makes light of his need to oversee his empire, I know that the world of Damien Stark will unravel if he is not actively at the helm.
I go to the kitchen to brew a cup of green tea, since it's supposed to be calming and I feel so antsy. I'm actually not freaking out about the press, but I can't decide if that's because I'm dealing so well with this new crisis in my life, or if it's simply because Damien and I are locked up here in his castle in the sky, and the problems of mere mortals are really not our concern.
I have a sneaking suspicion that it's the latter and that when I go out into the world or log on to the Internet, this smug sense of control is going to blow away like so much dandelion fluff. As evidence of my theory, I have only to look at my phone. My mother has called twice, and each time I've let it go to voice mail. I have not listened to the messages. I have not called her back. Honestly, I'm not sure I ever will. My mother has the ability to push me over the edge where even a Hummer full of paparazzi could not.
Despite a world filled with paparazzi and Elizabeth Fairchilds and other unpleasant beings, I am so antsy that I consider testing the waters of the outside world by taking a walk down to the Museum of Contemporary Art. It's only a few blocks away, and I doubt that there are reporters waiting to ambush me there. It's also close enough that Damien won't worry. Or he won't worry as much, because if I start to freak he is less than five minutes away by foot.
Besides, I really want some fresh air.
I take my tea and a fresh water for Damien and head back into the living room, arriving at the same time as Sylvia, who is coming in from the back entrance that connects to the office of Stark International.
"Ms. Fairchild," she says. "How are you?"
"Good," I say. "How's life on the outside?"
Damien grins at me. "Going a little stir crazy?"
"Not that I don't love this fairy palace, but--"
He makes a noncommittal noise, then turns to Sylvia, who appears to be hiding a smile. "What have you got for me?"
"Just a few signatures," she says, handing him a clipboard and several documents. She glances at me. "And this came for you," she adds, then holds out a plain white envelope. It's addressed to me, care of Stark International. There's no return address, but the postmark is from Los Angeles.
"That's weird," I say, as Damien tosses the clipboard onto a cushion and comes to my side.
"Open it," he says.
I do. There's a folded piece of paper inside. I pull it out, unfold it, and immediately feel sick.
Bitch. Slut. Whore.
"Motherfucker," Damien breathes, plucking the letter and the envelope from my hand. He takes a magazine from the coffee table and puts them both between the pages, then hands the magazine to Sylvia. "Get this to Charles. Don't get fingerprints on it."
"Of course, Mr. Stark. Ms. Fairchild, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"No, of course you didn't," I say.
"It's okay, Sylvia." Damien's words are a dismissal.
She nods. "I'll just come back for those documents later." She starts to leave, then pauses and turns back to me. "I apologize if this is out of line, Ms. Fairchild, but I just wanted to say that I saw the painting when I was at the Malibu house coordinating with the decorator before the party."
I've been staring blankly at the magazine in which the vile note is hidden, but now I look up at her face with interest.
"It's a beautiful portrait," she says. "Stunning and engaging. Frankly, I think Mr. Stark got a bargain. As far as I'm concerned, it's worth at least two million."
I've been blinking back tears as she speaks, and now I burst out with a laugh that is choked with tears. "Thank you," I say, then sniff. I shoot a wry grin toward Damien. "I like her."
"Yes," he says dryly. "She's very capable." His mouth is thin, but I can see the hint of amusement, not to mention the silent nod of thanks when he tells Sylvia, "That will be all."
She nods, then slips out of the apartment.
"There are a lot of fucked-up people in the world," Damien says to me. "Don't let them get to you."
"You're never going to be able to track who sent that letter."
"Maybe not, but I'm going to try. By the way, I figured out which reporter originated the story."
"Did Charles go see him?"
"He refused to reveal his source. I may pay him a visit myself, but I thought I'd go the more civilized route first. I've hired a private investigator. I'm guessing he met in person with the source. With any luck, my guy will learn something."
I nod, but I don't expect much. Honestly, I'm not sure I care. I'm certain it wasn't Jamie or Ollie, and they are the only two who could truly injure me by being duplicitous. Other than that, it's the information alone that hurts, and no matter who revealed it, there's no putting that genie back in the bottle. Not now, not ever.
&
nbsp; "I want to go out," I say to Damien, who stares at me for a second, obviously trying to digest my sudden change in topic.
"Any place in particular?"
"I was thinking about the MoCa," I say. "I figure there aren't many reporters lying in wait there."
"All right," he says. "Let's go."
"But then I changed my mind," I continue. "I want to go shopping. Let's go look for things for the house. There are all sorts of cute stores on Melrose. Or anywhere in West Hollywood. Doesn't that sound like fun?"
"I always have fun when I'm with you," he says. "But that area is crowded, and it only takes one person who gets off on tabloid news calling TMZ or some other rag before we'll be surrounded by the vultures."
"I know," I say. "But I don't care. I want back in the world. It's not like they can't get me in here, too. Didn't one of them just send me a letter?"
He winces, but nods. "All right, then," he says. "I guess we have a date."
We're not looking for anything in particular other than each other's company, and that makes wandering the stores pleasant, especially since no one seems to be paying any attention to us.
A new store has opened on Fairfax selling high-end antiques, and a massive bed with a head and footboard that is intricately carved from oak immediately catches my eye.
"A bed, Ms. Fairchild?" Damien asks.
"I don't know," I say. "It's worth considering. After all, the house is currently without a bed." I lie down on it, then roll onto my side and pat the mattress, making a point to smile suggestively. "Shall we test it out?"
His lips twitch. "Careful. You're subject to my rules, remember? Who knows what I might make you do?"
"Good point," I say, moving to sit up. I reach out and hook a finger through the belt loop of his jeans, then tug him toward me. He stumbles and falls forward, knocking me back a bit before he blocks his fall with a hand on the mattress.
"Well, hello," he says, then kisses me. "I swear I didn't orchestrate that."
I laugh, and am about to steal a kiss of my own, when I notice that the girl at the counter is staring at us. It's possible she's simply amused or annoyed by the customers who are playing on the furniture. But I don't think so.
I stand up abruptly, pushing past Damien. "Let's go," I say, my cheeks burning. "This bed isn't nearly as cool as our old one, anyway."
The clerk says nothing as we're leaving, and I think I must have been imagining things. I'm proved wrong fifteen minutes later when we exit the next store.
We'd been shopping in ignorant bliss, looking at decorative candles and pretty vases made of ornamental glass. But the moment we step out onto the sidewalk, we're accosted by cameras and microphones and a screaming mass of reporters that I can only assume must have popped up en masse out of the sewers.
Damien is already holding my hand. Now he squeezes tighter, and I squeeze back, letting the pressure of his hand around mine focus me.
"Nikki! Is it true that you were fired from Innovative for violating a morals clause?"
"The tennis center dedication begins in four hours, Mr. Stark. Can you elaborate on your previous statement regarding Merle Richter?"
"Damien! Have you been informed about the content of Mr. Schmidt's affidavit? Is it true that he was paid to keep quiet?"
I don't know who Mr. Schmidt is, but I make it a point not to glance at Damien. There's no way that I'm letting these bastards catch my ignorance on film.
"What are you going to do with your million dollars, Nikki?"
I almost answer that one. Surely, if I explain that the money is going to fund a business, they'll find me less interesting.
A thin-lipped reporter in a neatly pressed suit steps forward and shoves a microphone in my face. "Can you comment on the rumors that you've slept with men in the past for money? Is Mr. Stark your most lucrative client?"
The words strike me like a blow, and I stumble backward, suddenly nauseous. Worse, I'm caught off guard, and my facade has dropped. Tomorrow, all the tabloids will have a shot of my horrified expression. And I know damn well that the captions will suggest that I'm horrified that my secret has been revealed--not that the story is bullshit.
I don't even realize that Damien has released my hand until I hear the sharp crack of his fist intersecting with the reporter's jaw.
"Damien! No!"
He turns to me, and I see the fire in his eyes. And I know that right then, his violent, fiery temper is one hundred percent aimed at vindicating me.
"No," I repeat, grabbing his hand before he can take another swing. "Do you want to get arrested? They'll take you away from me, and even if it's only a few hours until you post bail, I'll be alone until you get out."
That calms him somewhat, and he takes my hand and yanks me back into the store. He has his phone out, and I hear him telling Edward to bring the limo around.
The salesgirl had been watching through the window, and now she turns to Damien. "Um, mister? Tell him there's an alley in the back." She nods toward the throng still gathered in front of the store. "Unless you want to go through those creeps again."
Damien looks at her, and the slow smile erases the last remains of his fury. I want to give the girl a hug.
Damien keeps his arm around me for the ride back to the apartment, but he says nothing until we are back in the penthouse. His eyes go quickly to where the mirror once hung. He does not have live-in help, but the crew from the office also cleans the apartment, and they'd swooped in quickly and removed all the glass. Even the drywall is now repaired. There is no evidence of Damien's fury left, and yet he and I both know it is there.
"I should have smashed his face in," Damien says.
"No, you shouldn't have," I say. I draw a breath, because I have been thinking about this. "Besides, in a way he's right."
Damien's sharp glance almost halts my words, but I press on.
"That million wasn't just a modeling fee and we both know it."
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again and rubs his temples. "I've done this to you." The words are soft and filled with pain. "I swore that I would never hurt you. That I would be the one you could hold tight to. And yet I'm the one who has done this to you."
"No." My tone is harsh. Vehement. "You've never done anything to hurt me. Ever. And I took the money because I wanted it. And I took your deal because I wanted you. To be honest," I add with a wry grin, "I would have said yes for a lot less money."
"Really?" He lifts a brow. "Now I really do feel like a fool. Come here," he adds, then kisses me.
My words, however, have not soothed him enough. I can feel the tension coming off him, like a spring wound too tight.
When he looks at me, his face has the dark intensity of a hunter, and I feel as vulnerable as his prey.
"Come on," he says. "You know what I want. And what we both need."
I follow him to the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to forget the outside world once again, and when I see what he has in mind, I know that in a few minutes I'll be thinking of nothing but Damien. He has pulled out his box of toys and is dangling the metal handcuffs from his index finger.
"It occurs to me that this is the most surefire way to keep you in my apartment--and in my bed--while I'm in London."
"You wouldn't dare," I say, and scoot to the other side of the bed.
"Wouldn't I?"
He leaps onto the bed, then rolls to the side, cutting me off as I try to break for the door. I squeal as he pulls me down on top of him, then very quickly fastens one cuff to my wrist, and then that cuff to the eyebolt.
"Don't you even think about it," I laugh, even though I know he's joking. Or, at least, I'm pretty sure he's joking ...
"No?" he asks, as he starts to push my skirt up my body. "You don't want to stay like this, in my bed, constantly ready to be fucked by me?"
"Now that you put it that way," I say, and then close my eyes with pleasure as he starts to kiss his way up my thigh. It is sweet torment, because Damien knows exactly how to dri
ve me crazy. His breath teasing my sex, his lips making me wild.
I struggle under his ministrations, as with each touch he finds some new sensation, some new way to make me writhe and beg. Even the way his finger strokes my ankle and his tongue licks the back of my knee sends ribbons of pleasure curling through me.
I twist and turn on the sheets, but the cold metal that surrounds my wrist prevents me from escaping the sensual onslaught that is coming so near to driving me out of my mind.
The cuff digs into my skin, and with each turn, with each motion, I tug hard at it. I want the pain. I want the pressure. I want a bruise to rise there. And not because I want to escape the horror of this afternoon--that, in fact, is the least of it.
No, I want it because it represents now. This moment, with Damien's mouth on my naked body. With his fingers exploring every inch of me, finding all sorts of erogenous zones and erotic secrets.
I want the bruise because it is a physical reminder of how Damien makes me feel.
A bruise will be proof when he is London that I was in his bed--and a reminder that he will come back to me.
And so I struggle against my bonds, not because I want to get free, not even because I want the pain. I want what it represents. That I am Damien's.
Bound to him. Marked by him. Claimed by him.
And right now, that is all I want to be.
21
It's the middle of summer, but with Damien gone this might as well be a cold, wet Saturday in December. I know that he will be back Sunday afternoon, and that the trip is a quick one, but on my end it doesn't feel quick at all.
I am restless and lonely. Damien texted me when he landed. He'd asked how I was, and I'd smiled and gently rubbed the bruise that now rings my wrist like a bracelet. "Thinking about you," I'd said. "Missing you." All true, but what I didn't tell him was that I was bored out of my mind. Knowing Damien, he'd hire Cirque du Soleil to come into the living room and entertain me.
Jamie texted me cyber-hugs in response to my SOS, but she is roller-skating in Venice with Raine. I hope she manages to fall on her ass less than I did. I consider calling Lisa, but I don't know her well enough yet, and I think we should start with a simple coffee before I hit her up to provide me with entertainment on a lonely Saturday evening.