I believe with all my heart that Damien loves me. What I fear is that love isn't enough. Not when he's determined to push me away in some misguided attempt to protect me.
So I don't lash out. That's not a fight I can win, but I can play the game my own way.
With renewed resolve, I kick the wattage up on my smile and slide off his lap, my hand extended to him. "You have to be in court at ten, Mr. Stark. I think you'd better come with me."
He stands, his expression wary. "Are you going to tell me I have to get some sleep?"
"No."
His gaze slides over me, and my body quivers in response as if he had physically touched me. "Good," he says, and that one simple word not only conveys a world of promises but takes the edge off the chilly fear that has filled me.
I allow the corner of my mouth to quirk up into a hint of a smile. "Not that, either. Not yet, anyway."
The confusion on his face brings a genuine smile to my lips, but he doesn't have the chance to ask, as the concierge has approached. "Everything is ready, Ms. Fairchild."
My smile broadens. "Thank you. Your timing is perfect."
I take the hand of the very confused man that I love and lead him through the lobby, following the concierge to the front of the hotel. There, parked on the street beside a very giddy valet, is a cherry red Lamborghini.
Damien turns to look at me. "What's this?"
"A rental. I thought you could use a little fun tonight, and the A9's just a few miles away. Fast car. German autobahn. It seemed like a no-brainer to me."
"Boys and their toys?"
I lower my voice so that the concierge can't overhear. "Since we already have some interesting toys in the room, I thought you might enjoy a change of pace." I lead him closer to where the valet stands by the open passenger door. "I understand she's very responsive, and I know you'll enjoy having all that power at your command."
"Is she?" He looks me up and down, and this time the inspection is tinged with fire. "As a matter of fact, that's exactly what I like. Responsiveness. Power. Control."
"I know," I say, and then slide into the passenger seat, letting more than a little thigh show as I do.
An instant later, Damien is behind the wheel and he's fired the powerful engine.
"Drive fast enough, and it's almost like sex," I tease. And then, because I can't resist, I add, "At the very least, it makes for exceptional foreplay."
"In that case, Ms. Fairchild," he says, with a boyish grin that makes this all worthwhile, "I suggest you hold on tight."
Chapter Two
Even at almost midnight on a Sunday, traffic seems to spill out over the narrow Munich streets. The Lamborghini's engine revs and purrs, the power pent-up and antsy, as if it is as frustrated by its inability to break free and fly as I am by my inability to make things right for Damien.
I am nestled in the red-leather bucket seat, my body turned slightly to the left so that I can watch him. Despite the snarl of traffic that I would find exasperating, Damien is calm and in complete control. His right hand rests loosely on the gear stick, his fingers curved slightly. I draw a slow breath, imagining his touch against my bare knee. Since I've met Damien, I've done a lot of fantasizing. Honestly, I can't say that I mind.
His left hand grips the steering wheel, and despite the shitstorm in which we now live, he looks relaxed and confident. From my perspective, I am looking at his profile--that sculpted jaw, his deep-set eyes, his glorious mouth now curved into just the hint of a smile.
His unshaved jaw and finger-mussed hair combine with the low-interior light of the car to give him the look of a dangerous rebel. It's true, I think. Damien is as rebellious as they come. He lives his life by nobody's rules but his own. It is one of the qualities that I most love about him, which is why it makes it that much harder knowing that if he simply played the game like a good little defendant, everything could turn around.
We are standing still at an intersection, and now the light in front of us changes to green. He accelerates, then switches lanes so sharply I reach up to grab the handhold so that I don't list to one side. He turns to look at me, and I see nothing but pure pleasure in his eyes. I meet his smile eagerly, and for that moment, there is nothing in the world that can harm us. There is only freedom and joy, and I wish that it could continue like this. That we could drive on and on and never stop, just the two of us soaring off into eternity.
I may be lost in the fantasy of getting lost, but Damien exists entirely in the moment. I can see the tenseness in his muscles, the power and the control as he puts the car through her paces, testing her limits as he lets the power of that incredible engine build and build before we hit the autobahn, where he will finally let her explode onto the open road.
I swallow and shift a little in the seat. I thought I'd been teasing when I'd said this drive would be like sex. Apparently, I was wrong.
"You're smiling," he says, without turning to look at me.
"I am," I admit. "Because you're happy."
"I'm with you," he replies. "Why wouldn't I be happy?"
"Keep talking," I say. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
"I certainly hope so." His voice is barely a murmur, but it is more than sufficient to make my body respond. My skin heats and beads of perspiration rise on the back of my neck at my hairline. My breasts feel heavy, as if I need the support of Damien's hands upon them, and my now-hard nipples press enticingly against the silk of my sheath dress.
His comment may be simple and straightforward, but it holds a world of meaning. After all, he and I both know that there's nowhere Damien can take me that I won't be willing to go.
"We're here," Damien says, and I jump a little at the odd juxtaposition of his words to my thought. I gather myself, quickly realizing that he means that we've reached the A9. He accelerates onto the entrance ramp, the force pushing me back against the seat. I suck in air, invigorated by the speed and by the man beside me. "Do you have a plan?" he asks as he shifts gears.
I glance over and see that the speedometer is already approaching 175 kilometers per hour. "A plan?"
His brow quirks up with amusement. "This was your idea, remember? I thought you might have had something specific in mind."
"No plan," I admit as I toe off my shoes and put my feet up on the seat. "Nothing more than just cutting loose with you."
"I like that plan," he says. "And I know exactly where I want to get off." He glances at me as he says the last, the deliciously devious gleam in his eyes so exaggerated that I can't help but laugh.
"Perv," I say.
"Only for you," he retorts. I am hugging my knees, and he reaches over and traces his fingertip over the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet that was a gift from him, a physical reminder that I am his. As if I could ever forget.
His hand moves from the bracelet to the back of my thigh, the touch light and sensual. It's nothing more than a simple caress, but my reaction to it is all sorts of complicated. Taut ribbons of heat shoot through me to pool between my legs, to tug at my nipples. How simple it is to fall into a pattern of touch and pleasure, of need and desire. It is as if I am in a constant state of starvation, and he is the sweetest ambrosia.
All too soon, though, the pressure is gone as he moves his hand to the radio, rolling through the stations until he settles on something with a heavy techno beat that fills the car. He shifts again and the engine hums as Damien weaves in and out of the minimal traffic. I settle back and let the rhythm pound through me as I watch this man who loves me. This man who I love, too. Who belongs entirely to me.
The thought comes unbidden, and I find myself frowning because it isn't true. If he were truly my private property--mine, and mine alone--I could take him away from here. I could save him. I could make all of this legal horribleness go away.
But I can't, and that inescapable truth creeps back under my skin, turning my previously light and giddy mood to something dark and foreboding.
I shift so that I am looking out
of the passenger window at the line of trees passing in the night, odd shadows dancing across them, cast from the illumination of our headlights. I shiver, feeling unwound from such an ominous sight, as if we're driving into a netherworld, but even that won't save us from the desolate pull of reality.
I want to keep driving--I want to head east to where the sun will rise in five or so hours. I want to push this car to its limit and never stop. We're in a bubble right now, safe from those dark grasping shadows. But the moment we stop . . . the moment we go back . . .
No. I draw a deep breath. I have to be strong. Not for me, but for Damien. "We should head back," I say, but my voice is so low that I am certain he cannot hear me over the music that now fills the car. I reach for the radio and press the power button, throwing us into silence.
Damien glances at me, and I see the joy on his face shift to concern as his eyes meet mine. "What is it?"
"We should go back." I try to speak up, but my voice is still unnaturally soft, as if my will is fighting me, silently begging me to urge him to run. "You need rest." I force the words out, pitching my voice to sound natural. "Tomorrow's going to put us both through the ringer."
"All the more reason to keep going as long as we can."
I swallow a throat full of tears. "Damien."
I expect him to say soothing words. To reassure me that everything will be okay. Instead, he simply brushes my cheek, the gesture sending shock waves through me and once again making tears well in my eyes. I clench my hands into fists and fight against the crying jag that is about to explode out of me. I can't lose it. Not now. Hell, not ever. If I lose Damien, I'll cry then. And until I know one way or the other, I want to spend every second doing nothing but simply being with him.
I manage a smile that is almost genuine and turn to him.
"Soon." He hits the accelerator, and the car speeds up.
"Where are we going?"
"Someplace I want you to see."
My expression must be more confused than I realize, because he laughs softly. "Don't worry. We're not running away."
I grimace. I almost wish we were.
He keeps his left hand on the steering wheel, but he rests his right hand on my knee. The touch is more possessive than sexual, as if he simply needs to know that I am there. I lean my head back, torn between wanting to relish the feel of his fingers against my flesh, and the need to rail on him. To scream and yell. To beg and plead for him to fucking defend himself. Because Damien Stark is not a man who stands back and gets whipped. He is not a man who puts up with losing.
He is not a man who hurts the woman he loves.
And yet he is doing all of these things.
My thoughts, violent and dangerous, swirl inside me as the last of the city lights fade, leaving nothing but the forested acres that line the highway. The engine is smooth, remarkably quiet, and I am tired. Not simply because of the late hour, but because of everything that has been resting upon me. I close my eyes and relax, only to sit up again with a jolt seconds later when I realize the car is stopped, the engine turned off.
"What?" I feel groggy, my mind full of cobwebs. "What happened?"
"You had a nice nap," Damien says.
A nap?
I frown. "How long?"
"Almost half an hour."
That startles me to wakefulness, and I sit up and look around. We appear to be in the parking lot of a rustic restaurant with plenty of outdoor seating. It's closed now, the empty picnic tables seeming eerie rather than welcoming. "Where are we?"
"Seehaus Kranzberger," he says. I must look as confused as I feel, because he grins. "This used to be one of my favorite places near Munich. Alaine and Sofia and I used to come here once Alaine was old enough to drive. Later, I would come by myself. There are a lot of memories here," he adds, an odd catch in his voice.
"But it's closed," I say stupidly.
"We didn't come for the food," he says. He gets out, then comes around the car and opens my door before I have a chance. He reaches a hand down to help me out, and I stand gratefully.
"Why did we come?"
"Walk with me."
I study his face, unable to read his mood. He takes my hand and leads me down a narrow path that meanders through tall, leafy trees, their green leaves now black and gray in the moonlight. I cannot imagine where we are going, but then we turn, and I gasp. A lake is spread open in front of us, a wilderness surrounding it, the moonlight sparkling on the surface, and the giant orb of the moon itself reflected in such a way that it appears that we could dive in and capture it for ourselves. "It's beautiful," I say.
"Welcome to Kranzberger See. I used to spend hours here," he says. "I would sit on the bank and listen to the water and the birds and the wind in the trees. I would close my eyes and get lost." He has been looking at the lake, but now he turns to look at me. "I wanted to show you," he says. What I hear is, "I'm sorry."
I swallow and nod, feeling overwhelmed. "Thank you."
He lifts our joined hands and gently kisses my palm. The gesture is soft and sweet and achingly romantic, and I can't help but wish that we could stay here, lost in the dappled light, hidden away by the fantasy of being all alone in the world.
A tremor ripples through my body, and I turn away. I've fallen so fast for this man, and I am terrified of losing him. Terrified that whatever good we've discovered together despite our shitty pasts will be ripped away. I press my lips together to hold back an anguished scream, because that is all I want to do right now--scream and yell and cry until Damien does whatever he has to do to fix this and make all the horror go away.
But I don't. Instead I stand firm like a rock, knowing that the slightest motion could set me off. I feel wild and volatile and dangerous. And right now, the last thing either of us needs is an explosion.
"Nikki." My name is soft upon his lips, and he lets go of my hand as he moves to stand behind me. His palms press down on my shoulders, the pressure warm and sweet. I feel the gentle touch of his lips upon the top of my head, and the soft squeeze of his fingers as he strokes my arms, bare in the sleeveless dress. "I pissed you off that first night at Evelyn's, remember? I should have let you stay pissed. I should have walked away from you and never looked back."
My mouth is dry, and my chest feels tight. I do not want to hear these words. I don't want to believe that there is even some tiny part of him that would prefer to have never been with me, not even if that fantasy springs from a desire to protect me. "No," I say. It's the only word I can manage, and it sounds strangled and raw.
He turns me gently, then presses his palm to my cheek. "It rips me apart to see the fear in your eyes."
His words are soft and gentle, but they hit me with as much force as a kick in the chest, and I respond in kind, surprising both of us when I lash out and slap him across the face.
"Stop it!" I shout, all of my self-control exploding out in a maelstrom of wild emotions. "Just fucking stop it! You think that's a solution? Wishing that we'd never gotten together? Goddammit, Damien, I'm so in love with you it hurts, but you're going to fucking coddle me? I don't need you to soothe me, I need you to do something." I smack him in the chest with both palms, then gasp when he grabs my wrists and holds me still, his hands painfully tight against my skin.
"Nikki." His voice isn't soothing now. It's raw and dangerous and I know that I've pushed him too far, but I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, I can't push him far enough, because right then, all I want is to break him. To break through that goddamned stubbornness and somehow get through his head that the only way to save himself--to save us--is to put forward a defense.
"They're going to put you away for life." My voice is clipped and precise. "Christ, Damien, how can you not be scared shitless? I'm so scared I can barely get out of bed every day!"
He stares at me as if I'm speaking Greek. "Not afraid?" His words are heavy with barely contained fury. I don't know if it's directed at me or not, but it is strong enough that it makes him tremble. "I
s that what you think?"
I take an involuntary step back, but he stops me, his hands clutching my arms, his fingers digging into my flesh and holding me firmly in place. "Is that really what you think? Jesus Christ, Nikki, I'm terrified of being ripped away from you. Of not being able to touch you. To kiss you. To hear you laugh, to look at you. To be with you."
I am so lost in his words that I do not realize that he has been easing me backward and now I am pressed up against a tree, the bark rough through the thin material of my dress. His hands slide possessively down my arms, then back up my torso to roughly cup my breasts. I gasp as desire, hot and demanding, cuts through me.
He leans in closer, his lips brushing my cheek. "I can handle anything except the thought of losing you." His mouth burns against my ear. His hand slides down, then slowly up my thigh, taking the thin material of the skirt with him.
"Not scared?" he whispers as his palm cups my sex. I'm not wearing underwear, and he slips easily inside me. I bite my lower lip, grateful that he is there to hold me up because my entire body feels like liquid fire.
"I'm more terrified than I've ever been in my life," he says, and then his mouth closes over mine and his fingers inside me move slowly in time with the deepening rhythm of his kiss. For one beautiful, blissful moment I am lost in his kiss, in his arms. I've forgotten where we are and why we are here. There is only Damien and the sensual, comforting warmth of his body pressed against mine.
Then something snaps inside me, bursting past the desire and this desperate need that has my pulse pounding and my sex drawing tight around his fingers. I press my palms up hard against his chest and push him back again.
"How dare you be afraid. Goddammit, Damien, how dare you say that you're afraid of losing me when you could make it all go away. You could make this be over. You could end it and we could go home."
He's staring at me, and there is infinite sadness in his eyes. "Oh, baby. If I could take away your fear, I would."
"If you could?" I repeat. "You can, and you damn well know it, and I'm fucking pissed off that you won't do anything about it."
I'm screaming at him. I'm like a shrewish harpy and I hate it. Hate myself. But dammit, right now I hate Damien, too.