Claim Me

  "What was that for?" I breathe when he releases me.

  "A reminder that I believe in you," he says.

  "Oh." His voice is filled with so much pride and confidence that I wish I could soak it up like a drug.

  "And a promise of things to come," he adds with a sexy curve to his lips. "I'll call you when I get back. I'm not sure how late I'll be."

  "The helicopter's not as speedy as it looks?" I tease.

  "More like my colleagues don't conduct business as expediently as I'd like."

  "No prob. I should have dinner with Jamie tonight, anyway. I've been a best friend in absentia lately." I start to pull away, but his fingers tighten around mine. "What?"

  "I don't want to go." His grin is boyish, and I laugh with delight. Damien is so many things, and I am falling hard for all of them.

  "But if you don't, then how can I spend the day looking forward to having you back?"

  "You're a very wise woman," he says, then presses a fresh kiss to my lips. "Until tonight."

  7

  Edward greets me outside by the door of a gracious silver and burgundy car that looks like it belongs on Masterpiece Theatre. "New car?"

  "No, ma'am," Edward says. "Mr. Stark rebuilt her about three years ago."

  "Really?" I look the car over, wondering when on earth Damien found the time. I try to imagine him under the chassis, his hands dirty and a spot of grease on his nose. Surprisingly, it's an easier picture to conjure than I would have imagined. As I've seen time and again, Damien can do pretty much anything. And look damn good doing it, too.

  As for looking damn good, the car certainly fits that bill. It's all soft curves and flowing lines, the epitome of automotive class and grace. It's almost a crime that Edward wears a simple suit instead of livery, and it wouldn't surprise me a bit if his voice took on a British tinge.

  He is oblivious to the way my mind is wandering. "We normally reserve the Bentley for formal occasions, but Mr. Stark thought you might enjoy arriving at your new position in style."

  As he speaks, the helicopter rises from behind the house, far enough away that it barely kicks up a breeze. It's too far for me to see Damien, but I lift my hand anyway and wave a silent thank-you.

  "I need to go home, actually. Not work. But Mr. Stark was right about the rest," I say as I slide past Edward into the car. "I'm definitely going to enjoy this ride."

  "I'm afraid Mr. Stark was very clear that I am to see you safely to your office."

  "Was he?" I consider pulling out my cell phone and giving Damien a piece of my mind, but that would ultimately change nothing. I consider my options and then nod. "Fine," I finally say, pushing my irritation aside. "But I do have to go home first."

  "Of course, Ms. Fairchild." He shuts the door, and I'm snug in a leather and wood cocoon, breathing in the scent of luxury.

  The windows, I notice, are not electric but instead operate with old-fashioned knobs that appear to be mahogany and are polished to a sheen. The white leather seat is as soft as butter, and the seat back in front of me actually has a tray table. I defy convention and release it from its full upright and locked position. It eases down to form a perfectly positioned writing surface. I'm suddenly overcome with a longing for a quill pen and parchment.

  "What year is the car?" I ask Edward as he maneuvers us down the drive.

  "It's a 1960 S2 Saloon," he says. "Only 388 were produced, and I'm afraid there are very few still on the road. When Mr. Stark ran across this one in a junkyard, he was determined to bring it back to its former glory."

  I'm not at all certain what Damien would have been doing in a junkyard, but it takes no effort whatsoever to imagine his determination. What Damien wants, Damien gets, be it a classic car, a Santa Barbara hotel, or me.

  I run my finger over the varnished surface of the desk, the motion reminding me of my earlier whimsy. "You don't happen to have a paper and pen up there, do you?"

  "Certainly," Edward says. He leans over and pulls something out of the glove box, then passes a folio back to me. I open it and find a fountain pen and heavy linen stationery monogrammed with DJS--Damien's initials.

  I hesitate. I hadn't really expected that Edward would have the things I asked for, and now that I'm faced with the prospect of putting my thoughts on paper, I am suddenly tongue-tied. Or finger-tied, as the case may be.

  But this is too sweet an opportunity to squander, so I draw a breath, put the nib of the pen on the paper, and begin to write.

  My very dear Mr. Stark,

  Before I met you, I never gave any thought to the sensual nature of an automobile. But now, once again, I am surrounded by soft leather, snug in the warm embrace of this graceful, powerful vehicle. It is heady stuff, and I--

  I continue to write, pouring out my teasing phrases through the intimate flow of ink onto paper. As I watch my precise handwriting fill the page, I almost regret the tech revolution. How wonderful to have received a letter from a lover. To open it and see his heart on the page, his handwriting bold and strong. There's an immediacy to texts and emails that can't be denied, but the intimacy of a letter really can't be replicated.

  By the time Edward pulls up in front of the condo that I share with Jamie in Studio City, I have finished the note. I fold it neatly, slide it into the matching envelope I find in the folio pocket, seal it, and print my return address on the top left corner. I realize then that I don't know the street address of Damien's Malibu house. Odd, considering how much time I've been spending there. But it doesn't matter. The letter will reach him just as easily at his office building, which is also where his downtown apartment is located. I print his name and address neatly across the center of the envelope:

  Damien Stark, CEO

  Stark International

  Stark Tower, Penthouse

  S. Grand Avenue

  Los Angeles, CA 90071

  I can't remember the street number for the tower, but under the circumstances I imagine that the post office can deal. I find a stamp in my wallet and affix it to the envelope. Then I slip out of the car and smile at Edward. "I need to shower and change and grab a few things. I might be a while."

  "That won't be a problem," he says, and as I head toward the stairs, he slips back behind the wheel.

  I feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever about my plan. Edward undoubtedly has an audiobook, and it's not as if he needs to go back to Malibu in order to drive Damien around. By the time he realizes that I have snuck down the back stairs to my own car, I imagine he'll have gotten in quite a bit of quality time with whatever book he's enjoying.

  I slide the letter through the outgoing mail slot before I hurry up the stairs to the condo, calculating the time I have to shower and change and get to the office. Traffic was worse than Edward had expected--there was a wreck on the 405--and I am going to be more rushed than I'd intended. I know I could have simply worn one of the zillion outfits that Damien has stocked for me, but this new job is my territory. And silly or not, I want to wear my own clothes and drive my own car.

  I expect to find the door unlocked, because Jamie never remembers to lock the damn thing, so I'm surprised to find both the dead bolt and the knob locked up tight.

  I dig my keys out of my purse, then frown as I enter the dark apartment. She's probably asleep, and I hope that she's alone. She probably is. Though Jamie drags men home like stray cats, she routinely kicks them out once they've given her bedsprings a thorough shaking. It's dangerous and I worry, because it's almost become a game with her. Unlike the games I play with Damien, though, I don't think there's any sort of safeword for Jamie.

  Her door is closed, and I consider passing by. But this is my first day at work, and I want to see my best friend.

  I tap lightly on the door, then lean close to listen. I expect either a groan or a startled apology followed by a rush to the door and a hug for me on my first day. But there's only silence.

  "James?" I tap harder, but there's still no answer. I take hold of the knob and turn, trying t
o both look and not look, just in case she finally let the guy she dragged home stay for the entire night.

  But the room is both dark and empty. I tell myself not to worry. Jamie probably just had somewhere to be this morning. Or else she crashed somewhere after a night of partying. Except I don't really believe either of those explanations. Jamie's not an early riser, and she rarely stays overnight anywhere. She's not the kind to crash on a couch--she likes the comforts of home too much.

  I hope I'm overreacting, but I pull out my phone and tap out a text. Where r u? Do I need to send out a search party?

  I wait, staring at the screen, but my phone stays silent.

  Well, shit.

  I call, but the phone rolls over to voice mail.

  Now my stomach really is in knots. I can't call the police--I may not watch much television, but I've watched enough to know that they won't do a thing unless it's been twenty-four hours. I almost dial Damien, but my finger hesitates over his name. There might be nothing that he can do, but if I'm worried, I'm almost positive that he'll cut his meeting short and come to me no matter how much I protest. He may be firmly perched on a white steed in my mind, but I am most definitely not a damsel in distress, and really don't want to be.

  Fine. Okay. No problem. Jamie's probably just in the shower, which is where I need to be. I'll shower and change, and if she hasn't called me back by the time I'm ready to head downtown, I'll call and text her again. And if she still doesn't answer, I'll call Ollie. I don't know what he could do, but as my other best friend, I'm allowed to call him in a crisis. And with Ollie, my odds of interrupting a billion-dollar summit are significantly lessened.

  Most important though--and as much as I hate to admit it--there's a possibility that they're together. They slept together one time that I know of. And though Jamie swears it was a singular event--and though Ollie has assured me that he's been otherwise faithful to his fiancee--I'm not certain that I really believe either one of them.

  My doubts weigh on me, because Jamie and Ollie are my two best friends, and I don't like the way their tryst has clouded up things among the three of us.

  I'm frustrated as I head into my own bedroom and toss the phone onto my bed, barely missing Lady Meow-Meow, who has blended in so well with my white duvet I don't see her. She lifts her head in sleepy protest, stares at me until I apologize, and then promptly goes back to sleep.

  Apparently our cat doesn't share my concern about Jamie's whereabouts.

  Partly because I'm running late, and partly because I don't want to be away from the phone that long, I rush through my shower. I towel-dry my hair until it's damp, then use some gel to twist a few curls into place. I've discovered that it's much easier to take care of shoulder-length hair than the tresses that used to fall midway down my back. Not that I want to repeat my meltdown, but on this small point, I think it worked out okay.

  I wrap a towel around me, then open the door to our tiny bathroom. A cloud of steam escapes ahead of me, and I follow it out, then jump about a foot when I hear the sharp crash of ceramic shattering against the tile kitchen floor.

  For an instant, I'm terrified, imagining intruders and boogey-men and God knows what. But what would have been a scream breaks into a relieved burst of laughter when I hear Jamie's voice cutting sharply through the apartment. "Oh, fuck a duck! Nikki! I just killed your favorite coffee mug!"

  "I'm right here," I call, hurrying down the two stairs, my back to our tiny dining area as I face Jamie in the kitchen.

  She looks at me oddly, probably because I'm still laughing. She holds up the handle of my Dallas Cowboys mug. The rest of the shattered blue ceramic is scattered on the tile at her feet. "Sorry," she says.

  "It's okay." I'm still laughing. I don't know why. Relief, I guess.

  "It was a ridiculous favorite, anyway," she says, as if I'm giving her grief about the mug. "You don't even like football."

  "It was big," I said. "It could hold hot chocolate and marshmallows without the chocolate dribbling over the side when you stick a spoon in."

  "Yeah, but what's the point of drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows if you're going to be all prissy about it?"

  I can't argue with that, so I don't. Instead I shove my feet into a pair of flip-flops that are by the stairs, then step gingerly into the kitchen to get the small broom and dustpan I put under the sink after I moved in.

  "Thanks," she says, then rolls her eyes when I hand the broom to her. "Okay." She sighs. "Fine."

  As she squats down, much better dressed for the job in jeans than I am in my towel, I ask where she's been. "I was worried," I admit. "Did you sleep somewhere else?"

  "Shit no." She brushes the last of the mug splinters into the dustpan, then tilts her head to aim a cat-ate-the-canary grin up at me. "I may have stayed out all night, but I didn't sleep." Her dreamy grin fades and she peers hard at me. "And you? Because it seems to me your bed's not getting all that much action lately. Pretty soon you're going to have to sign the poor thing up for therapy. Loneliness can lead to depression, you know."

  "I'll get right on that," I say dryly. "And as a matter of fact, no. I wasn't here, either."

  "Uh-huh."

  I hold my hands up in surrender. "I didn't say a word," I point out. "But if I were going to say something, it would only be that when I stay out all night it's with the same guy. You have so many different men you should start a Facebook page just to keep track of them."

  "Not a bad plan, actually. Except that I think this guy might be something special."

  I gape. "Seriously?"

  "Totally. He's not as fuckalicious as Damien-king-of-the-world-Stark, but I wouldn't run screaming from a repeat performance. Or even a triple play, for that matter."

  This is as close as I've ever heard Jamie get to discussing a relationship. To say I'm bowled over would be an understatement. "You can't just drop a bomb like that on me when I'm running late. So come on. We can talk while I get dressed."

  She follows me into my bedroom and perches at my desk in front of my laptop. It's open, and the screensaver is a slideshow of pictures of Damien that I took in Santa Barbara. Damien with so much light and humor in his eyes that I can't ever look at those photos without smiling. Between that screensaver and the exquisite, original Monet painting Damien gave me that now hangs between my desk and my dresser, I cannot enter this room without feeling cherished. It's a nice feeling, and one that I am not used to. In college, my apartment was simply a place to live. With my mother, my room was the place I wanted to escape. But here, there is Jamie and my newfound freedom. There is excitement. There is potential.

  Most of all, there is Damien.

  This room is proof that I really have moved on, and that where I am going is where I want to be.

  At my desk, Jamie is typing away. "Raine," she finally says.

  I'm standing by my closet, debating between a blue skirt and a gray one, and it takes me a moment to realize she's not talking about precipitation.

  "Bryan Raine," she says, when I turn to face her, as if that will make me understand. Since my face apparently continues to register complete cluelessness, she shakes her head in mock exasperation, and taps the laptop screen. "My guy is Bryan Raine."

  Despite my rush, I'm curious enough to forgo my wardrobe analysis to see what she's doing, and when I reach my desk, I see that she's pulled up a series of images. They're all of the same man. Gorgeous, mostly shirtless, with a well-fucked quality and the kind of eyes and facial structure and that dirty blond hair a camera loves. Most of the images, in fact, are from advertisements. Cars, men's cologne. Jeans. I have to confess that the man could definitely sell a pair of jeans.

  "That's him," Jamie says proudly.

  "That's the guy you were out with last night?"

  "Yup." She grins mischievously. "Though we stayed in most of the time. Pretty hot, huh?"

  "He's incredible," I say as I move to my dresser and rummage for panties and a bra. For a moment, I hesitate. In the game I've b
een playing with Damien, I've had to follow his rules. And for the last two weeks, I've worn neither bra nor panties. It was odd at first, but undeniably sexy, especially when I was with him, knowing that at any moment he could slip a hand under my skirt. That he could touch me, tease me, even fingerfuck me.

  There's something desperately erotic about being naked beneath your clothes, and even when Damien wasn't around, my body was keyed up, and I was aware of every brush of material over my rear and every whisper of a breeze that stroked my sex.

  But this isn't a game, it's the first day of a new job and the Elizabeth Fairchild Rules for Living are too ingrained in my life. I might have spent my entire life trying to escape from my mother, but she has still soaked in through the cracks. And in my mother's world, the thrill of sexual freedom doesn't override the necessity of panties at work.

  I slip on my underwear, sigh, and return to the closet to continue debating my outfit.

  I glance at Jamie to see if she has an opinion, but she's still gazing dreamily at the screen. "Don't get drool on my keyboard," I chide. "So how did you meet him?"

  "He's my co-star," she says, referring to the commercial she's about to start shooting. "He mostly models, but he's also done a few television guest appearances and he was even one of the bad guys in the last James Bond movie."

  "He was?" I'd actually seen that movie, and I don't remember him.

  "Well, he stood around with a gun and looked hot," she amends. "But he was on the bad guy team."

  "But you guys haven't started to shoot yet," I say, because I'm still confused. "So why did you go out with him? Which one?" I add, holding up the two skirts I'm considering.

  "The blue. And he called me. He said that since the commercial's basically a love story in thirty seconds, we ought to go out and suss out our chemistry."

  "I take it the chemistry is good?"

  "Sizzling," Jamie agrees, and although I'm still not thrilled about the ease with which Jamie bounces from bed to bed, I can't deny that this morning my roommate looks good. Sparkly, fizzy good, and I figure that the new job and the new guy have a lot to do with that. I feel a surge of protectiveness mixed with relief and tinged with a tiny bit of worry. Jamie's never confided in me about it, but I'm pretty sure that before I moved in she often chose her men based not on attraction but on their willingness to help her make the mortgage. If a real relationship develops between Jamie and Bryan Raine, no one will be happier than me. But if he ends up breaking her heart, I have a feeling that my strong, self-sufficient roommate will shatter.