Claim Me

  "Now," I beg. "Damien, now. I need you now."

  "I need you too, Nikki," he says and thrusts hard inside me, filling me, making me arch up with the pleasure that rockets through me as if we are a circuit and our joining is sending electricity spinning round and round between us.

  He works a magical rhythm, and I rise to meet each thrust, my body drawing him in, my muscles tightening, my orgasm building until I feel as though I am not lying on the bed, but floating above it. Until I am no longer a woman but an explosion of stars.

  Until all I am is Damien's, and that is all I ever want to be.

  25

  Damien leaves early the next morning to go meet with Charles at the Tower apartment so that he can pack for Germany. I peek in on Jamie, but she's dead to the world. I'm bummed, because I'm worried about Damien and I want someone to talk to, but I also know she needs to sleep it off.

  My worries can wait.

  I putter around the kitchen for a few minutes, debating between eggs or a bagel, and end up having black coffee. I can't shake this sense of foreboding that has settled over me, and I finally decide that I have to see Damien. I don't care if he is getting ready to leave for Munich, I need to see him one more time. I need to hold him and tell him in the light of day that everything he told me last night changes nothing. That I believe in him.

  I need to tell him that I love him.

  I change quickly into a peasant skirt, a pink tank top layered over a white one, and flip-flops, then limit my hair and makeup routine to lip gloss and mascara. I don't know what time their plane is scheduled to leave, and I cannot risk being late.

  Since I don't know if the paparazzi are clinging like leeches to the front sidewalk, I use the back route to the parking area. Yes, they might swarm my car as I exit the gate, but with any luck I'll be down the street before they realize it's me.

  As it turns out, I'm lucky. There is a lone photographer camped out on the sidewalk in a lawn chair. I manage a tight grin. As far as I'm concerned, he's in league with the devil, and I can think of little that is more hellish than sitting outside during a sweltering summer in the San Fernando Valley when the beach and cool ocean breezes are only a few miles away.

  My thoughts, however, don't remain long with the paparazzi. Instead, I'm concentrating on only two things: getting to Damien, and working the clutch exactly right so that the Honda doesn't stall out on me.

  By some miracle, I get to downtown stall-free, and then it is only a few blocks before I pull into the underground parking structure that serves Stark Tower and the adjacent building.

  I grab the closest parking place, yank my purse out of the passenger seat, and sprint to the elevator.

  Joe is working the security desk and I wave at him as I jog by in the lobby. "I'm going to the apartment," I call. "Buzz me up?"

  "Of course, Ms. Fairchild." Yes, there are definitely perks to being the boss's girlfriend.

  The elevator is open for me when I get to the proper bank. I step inside, press the button, and tap my foot for the entire ride to the top. I still feel antsy, and despite being an express, the elevator can't move fast enough to suit me. The doors open onto the apartment side of the penthouse, and I step out into the foyer. I don't hear Damien or Charles, but I assume that they have not left for Germany, since surely Joe would have told me.

  "Damien?" I call softly.

  I hear a thump from the back of the apartment and hurry in that direction, hoping that it is Damien and that he is alone.

  I find him in the bedroom, a suitcase open on the bed. His back is to me, but flip-flops are not quiet shoes, and he turns as I enter the room.

  I start to go to him--I want nothing more than to lose myself in his embrace--but something in his expression stops me. There is pleasure and surprise, yes. But there is also wariness. And something darker, too. Something I don't recognize, but that I fear is ... regret?

  "Damien?" I am scared now, and for no reason, and the rising of this unpleasant emotion bothers me. This is Damien. The man who would never hurt me. Who would move mountains to protect me. So what the hell am I afraid of?

  There is, however, a tiny part of me that knows what I fear--and hopes with a desperate fervency that I am wrong.

  "Nikki." The smile that touches his lips is so warm and genuine that I am emboldened. Whatever gloom has settled over me is simply wrong, and I shove it away and hurry toward Damien.

  "I had to come say goodbye again," I say.

  "I'm glad you did," he says. "I shouldn't have left without saying goodbye to you. I'm going to miss you more than you can imagine." There is nothing strange about his tone, and he is looking at me with such familiar adoration I think that my heart will burst. Even so, the sense of dread returns.

  I press on anyway. "I wanted you to know that what you told me last night changes nothing. I don't care if you pushed Richter off the roof on purpose. What he did to you was reprehensible, and I will stick by you, Damien. No matter what, I am not running."

  He looks at me with steady eyes and a sad smile. "I believe you," he says.

  "Do you remember when you asked me to play our game again? You said that you wanted to know that I couldn't leave you, no matter what I might learn about you. That you were afraid I'd leave if I knew your secrets. Well, I'm guessing I know pretty much everything now, and I'm not going anywhere. I love you, Damien Stark. And I'm staying right by your side."

  He draws in a sharp breath, and the expression on his face looks almost pained, which really isn't the reaction that I was hoping for. "I know you won't leave."

  "I won't," I say, warily. His mood is definitely off, but then again he's about to fly to a foreign country to be tried for murder. I should probably cut him a little slack. "I won't ever go."

  "Which is why I have to be the one to leave you."

  I freeze, then play back his words in my head. That can't be right. Surely, he didn't say what I think he said.

  "I'm sorry," he says. This time the words are slow and clear and so gentle they bring tears to my eyes. "I'm breaking up with you, Nikki. It's over."

  A roaring fills my ears. I must be hallucinating. Dreaming. This is a nightmare. Because there is no way--no way in hell--that Damien Stark just said those words to me.

  And yet I am standing here, and I am looking at him, and the chill that has settled over me doesn't have the quality of a dream. It is reality. It is desolation. I remember its cold harshness from my childhood, and that is not a reality to which I want to return.

  I realize that I have been slowly shaking my head, and I force myself to speak.

  "I--No. No, it's never over. I'm yours, Damien. Forever. You said so yourself."

  He winces and turns his head away as if he can't stand the memory of those words. "I was wrong."

  "The hell you were. What the hell is going on here?" I'm angry now, and I'm glad of it. Angry Nikki won't cry. Angry Nikki will demand some goddamned answers.

  "I told you that I would leave if that was what it took to protect you." His voice is so calm and even that I want to smack him.

  "Protect me? Damien, we're doing fine. I'm doing fine."

  "You're not fine. You're a mess with all the press about the portrait, Nikki. Don't try to deny it. I saw the way you looked in the bathroom. You wanted to slice deep into your flesh. You were ready to break the mirror to get at the glass. You wanted blood, Nikki. You wanted pain."

  I am silent. I can't argue, because what he says is true. I can only say simply, "But I didn't go there."

  "It will get worse. It already has."

  I don't know what he's talking about.

  "The press, Nikki. They're not focusing on me. Damien Stark indicted for murder. You'd think that would be interesting, right? Apparently not as interesting as his girlfriend. Who, according to those assholes, isn't really his girlfriend at all. Just an opportunistic little whore who'll sleep with anyone who can help her get ahead, murderers included."

  My stomach twists violently,
and I'm grateful I only had coffee this morning. "I don't care," I lie. "I can deal."

  "You shouldn't have to."

  "Dammit, Damien, I'm not a mom-and-pop food company. Pulling out isn't going to save me. You're going to destroy me. I need you. You. Don't you get that?"

  "I can't bear to see you broken. Not when I'm the one who is breaking you."

  "You are breaking me!" I shout. "If you walk away from me, you're going to snap me in two."

  "No," he says simply.

  I only realize I am crying when I taste the salt of my tears. "I thought you said I was strong. Or was that just bullshit?"

  "You are," he says, his voice maddeningly calm. "Strong enough to stay despite me dragging you into hell. I'm the one who's weak, Nikki, because I kept you in the spotlight for too damn long. I couldn't leave you, and that hurt you. But I'm fixing it now."

  He zips up the suitcase and hefts it off the bed. For a moment, he stands there, just looking at me. I am scrambling for words, trying to figure out the magic formula to make him take it all back--but this is not a fairy tale and I am learning the hard way that there is no happily ever after. Then he walks to the door.

  He is leaving me. Damien Stark. The man I trusted above all others to never hurt me. He is walking away from me, and he's ripping my heart out as he goes.

  Cold fury whips through me, laced with desolation. Tears trail down my cheeks as I bend and unfasten the emerald ankle bracelet. I take a breath and hurl it at him. "Damn you, Damien Stark," I whisper. "Damn you for giving up on us."

  He pauses and I see the pain on his face. He glances down at where the bracelet has landed on his feet. He starts to reach for it, then stops. I watch his face, expecting words of comfort. But they don't come. Instead, I hear only the two words I wish were silenced: "Goodbye, Nikki."

  And then he is gone.

  I am not sure how I manage the drive to Malibu, but I do. And when I pull into Evelyn's drive, I can barely see, what with the tears swimming in my eyes.

  "Good God, Texas," she says as she pulls open the door. "What happened to you?"

  "He left me," I say, choking the words out between sobs. "He thinks he's protecting me, and so he dumped me."

  She sucks in air. "Damn fool of a boy," she says. "I don't care what everyone says about him being a goddamned genius, he fucked this one up, Texas. He damn sure did."

  Her words only make me cry harder.

  "Aw, hell, girl, get inside."

  "Is Blaine here?"

  "He's in the studio," she says, referring to a separate building on the property. "It's okay. Cry all you want."

  "I don't want to cry," I say. "I want him back. But he's so damned convinced he's doing the right thing."

  "What the hell does he think he's protecting you from?" she asks as she leads me to the kitchen and sits me down at the table.

  "The paparazzi."

  "Phhht," she says. "Fuck 'em."

  "I wish they were that easy to blow off." I eye her critically. "Blaine didn't tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  I don't want to go into this, but I need help. And she needs to understand why Damien left. Why he thinks that he has to leave.

  "I have scars," I finally say.

  She nods slowly. "There's one on the painting. On your hip. Looks to be some on your thighs, too, but the shadows make it hard to tell. So what happened to you, Texas?"

  I swallow. "I happened to me."

  The words hang there, and I wait for my tears, but they do not come. I don't know if it's me or if it's Evelyn, but it's easier to talk about now. No, that's not true. I do know. It's me. Damien has helped me change the way I look at my flaws.

  I grimace. Goddamn him for leaving me.

  "You're saying that Damien thinks you're going to start up with the cutting again?"

  I could kiss her for being so focused, so direct. "Yes," I say. "I haven't--not since I've been in LA. But I've come close."

  "The paparazzi?" She puts a glass of water in front of me, and I sip from it gratefully.

  "And all this craziness about the painting. It--well, it got to me."

  "Hell, that kind of crap would get to anyone."

  "Now the press is saying all sorts of shit about me sleeping with a murderer, and Damien thinks--"

  "That he's got to be the hero and walk away. Goddamn the boy, you two aren't supposed to be a tragedy."

  "Trust me," I say wryly. "I'm not crazy about the last-minute script change, either. So what can I do?"

  "You can haul your ass to Germany and get the boy back."

  "But he'll just send me home again. He thinks he's being chivalrous, remember? I have to prove to him I can handle it, but how? It's not like I can go a year without cutting, and then say 'I told you so.' So what can I do to prove to him right now that I'll be okay?"

  "Ah, now here's why you came to the right place. Because this is exactly the kind of sneaky shit you pick up after a lifetime in Hollywood. You just need to give the press nowhere else to go."

  "I'm not following."

  "They're interested in you as a story. So make the story go away."

  I blink, trying to process what she's saying. And then it all clicks into place. I leap out of my chair and throw my arms around Evelyn. "You're brilliant."

  "Damn right, I am. Why do you think I'm a legend in this town?"

  "Do you know someone who can handle the press side of things?"

  Evelyn's smile is as wide as I've ever seen it. "Just leave it to me."

  I do, and I watch in wonder as the pieces come together. Not two hours later, everything is on track for the first press conference of my life.

  "And what makes it really unique," Evelyn says with a guffaw, "is that everything you're going to say is one hundred percent true."

  I spend the next hour organizing my thoughts. I'm not shy about speaking in front of a camera--I have my mother's pageant obsession to thank for that--but I am nervous about making sure I'm clear and quotable. With lots of juicy sound bites.

  When the knock at the door finally comes, and Evelyn opens it to the camera crew, I am ready. "You sure about this, Texas?"

  "It's the only thing I can think of to get him back," I say. "And more important, I need to do it for me."

  She nods. "Okay, then. Let's make you even more famous."

  I laugh, but have to acknowledge that she's probably right. I also have to admit that this may not work, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that the princess is going out to kill the dragon instead of hiding in the tower.

  The crew consists of a cameraman, a reporter, and a producer. I'm not interested in being interviewed, so the reporter says she'll tape the intro later at the studio. This is just me, and I should take my time. I stand in the spot they've lit, wait for the cameraman to signal me, and start talking.

  "My name is Nikki Fairchild, and I recently accepted one million dollars as a modeling fee for a nude Blaine original. The completed portrait now hangs in Mr. Damien Stark's Malibu home, and it is an exceptional piece of art. It is both tasteful and erotic. And it does not show my face."

  I pause to collect my thoughts. The reporter nods encouragement, and I smile. We've only spoken a few words, but I like her.

  "I agreed to the painting, and to the million, because I needed the money. It has not been spent, nor will it be until I am ready. But I also insisted that the arrangement be confidential and that no one except Mr. Stark and the artist know that it was me in the portrait. Somehow, though, my identity has been revealed, and Mr. Stark and I have been harassed nonstop by reporters and photographers who apparently have nothing better to do with their time. And the truth is, now I have regrets."

  I wonder, as I say that, if Damien will see this tape.

  I soldier on. "Not about the painting. Not about the money. No, my regret is that I asked Blaine and Mr. Stark to keep my identity confidential in the first place. I will admit that there was a time when I was ashamed of my body, but that time has pas
sed. I think the portrait is outstanding. And I think the modeling fee was fair. Then again, what is a fair price to paint a woman's body? If Mr. Stark had paid me ten dollars, would the press now be calling me a cheap harlot?"

  I glance at Evelyn, who is grinning. "To be honest, I think Mr. Stark got off easy. If he wants a second nude portrait, he'll have to pay me two million dollars. At least."

  Near me, the reporter nods encouragingly. "As of this morning, the gossip about me has shifted. Apparently now I'm a woman who would sleep with a murderer to get ahead. Let's think about that. Do I sleep with Damien Stark? I do, and gladly, but not to get ahead. Instead, I am honored and humbled that he wants me in his life and in his bed."

  I realize suddenly that I am not nervous at all. I feel strong. This--these words--feel right. "As for the allegation that Damien Stark is a murderer, I can only say that I do not believe it. The evidence will acquit him. But if by some horrific fault in the universe he is convicted, then that will change nothing. I will not and would not leave his side."

  I draw a breath and move on to my wrap-up. "I do not intend to make any more statements to the press, so I will add one final thing for the record. I am in love with Damien Stark, and I am leaving for Germany in an hour to support him through his trial. He is an innocent man, and he has been wrongly accused. Thank you."

  I stand in front of the presidential suite at the scarily luxurious Kempinski hotel in Munich and draw in a breath. I owe a huge debt to Sylvia, who could lose her job if Damien decides to be angry that his assistant told me where he was staying.

  I'm not sure how he's going to react to seeing me here, and I have no way of knowing if he saw my interview. And even if he did, I have no way of knowing if it moved him.

  As for that interview, when I was in the taxi from the airport to my hotel, I read through Jamie's half-dozen emails describing how the press was going wild. Apparently I am no longer a harlot and Damien is no longer a murderer. Now we are star-crossed lovers.

  The press is nothing if not fickle. This time, at least, we're on the warm, fuzzy side of the press.

  More important, phase one of my plan worked. And knowing that gives me courage. Surely the next part will work, too. Because I really don't want to have to call Sylvia and ask her to book me into the Munich equivalent of a Motel 6.