Enchant Me

by J. Kenner

  A cold fury had been swirling through Damien, as the pieces started to fall into place. “Were the notes not enough?” he asked, his voice low and harsh and dangerous.

  He saw Jackson’s eyes widen, and Noah’s and Preston’s confused expressions. “The threats? You decided that you had to come here in person? Is this the end game or are we only just beginning?”

  Ashton sat back, his face an unreadable mask. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Ashton stood, then turned his attention to the other three men in the room. “It was a pleasure to meet you all and to see you again, Noah. Mr. Stark, all I can say is that you were an experience. I’ll show myself out.”

  And then he turned, walked to the double doors, and pulled one open. He disappeared into the waiting area without even a backward glance.

  “What the hell was that?” Jackson asked as the door clicked shut.

  Preston rose. “I’m going to go after him. See if I can ... I don’t know ... figure out what’s going on, I guess.”

  “Suit yourself,” Damien said. “But I don’t think you’ll learn anything. Other than that he really does not want to work with me.”

  “What grudge does he have against you?” Preston asked, and Damien shook his head.

  He looked to Noah. “This meeting came through you. Did he ever say anything that might explain what happened today?”

  Noah shook his head, looking clueless. “He seemed excited to meet you.”

  “I have no doubt that he was. He wanted the chance to spit in my face.”

  “Yeah, I’ll have to say you’re right on that,” Noah agreed. “But why?”

  Damien looked at Jackson who had his head cocked. “You need to call Ryan. Considering everything that’s been going on, he may want to tail this guy.”

  Noah and Preston exchanged glances. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” Noah said. “Damien, I don’t understand what’s going on, but I’m sorry. If there’s anything you need us to do, just let us know.”

  “It will be fine. Surreal, but fine.” He shifted his attention to Preston. “I don’t know who you’ve talked about in the department about this meeting, but the official word is that we’re in a wait-and-see mode.”

  “Of course. What happened in this room won’t leave it.”

  “I know. And thank you.” He watched as Noah and Preston left, then fell back into his seat. “What the hell was that?”

  Across from him, Jackson frowned. “You think he’s behind the texts. The video.”

  “It makes sense,” Damien said. “But he looked genuinely perplexed.”

  Jackson nodded. “I noticed that, too. Like you’d shifted the conversation to a path he didn’t understand. He wasn’t frustrated that you’d called him out on his harassment. Instead, he seemed annoyed that you were turning the tables.”

  “Exactly. But he may just be one hell of an actor.”

  “I’d believe that,” Jackson said. “But here’s the bigger question. How could he get his hands on the Richter images? For that matter, why would he have gone looking for them in the first place?”

  “I haven’t got an answer to any of that,” Damien said. “But I’m damn sure going to start looking.”

  12

  When the elevator doors open on the top floor of Stark Tower, I find myself looking at Jackson’s face, his expression hard. “What on Earth is the matter?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll let you ask Damien that.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Jackson pauses as we pass each other to give me a quick hug, then whispers, “This is all going to be okay. The bottom line is that he’s having a really shitty week.”

  I nod, wondering if Damien got the Masque video, too. I hope not, but if he didn’t get it, then what new hell has ruined his day?

  With that question lingering in my mind, I return my brother-in-law’s hug, then pass Troy on my way to Damien’s office. “Is he free? Can you buzz me in?”

  He already has, and even as I speak, the doors glide open. I shoot Troy a look of gratitude, then step inside to find Damien pacing in front of the wet bar, a drink in hand despite the early hour.

  “What’s going on?” I ask him. “I bumped into Jackson, and he looks like he’s on his way back from a funeral.”

  “We had that meeting with Ashton Stone.”

  “Oh.” I frown. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”

  His brows rise, apparently acknowledging that my question is foolish. “Well, he’s still alive,” Damien says drolly.

  It’s not the response I’m expecting, and I burst out laughing, grateful when Damien chuckles as well, some of the tension easing from his face.

  “Tell me what happened.” I move to the sofa and take a seat. When Damien sits beside me, I shift so that my back is against the armrest, and put my feet in his lap.

  “Basically he said he wouldn’t work with me even if he was forced to.” His fingers trace idly up and down my bare calf. “He came to the meeting for the sole purpose of snubbing me.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would he do that? Does he have some personal grudge?”

  “Nothing I can think of. Maybe he’s pitched to the team before. I’ve sent a text to Preston asking him to go back and confirm that we haven’t dealt with Stone’s business in the past. But I know I didn’t deal with the man, so that begs the question of why there’s such vitriol aimed at me.”

  He puts the drink down and cups his hands behind his neck. “Maybe I acquired something he wanted. Hell, it could be anything.”

  “What about the sponsorship?” I ask, remembering what Damien said the other morning and from the television. “For his racing team. Didn’t he want Stark International to sponsor him?”

  Damien nods slowly. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought of it. That was so long ago. It seems petty. I made a business decision.”

  “But you told me part of that decision was because Ashton was getting pulled into some scandal. Maybe he thought that was a pot calling the kettle black thing. I mean, you’re the king of scandal.”

  “Thank you for your support,” he says, but I hear the humor—and the acknowledgement of truth—in his voice. “You may be right.”

  “And it’s all personal,” I add. “Racing is Ashton Stone’s passion. This business is yours.”

  “My family is,” Damien counters, and I swallow, seeing the full impact of what he is saying. Because those horrible texts and videos that have been bombarding us are personal, too.

  I look up at Damien again. “You think he’s behind the texts? The videos and stuff, I mean?”

  He lets his hands rise and fall. “I don’t know. I accused him of it, though, so obviously I think it’s possible. But he looked genuinely clueless. Then again, the man might be one hell of an actor.” He groans and drags his fingers through his hair. “The whole thing’s gotten under my skin.”

  “I can tell.”

  He manages a half-smile. “You might be surprised to know that I’m never keen on getting the rug pulled out from under me.”

  I scoot closer so that my thighs are on his lap and my arms around his neck. “What are you going to do?”

  He puts his hand on my thigh and strokes softly, as if the movement is calming him. “I’m going to get more background on Ashton Stone, that’s for damn sure.”

  “I wish I could say that you’re going overboard, but you have good instincts, Mr. Stark.”

  I swallow, then look away so that I’m not meeting his eyes as I think about Ashton Stone. This mercurial racecar driver makes me nervous, too, especially now that this new video from Masque has shown up. The one that is still tucked away on my phone, unknown to Damien.

  I know I need to tell him about it, but I also know this man. He’s not used to being denied, to not getting what he wants, and to not being wanted in the first place.

  Hell, for years, he’s been the golden boy who everyone else
clamors after, seeking attention. The fact that Stone walked boldly into his office and snubbed Damien to his face is obviously eating at my husband. As it would anybody.

  If I tell him about the Masque video now, it will add fuel to an already raging temper, and I fear that I’ll lose him inside himself again. That he’ll beat out his frustrations in the gym or on the court. That he’ll let it all twist up inside himself instead of talking to me and letting me help him through it.

  Which is why I decide to take the initiative. “How about we take your mind off it? In case you’ve forgotten, we have a lovely apartment with a comfy bed just a few short steps away. And it’s very conveniently right at the lunch hour.”

  He chuckles, and I think I see genuine humor on his face. “Are you manipulating me Ms. Fairchild?”

  “Maybe. Do you like it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. With me.” He takes my hand, and we leave the office, pausing only long enough to give Troy a few instructions. Then we follow the back hallway to the Tower Apartment’s service entrance. We move through the dimly lit rooms to the large master bedroom.

  Immediately, I slide into his arms and press my lips to his. I expect to be gloriously used. I’m certain he’ll work out his frustrations from the meeting on me, but instead, he tosses me back on the bed, straddles me, and pins me down at my forearms.

  “This time, I think you really do need a spanking,” he says, one brow lifting.

  I’m not opposed to the idea in theory, but I can tell from his tone that this isn’t about sex or working through his frustration. “Um. I don’t know what you’re talking about?” I mean it as a statement, but my words come out as a question.

  “You forget how well I know you. Tell me what’s going on, Nikki.”

  I exhale. “Fine.” I try to sit up, but he keeps me pinned down. Then he bends over, and kisses me very gently. “Whatever it is, I appreciate you trying to stave off my temper. But you and I both know that you came here to tell me something. So tell me.”

  I consider arguing, if for no other reason than to delay the inevitable. I sigh. “Let me up. I need to get my phone.”

  He does, and I pull it out of my purse, which I’ve dropped on the floor. I open to the text and the video inside it. “I got this when I was at the SCF,” I say as I pass him the phone.

  I watch his face as he watches the video. I see his color drain and his expression go hard. Then he tosses my phone on the bed, turns, and leaves the room.

  I go after him, only to bump into his back immediately outside the doorway. He grabs my shoulders and pushes me against the wall, then kisses me hard. This is the kind of kiss I’d expected. A claiming kiss. A kiss to get lost in. A kiss meant to soothe all of his demons. All of mine, too.

  But then he pushes away with a curse and paces in front of me. Back and forth, and back and forth before slamming his fist against the wall so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t leave a hole in the drywall.

  “How many times am I going to keep thrusting the woman I love into the glare of the spotlight?” he snaps. “The portrait, all the goddamn publicity during the trial, and now this? Jesus Christ, Nikki. I never thought. I don’t see how —”

  “It’s okay, Damien. Just stop it. It’s okay.”

  “What part of this is okay?” he asks. “There’s a tape of us at Masque. You’re half naked, for fuck’s sake. How is it okay? All of this shit going on. Personal images that we don’t control. Someone is mining for our intimate moments and using them to push our buttons. How is any of that fucking okay?”

  I force myself not to sink back, but to stand tall against his fury. It’s red hot, yes, but it’s not directed at me. “It’s not,” I assure him. “It’s not okay. But we can deal with it. And as for this video, we knew there was a risk. You can’t deny it. That was part of the thrill, and you know that as well as I do.”

  “A theoretical risk. Were you exposed? Yes. To other people in the club running the same damn risk. But that thrill? It came from the narrowest thread of a theoretical possibility. And I swear to God, if that irresponsible, self-centered, son of a —”

  “Matthew Holt is on the phone,” Troy’s voice comes across the apartment’s intercom system. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but he says it’s urgent.”

  Damien shoots me a sideways look that contains more fury in his face than I think I’ve seen in our entire relationship. He stalks to the phone in the kitchen, presses the intercom button to let Troy know that he’s taking the call, then puts it on speaker.

  “Damien. Oh, God, Damien, I am so sorry. I swear to you, I’ll find out who filmed that.” Damien looks to me with a question in his eyes. He’s obviously not sure if I sent the video to Matthew or if our tormentor did.

  Me, I mouth. I’d forwarded the tape to Matthew, and at the same time, I’d let him know that I was on my way to show it to Damien.

  “I can’t tell you how mortified I am that this happened to the two of you,” Holt continues. “I will get to the bottom of this.”

  “I thought the club was private, Matthew,” Damien says. “I thought it was anonymous.”

  “I know who the members are, of course. And I have ways of finding out who violated my rules. I have security measures that are supposed to detect cameras and recording equipment. This shouldn’t have happened. I swear to you, I am as angry as you are.”

  I see Damien’s shoulders relax just slightly. “I highly doubt that.”

  “I’ll need a few days. But I’ll figure this out.”

  “All right, then,” Damien says. “A few days. Then I want answers.”

  “We may not have drinks regularly, but we run in the same circles, and we have many of the same friends. This isn’t something I’ll stand for, using my club as a way to blackmail a friend.”

  My husband closes his eyes and nods. “Thank you,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that he means it.

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Wait,” Damien says before Matthew has a chance to hang up.

  “What?”

  Damien clears his throat. “I just wanted to say that five minutes ago I could have happily killed you. Now I’m glad you have our back.”

  For a moment Matthew doesn’t answer. When he does, I hear a subtle change in his voice. A softer tone, and one that’s full of respect. “The world can change on a dime, my friend. I learned that lesson the hard way. And from what I’ve heard over the years, so did you.”

  “That’s true,” Damien says.

  “Then isn’t it lucky that we are both the type of men who are prepared to deal with that.”

  The sun dips below the horizon as I chase a small yellow ball over the backyard court. I’m sweaty and exhausted, and Lara is scrambling right beside me.

  One thing I’ve learned in the last hour? The best way to forget about weird stress caused by vile text messages is to play doubles tennis with two kids under the age of ten.

  I’m paired with Lara, Anne is with Damien, and Bradley is chasing the balls. Not surprisingly, Anne and Damien are beating the pants off of us, but I blame that mostly on my complete lack of skill at the game, and not on Damien’s well-known prowess on the court. It’s clear that he’s holding back and letting Anne do most of the work. To my delight and surprise, she’s got one heck of a swing, too, which is causing much tension between her and her older sister, who is more of a dancer than a tennis player.

  Anne returns my wild ball, and Lara misses right as the automatic lights on the court turn on, bathing us in an incandescent glow.

  “More, Daddy,” Anne begs, but Damien shakes his head.

  “Nope. It’s time for you little rug rats to go see Ms. Bree and get your bath. Mommy and Daddy need to talk.”

  “Please?” Anne asks, this time with the question directed to me.

  I shake my head. “You heard Daddy. Off you go. Take Bradley with you.”

  To their credit neither girl tries another round of begging. They each take one of Bradley’s hand
s, and the three of them skip back up the path towards the back door.

  Bree’s spent the last hour on the patio working on her book, and I hear her call, “I’ve got them,” a few moments later.

  I put my racket down and cross the court to Damien. “Mommy and Daddy have to talk?” I repeat as I slide my arms around him. “I really hope that’s a euphemism.”

  “I love a good euphemism,” he says. “This way.” He takes my hand, but instead of leading me up to the house, he leads me down to the bungalow. I keep a beach-style wardrobe there for both of us, and we strip out of our sweaty clothes and hop into the shower. Immediately, Damien’s arms go around me and he kisses me softly under the rain-style showerhead.

  “This is nice,” he says. “On the court, here with you. I can almost forget that hell’s popping up all around us.”

  I tilt my head back and press my fingers to his lips. “No,” I say. “Not yet. We can talk about it later if you need to, but right now, right here, I just want it to be us.”

  “I like the sound of us,” he says, as I start to kiss my way down his chest, then tease the tip of my tongue along his cock. He groans, his fingers twisting in my hair as I continue to lick and tease him. I start to take him into my mouth, but he shifts, his hands moving to my upper arms as he tugs me to my feet, then wraps one arm around my waist as he kisses me.

  “Turn around,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over my ears.

  I do as he says, and he cups my breasts, teasing my nipples before trailing one hand down to find my clit. My body is already on fire, and I tremble in response to his soft, teasing stroke. He continues to play with me, bending me over so that I feel his cock against my rear and his fingers moving in long, sensual strokes.

  “Hands on the tile,” he whispers, and I lean forward for him, my palms against the tile as the water pours down on us. “Now spread your legs, baby.” I comply eagerly as warm water runs over our bodies and he teases me from behind with his cock even while his fingers stroke my clit until I’ve been reduced to nothing but need and pleasure, and I’m begging him to please, please just take me. And, thank God, he does, and soon I’m lost in sensation. Damien’s hands on me. His cock filling me. His mouth kissing me.