by J. Kenner
I conjure a smile. “Hey, I woke up and came out here for some air.”
“Me, too,” he says, hurrying up the steps to my side. “Girls?”
I hold up the receiver.
He searches my face. “How long have you been out here?”
“Oh.” I shrug. “Not that long. I saw you on the beach with someone.” My voice sounds strange to my ears, and I want to kick myself. I’m not sure what he was doing, but I know he wasn’t doing anything nefarious. Certainly he’s not cheating on me. That’s not something I’d ever believe.
But keeping secrets…
Well, I’m not so sure about that.
“Jenny,” he says. If he’s noticed that strangeness in my tone, it’s not reflected in his voice. “That dog of hers again...”
“Seriously?” Jenny and Phil Neeley own the property next to ours, and their house is about a half-mile down the beach from ours. “Did she find him?”
“He was having a grand time racing up and down the beach in the surf.” He holds out his arms and folds me into his embrace. “God, you feel good. It’s been a hell of a day.”
I nod silently and tighten my arms around him, holding him tight.
After a moment, we both relax, then pull away just enough to look into each other’s eyes. “Do you know how much I love you?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, shocked by how much of a weight seems lifted from my shoulders. “I do.”
13
I’m walking the path by the tennis courts that take up a good chunk of the Foundation’s property when I hear a familiar male voice call my name. I turn to find my brother-in-law, Jackson Steele, striding toward me, his hand up in a wave. Like Damien, he’s dark and magnificent, a corporate god standing at the helm of an empire.
“Hey,” I say, smiling into his Arctic blue eyes as he pulls me into a hug. “I thought I’d see you this morning when we dropped off the kids.”
“I thought so, too. But duty called.”
I nod. When Damien and I arrived with the girls at Jackson and Sylvia’s house, Jackson was already gone. “The Domino?”
He shakes his head. “Thankfully, no. This was just a high maintenance, but very high-profile, client.” He lifts a shoulder. “I could have sent someone else, but he’s one of my favorite directors and she starred in some of my favorite movies as a kid.”
I bite back a laugh. In the world of architecture, Jackson Steele is about as famous as they come. So it’s pretty adorable to see him playing fanboy. “Did you get an autograph?” I tease.
“Hell, yes,” he says, and we both laugh. “And I didn’t stop you just to say hi,” he adds, pulling out his phone. “I wanted to show you this text from Moira. Hang on.” He taps the screen, then passes me the phone, now displaying an adorable video of my girls waving wildly, along with their cousins, Ronnie and Jeffery. “Looks like they’re having a great time.”
“They always do when they’re together,” I say. “You guys still off to Europe tomorrow?”
“The whole lot of us,” he says. “I’m trading on family and using one of my brother’s jets.”
“No better way to travel,” I say with a grin. Jackson already knows that, of course. His company owns several private jets, too, but none set up for trans-Atlantic flights. “Is Ronnie taking her camera?” I gave Ronnie a camera last Christmas, and Sylvia and I have since taken her out for photography sessions several times. She’s got quite a good little eye.
“Oh, yes. All packed and ready.”
“Excellent. Tell her I can’t wait to see her pictures. Oh, and tell Syl to find me later, would you? Right now, I need to check in and find out if there’s anything else I’m supposed to do before my keynote.”
I also want to find Damien. But since that’s pretty much my constant state of mind, I don’t bother saying as much.
He promises to relay the message, then continues down the path, calling out a greeting to someone I’m pretty sure I once met at a cocktail party, but can’t recall at the moment.
The Beverly Hills property is huge, and Damien and I walked the perimeter upon arriving, since we both like to interact as much as possible with the kids that the two main Stark foundations support. The original foundation—which Damien started before I met him—was the Stark Education Foundation, with its mission to identify and help underprivileged kids with an aptitude for math or science.
Then, after the dirty truth about Damien’s childhood came out in the context of his murder trial, he funded the Stark Children’s Foundation, the primary mission of which is to help abused kids recover through play and sports therapy.
Stark International supports numerous other charities, both social and educational, but those are the two that are closest to Damien’s heart. And to mine. And while both are independent organizations, there is some overlap in the kids the foundations serve, especially when a particularly bright child comes from an abusive background.
Today’s event celebrates that overlap, and kids from both organizations are being honored, funds are being raised for both foundations, and after my keynote, I’ll be announcing myself as a new Stark Youth Advocate, a position that’s formally affiliated with the SCF.
The brunch isn’t being served for another hour, and we’re ninety minutes away from me taking the podium, so I’m walking leisurely back toward the main building, waving and chatting as I meander the path past the stables where several kids are taking turns riding the gentle horses around the arena. I see Lyle Tarpin—a Hollywood A-lister and the original Stark Youth Advocate—leading a white horse on which sits a blonde haired little pixie of a girl.
He catches my eye and grins, then flashes a thumbs-up at the little princess, who responds in kind, her smile so bright you’d think it was Christmas.
I’m so busy waving that I almost walk right into Evelyn Dodge, who takes me by the shoulders and steers me to the side of the path. “Texas! I was hoping I’d get the chance to talk to you. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
I give her a huge, heart-felt hug. I may technically have a mother, but it’s Evelyn I asked to stand with me at my wedding. That was before I met my father, of course, but even if I’d known Frank back then, I still would have wanted this woman by my side. She’s brash and opinionated and her sense of humor leans toward raunchy, but she’s also brilliant and loyal and kind.
Plus, she’s one of the few people other than me who Damien trusts wholeheartedly, and I know she’d protect him—and his kids—with her life.
And that’s more than enough for me.
“You’re coming to the house next weekend, right? Lara will be despondent if you’re not at their birthday party.”
“Miss my girls’ party? Never happen. Frank and I will be there with bells on.”
My father’s a travel photographer who’s currently in either Sweden or Switzerland—I honestly can’t remember. But I know that he’s supposed to return next week. And considering the amount of time he spends with Evelyn when he’s in town, I’m not surprised they’re coming together.
She hooks her arm with mine, and we continue walking toward the main building. “I bumped into your boy a few minutes ago,” she says, and I smirk at her reference to Damien as my boy. “He says you and he will be adding a new Blaine original to your collection.”
“We will,” I say, keeping my eyes straight ahead even though I’m dying to look sideways so that I can read her expression. “We stumbled onto a gallery in Beverly Hills and found a piece that called to both of us. I got the impression that he’s doing really well.”
“That’s what I hear.” There’s a deliberate lightness in her tone that is very un-Evelyn-like.
I frown, trying to read her, but not having a clue. “Do you guys stay in touch?” When I first met Evelyn, she and Blaine were hot and heavy despite a more than fifteen-year age difference. She was his biggest champion and supported his career, sponsoring showings, getting him into galleries, and generally playing the role of patron.
&n
bsp; “A bit. He’s supposed to be in LA soon, so I’ll probably see him. Or not.” Her tone is light and airy, as if suggesting it doesn’t matter one way or the other.
But I know Evelyn, and as she gives me a hug and hurries ahead to catch up with a client she’s just seen, I can’t help but think it matters. In fact, I think it matters a lot.
“You’re frowning.”
I blink, then realize that I’ve been so focused on watching Evelyn disappear down the path that I hadn’t even noticed Jamie’s arrival. She looks amazing, as always, but with a heavier layer of makeup than the occasion calls for, which to me translates as a very bad sign. “Tell me you’re not covering my speech.”
She bites her lower lip. “Sorry. You’re news and the Foundation’s news. And when someone like Lyle is involved in the organization that makes it entertainment news. So it was either me or Lacey.” She raises both shoulders almost up to her ears. “I figured you’d rather it was me. Or am I wrong?”
I roll my eyes. “Not wrong. Be kind.”
“Oh, please. You’ll be fabulous. When have you ever choked on a stage?”
She’s right about that. In fact, my stage presence was probably my biggest downfall. I kept winning pageants, and my mother kept entering me in them, one after the other after the other, until the only way I could escape from that nightmare of a life—from her hellish grip and sick, restrictive rules—was to take control in the only way that was left to me.
I’d already started cutting by then, needing to be in control of something, and finding satisfaction only by being in control of my own pain. But I’d been cutting in secret, my blade marring areas on my body that were hidden. Invisible to my mother’s prying eyes. And when I couldn’t take being paraded around like a pretty little paper princess, I let the blade I’d come to trust work a new kind of freedom for me.
So, yes. I can handle being on stage. But that doesn’t mean I want to be in the spotlight.
“Nicholas,” she says, lowering her voice and taking my hand as she steps closer. “I’ll back off if you want me to, but you know it’s going to be me or someone else. And considering what you’re about to share with the class, I figured you’d rather it be me.”
I nod and squeeze her hand. “You’re right.”
She studies my face. “So we’re cool?”
“Totally,” I assure her.
We fall into step together, and Jamie starts rattling off everyone else she’s going to be interviewing during the course of the brunch. Lyle, of course. But she’s also hoping to grab a minute with Damien and Jackson and a long list of actors, musicians, and other celebrities.
“Haven’t heard of half of them,” I tell her with a grin.
“You’re such a liar,” she chides, and I have to laugh. The truth is that I haven’t heard of several of them, but most of them I’ve either met or have at least heard their name. Which is weird, because until I started dating Damien, I was clueless about any film star who graced the screen after, oh, Sean Connery’s debut as James Bond.
Now, though, it’s hard to avoid celebrity gossip. My best friend is an entertainment reporter and my husband ranks up there on the gossip radar. And, by default, so do I.
I don’t love it, but I do love Damien. And that makes it all okay.
“Mrs. Stark! Mrs. Stark!” I turn around to see a broad-shouldered man hurrying toward me, a little boy of about six or seven in tow. There’s something familiar about both of them, and it’s not until they’re almost in front of me that I realize that both the man and the boy bear a resemblance to Damien, with their dark hair and strong jaw. The boy’s eyes are different, though. They’re cool blue, not warm amber.
I’m certain I’ve never seen either before, but I pause and smile in anticipation of an introduction. “Daniel Bryson,” the man says, extending his hand in greeting. “And my son, Nate.”
“It’s a pleasure to—oh!” I meet Mr. Bryson’s eyes and see the spark of humor there. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “It took me a moment to place the name.”
“No apology necessary,” he says. “I just spoke to your husband, and I wanted to find you and thank you personally as well. I know both you and Mr. Stark put up with a lot from Marianna. You had no obligation to help me or my boy. I just—I just want to say that your help meant the world to me.”
“Mr. Bryson, you don’t have to thank us at all. We’re just happy that you and Nate are together.”
He cups the back of the boy’s head, then points to a small petting zoo set up on the other side of the path. “Looks like they’re handing out feed for the goats. Why don’t you go see if you can make a furry friend?”
The boy glances warily at me and Jamie, then at his dad, who nods. Then he flashes a tentative smile before scampering across the path toward the volunteer who is doling out feed to the kids.
“Got the ruling from the judge two weeks ago,” Mr. Bryson says. “I now have full custody of Nate, and thank God for that. Marianna started spiraling down rapidly after Mr. Stark’s people tracked me down. Ranting and raving and swearing that she’d destroy me.” He casts a worried glance toward the boy. “I almost didn’t come down today. But my mother lives here, and Nate wanted to see Grandma. And, obviously, we wanted to be here for the brunch. The grants from the foundation have helped more than you can imagine.”
“I’m so glad you’re both doing so well. Thank you for coming and for letting me know.”
“Of course. And anything you ever need, Mrs. Stark. You or your husband. I don’t know what I could ever do for you, but if there is anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
I assure him that we won’t, and he hurries over to the petting area to gather up his son.
“That’s the little boy who’s not Damien’s, right?”
I shoot her a sidelong glance as we fall in step together and continue toward the main building.
“What? I’m right, aren’t I? He’s that nutcase bitch’s son. From a few months back. The woman who tried to say that Damien was the father, even though she knew perfectly well that he wasn’t.”
I nod, conceding the point. Not that long ago, Marianna Kingsley had come out of the woodwork claiming that Damien was the father of her young son. “Thank goodness Quincy tracked down the real father. Mr. Bryson seems nice. And sane.”
Damien had enlisted the help of Quincy Radcliffe, a ridiculously sexy but somewhat mysterious British intelligence officer who moonlights for a vigilante group called Deliverance that I’m supposed to know very little about. Quincy, thankfully, had been able to track down the real father, revealing in the process that Marianna had known the truth all along, but had set her sights on Damien’s bank account, legitimate paternity be damned.
“What was he talking about with the grant?”
“Damien and I thought that the poor kid had been through a lot, what with Marianna using him as a negotiating tool. So we arranged a scholarship fund for when he’s older. And it turns out the kid tests high, but with his dad being a single school teacher in San Francisco, there’s not a lot of money for education or extracurriculars.”
“Which means the kid would have probably gotten help even without you and Damien pushing his name through.”
“Assuming anyone thought to apply on his behalf,” I say.
“And now he’s living in the Bay area with his dad? Marianna was okay with that?”
“Bryson sued for custody,” I remind her. “I told you about it back then, remember? Damien had Charles help him out,” I add, referring to Charles Maynard, Damien’s attorney.
“Right, right. I’d forgotten.” We’ve reached the entrance, and she pulls open the door for me.
“You coming in?”
She shakes her head, then checks her watch. “I’ve got an interview with Lyle in ten. Then I’m doing some one-on-ones with the kids. But I’ll be back in time for your speech.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “I’m really proud of you. I know I already told you that, but it’s true.”
&
nbsp; My stomach twists with nerves, but I nod, then give her a hug. “See you soon,” I say, then head inside. I wave to the staff members I know, the ones who are supervising the catering set up, then say hi to a group of teens—young grant recipients—who are helping to set up the last of the tables for the brunch.
“Getting ready for the farce?” The voice is cold and familiar, and I turn to find myself facing Mary Lee.
My entire body goes tense. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Her brows rise. “Maybe I have a press pass.”
“We’ll see about that.” I glance around, looking for the foundation’s press liaison. I know I saw him when I came in, and I raise my hand, planning to signal to one of the volunteers who can go track him down for me.
Before I manage that, Marianna continues. “Do you ever look at him and wonder what he sees in you?” Her low, dangerous voice freezes me in my tracks. “Someone weak,” she continues. “Just a little pageant princess. Someone so disrespectful of herself that she’d take money so that some man could paint her and another could ogle her.” She takes a step toward me, and my heart pounds against my ribs. “Weak, stupid, little bitch who has no business raising kids.”
“Get away from me.” Somehow, I keep my voice from shaking. “Just get the hell away from me.”
“Nikki.”
I hear Damien in the same moment that his hand closes over my upper arm, and when I turn to look at him, I see pure rage on his face.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands of Mary Lee, stepping in front of me, his body a physical barrier between me and my tormentor.
“Wait.” I turn away from her and focus entirely on Damien. “You know her?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Nikki, meet Marianna Kingsley,” he says in a voice laced with rage. “Nate Bryson’s mother.”
14
“You can’t make me leave,” Marianna says after Damien tells her exactly that. “My son is a grant recipient. I have a right to be here.”
“No,” Damien says. “You don’t.”
