by J. Kenner
She flops back down on the couch. “So when are y’all going in?”
“Carmela’s supposed to call here, pretending to call room service.” I glance at my watch. “Should be soon,” I say, and the words are barely out of my mouth when the phone rings and Carmela places her fake order for a pitcher of martinis.
“Show time,” Ryan says, and Damien takes my hand.
Bertrand’s suite is one floor up, and we take the stairs. Carmela opens the door, her eyes wide, and leads us back into the parlor where Wyatt stands by the window, and Bertrand—a pudgy-faced man with a sour expression—sits at the desk, though he stands the moment he sees us.
“What the hell?” He whips around to find Carmela, who’s moved near Wyatt. “What the fucking hell are you doing bringing that asshat and his little bitch here?” he rants, gesturing toward me and Damien. “And who the fuck is the flunky?”
Ryan steps forward. “The flunky can kick your ass without breaking a sweat,” he says. “And the flunky is here to make sure none of these pictures—or any other similar pictures you might have squirreled away—get released.”
He tosses a folder onto the desk, the impact causing the photos inside to slide partially out. They’re the original blackmail photos we’d received back when this nightmare had originally started. “Those see the light of day,” Ryan says, “and you’ll learn the meaning of regret the hard way.”
To her credit, Carmela stands up straighter. “You see? They’re here to help me, Bertrand. You wouldn’t listen to me. Maybe you’ll listen to them.”
“What? You think I don’t listen? How do I not listen? You tell me you want a career? Haven’t I gotten you a career? I made you—and this is how you repay me?” He points suddenly to Wyatt. “You—Jimmy Olsen—get your ass out of here. You think I want this little confab recorded on film?”
Wyatt glances at Damien, who nods, then quietly leaves the room.
“The lady’s interested in terminating her relationship with you,” Damien says as soon as Wyatt’s out of the room. His voice is calm, but I can see the tension.
“That true, baby?” he asks, turning to Carmela. “I didn’t know you meant it. How could I have known?”
“Cut her loose, and we walk away right now,” Damien says. “But if those pictures get out, you’ll not only learn how miserable this particular asshat can make your life, but you’ll never work anywhere near this business again. Every person who came through this room today knows exactly what kind of man you are.”
“That so?” He pushes his chair back and kicks his feet up on the desk. “The way rumors fly in this business, sounds to me like I won’t be getting much work after today no matter how this turns out. Seems to me that if I’m getting forced into retirement, I ought to at least walk away with a little nest egg.”
He swivels in his chair and looks at Carmela. “No skin off your nose if those pictures are out there, baby. You look gorgeous, and a little sex scandal never hurt anyone in your line of work.”
I frown, because those are almost exactly the words Carmela has said to me, and I’m not sure where Bertrand is going with this.
Bertrand points to Damien. “He’s the one who doesn’t want them released. I say he should pay for that privilege. And we split the money fifty-fifty. Nice little paycheck for you, baby, especially considering the going rate for those pics.”
I see a muscle tighten in Carmela’s cheek, but then I see something else—a spark of what looks like interest in her eyes. Bertrand sees it too. “Ah! Ah-ha! What did I say? You’re a fighter, baby, just like me. A street fighter, who knows when to get in and play dirty.”
“I am a fighter, yes,” she says, moving closer to him. As she does, she tilts her head and looks straight at me, and my stomach twists into knots. I can’t believe I’ve misjudged her, that I ever backed off my original opinion that she was a narcissistic bitch from hell.
“And you are right,” Carmela continues as she reaches across the desk for the folder. “These are quite flattering to me.” I expect her to pick up the folder. What she does instead is grab the hotel phone off the desk, then hurl it around so that it smashes into Bertrand’s face.
I’m not sure which emotion is stronger—joy that she smashed the asshole’s face in, or relief that she wasn’t actually considering conspiring with him.
I don’t have time to analyze that question, though, because Carmela did the one thing all those self-defense classes for women warn against—she didn’t cause enough damage.
Bertrand’s nose is bleeding, but that’s not enough to stop him, and in almost the same instant that his head bounces back, he lashes out, grabs Carmela by the hair, and starts to slam her face toward the desk—bad enough for any woman, but the next split second could truly destroy Carmela’s career.
I hear myself scream—and at the same time, the top of the floor lamp intersects with Bertrand’s head, narrowly missing Carmela. He’s knocked backward, and in the process lets go of Carmela, who scurries off into a corner.
I’m gasping, unsure what happened, until I see Damien toss the lamp aside even as Ryan vaults the desk and slams Bertrand up against the wall, his grip tight against the vile man’s throat as Bertrand continues to struggle, his eyes on Carmela as he screams curses at her.
I realize in that moment that Damien did the only thing he could do to save Carmela from a broken nose—and worse. He was too far away to throw himself in the middle of the fray, and so he did the only thing he could to keep Bertrand from hurting her—he snatched up the lamp the second he saw trouble brewing. And with a skill borne of years playing professional tennis, he aimed and swung and hit the rat bastard square on the head, missing Carmela by mere inches in what was undoubtedly an assault on Bertrand calculated down to the last millisecond.
I want to run to him, but right now, his attention is laser-focused on Bertrand. He’s only inches from the man, still held in place by Ryan’s concrete grip.
“Do not even think of playing hardball with me,” Damien says. “You think you know the extent of my resources? Money, power, influence? You don’t have a clue how far my reach goes. But I’ll tell you this,” he adds, getting in even closer, “I damn sure have the resources and connections to bury a worm like you. You want to test me? Release those photos. But be prepared for your world to go to shit if you do. Are we clear?”
Bertrand’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“Are we clear?” Damien repeats, and the man nods, looking miserable and just a little sick.
“Let him go,” Damien says to Ryan. “Nikki, Carmela. We’re leaving.”
Carmela has my arm in a vise-grip as we leave the room. We pause in the hallway, and she releases me, then throws her arms around me and then around Damien. “Thank you, Damie. Thank you both.”
Damien lets her linger for a moment, then gently extricates himself. He comes to me and folds me into his arms. “You were brilliant,” I say.
“Hopefully that’s the last of him. He’d be a fool to release those photos now.” He kisses me lightly, then brushes his lips across my ear. “Let’s go check in with Evelyn and Charles. And then, my darling wife, I want to celebrate our victory.”
“That sounds great,” I say sincerely, even though I know that he has a completely different type of celebration in mind.
Chapter Ten
Damien’s hand slides down from my waist to cup my rear as we approach the door to our suite. He tilts my chin up as he bends to brush a kiss over my lips. “Do you know what I want to do now?”
“Tell me,” I say, my nipples tightening as I think of his description of how he wanted to take me on the rooftop, and for the first time since I started planning his party, I’m wishing it was some other day.
“I want to celebrate.”
“Let’s do it,” I say, though I know that each of us has a different celebration in mind.
I’d lingered with Damien in the hall before coming back to the room, accidentally-on-purpose hitti
ng the button for the lobby when I insisted we take the elevator, then popping into the gift store for some mints. Now, it’s been at least ten minutes since we left Bertrand’s room, and I’m hoping that’s enough time for Carmela and the others to have gotten inside.
I’ll know soon enough, I realize, because Damien has his key out and he’s swiping the lock. I hear the click, see him push down the handle.
Then the door is opening and we step into the darkened room. I hear Damien’s surprised, “hmm,” because we never leave the blinds down or the light off, but before he can think too much about it, I reach for the switch.
The room lights up, and at the same time, smiling faces appear from all over the massive living area, a chorus of “Surprise!” ringing out, the word still echoing when Ronnie bolts pellmell toward Damien.
“Were you surprised, Uncle Damie? Were you? Were you?”
“I sure was, Monkey,” he says, his expression something I don’t usually see on Damien’s face as he looks out over the crowd—he looks not only surprised, but humbled.
With a quick grin in my direction, he swings Ronnie up onto his hip, then steps further into the room to greet the dozens of guests who’ve helped manage to pull this off. Syl and Jackson, Evelyn and Charles, Carmela and Wyatt, Jamie and Ryan. And more. Folks from work like Preston and Lisa and Rachel, new friends like Cass and Siobhan, and Dallas and Jane, and on and on and on.
Soon enough, the guests disperse—some in the living room, some in the kitchen, most going up to the rooftop. I’m heading over to the bar to make Damien and I drinks, when I see Evelyn pull him into a warm, maternal hug. “Your wife pulled off a doozy.”
Damien laughs and swings his arm affectionately around her shoulder as he turns to took at me. “She did. But I know she had help. So thank you.”
“Anything for you, kiddo. You know that.”
He presses a kiss to her cheek. “Yes,” he says, “I do.”
I’ve just handed Damien his drink when Dallas and Jane approach with Noah Carter and Lyle Tarpin. Dallas is one of the investors in The Resort at Cortez, and his scandalous romance with Jane filled the tabloids not that long ago. “Happy birthday, buddy,” Dallas says. “We appreciate the invite. Of course, you need to be nice to me if you want to make up for stealing away one of my best men,” he adds, glancing at Noah, the tech genius that Damien’s been recruiting.
Noah holds up his hands. “What can I say?” he says. “I need more excitement in my life.”
The men laugh, and Jane bites back a smile, though I don’t get the joke at all. Then again, I’ve always known there’s more to Dallas Sykes than meets the eye.
“How’s the movie going?” Damien asks, turning to Jane in what may be a ploy to change the subject.
“Really well,” she says, waving at Lyle Tarpin, who sees her and comes over to join us. “Lyle is amazing in it. You and Nikki are coming to the premiere, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Damien promises as Jamie comes up beside me and elbows me in the waist.
I turn to her and she cocks her head toward Lyle. I bite back the urge to roll my eyes, then introduce them. “I won’t talk business here,” Jamie says after they’ve exchanged pleasantries. She flashes her brightest on-camera smile. “But maybe tomorrow we could schedule an interview?”
Fortunately, Lyle only looks amused as Jamie leads him off toward the bar.
“Ambition in motion,” I say to Jane, who laughs.
We chat a bit more, then continue to move through the crowd. Even Edward is here, and Damien pats him on the back jovially when the driver offers his birthday wishes.
Finally, Sylvia and Jackson come over with Ronnie bouncing beside them. “We let her stay up a bit longer than planned. But now she insists on giving you a birthday kiss before Stella takes her up to bed,” Sylvia says.
“I think that can be arranged,” Damien says, crouching down so that Ronnie can throw her arms around him and plant a big, wet kiss on his cheek.
“I love you, Uncle Damie.”
“Love you, too, squirt.”
She waves enthusiastically as her dad carries her over to their nanny. And once they’re out of sight, Damien pulls me close, his arm around my waist as he looks out over the crowd that fills this enormous room.
“Thank you.”
“You already said that,” I point out.
“It deserves saying again. Thank you,” he repeats, then bends his head to kiss me. “This really is amazing.”
And as I look around at this room of colleagues and friends—of people who rearranged plans and came to Santa Barbara on such short notice to help us celebrate—I have to give myself a mental pat on the back, because I agree.
It really is amazing.
“That’s everybody,” I say as we shut the door behind Jamie, Ryan, and Wyatt. It’s almost two in the morning, which considering we’d started at six, is a sign of remarkable success. Then again, I think the laughter-filled room, the clusters of folks chatting in corners, and the liberal flowing of alcohol were also good indicators.
But there’s really only one person whose opinion counts to me. “Did you have a good time tonight?” I ask Damien.
“Did I have a good time?” he repeats. “Come here.” He takes my hands and pulls me to him, then closes his mouth hard over mine. He takes a step forward, forcing me against the wall, and I have no time to think as he deepens the kiss. His lips teasing mine, his tongue making me melt.
As his mouth claims me, his hands rise up over the thin knit of my simple sheath dress, moving from my hips to my breasts with the kind of slow, intimate purpose that is making me lose my mind. He cups my breasts roughly, that wildness juxtaposed against a string of sweet kisses that he trails down my neck with such slow and intimate precision that by the time he reaches my collarbone, I am like a wild thing, writhing against him, wanting more and more. Hell, wanting everything.
I slide my hands down to his ass, wanting to pull him closer. But he foils me, taking his hands off my breasts as he bends his mouth lower to bite and suck through the material even as he finds my wrists and lifts my arms above my head, rendering me helpless as he uses his knee to coax my legs apart, then roughly yanking my dress up to my waist.
With one bold move, he rips off my panties, then releases his hold on my wrist long enough to open his fly. He’s hard as steel and I’m so damn wet, and as he grabs each of my thighs, I hold onto his shoulders, my back arching as he thrusts hard into me, then takes me hard and fast against the wall, his release coming so quickly I can barely catch my breath.
“Damien,” I murmur, but he silences me with a kiss as his hand slips between our joined bodies and he strokes me expertly, making me squirm with a wild, building need that is all the more intense because my feet aren’t on the ground, and I’m held up only by the pressure of Damien’s body pinning me to the wall.
Higher and higher he takes me, closer and closer, until finally I’m pushed right over the edge and he holds me tight as I explode, my body shattering from the force of the orgasm.
“Thank you for my party,” he whispers when I can breathe again. “I had a very good time.”
I laugh, a little trill of victory running through me and I cling to him, enjoying both the moment and delicious sensation of his body against mine.
“Of course, I’ve done my part now,” I tease. “Tomorrow you have to come up with the evening’s entertainment.”
“Sweetheart, I think that’s already all planned out,” he says, tilting his head as if looking up toward the roof.
“Exactly the answer I was hoping for,” I admit, making him laugh. “Were you really surprised?”
“Let’s just say I had no idea my wife had such a devious side.”
I narrow my eyes, because that’s not exactly an answer to my question, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s known all along. I consider asking outright—if I do, I know he’ll tell me—but I hold my tongue, too happy with the success of the evening to take e
ven the slightest bit away from all my hard work.
I think about other kinds of hard work as I lead him into the living room and then straddle him on the couch, kissing him lightly before leaning back to grin at him.
“What?” he asks, amusement in his voice.
“I submitted the Dallas proposal early this morning,” I say. “Thank you. For everything.”
I see something like pride reflected in his smile. “You’re welcome,” he says, and I know he understands. I’m not just thanking him for the help he’s already given me, but for the support that will come if I get the job.
“There’s something else, too,” I say, sliding off of him so that I can open one of the drawers on the end table. I reach in and pull out a wrapped box about the size of a book.
His brows rise. “I thought the party was my present.”
I shrug. “I wanted to give you something tangible, too. But you’re a hard man to shop for.” I nod at the present. “Go ahead.”
He does, peeling off the paper to reveal a box of Swiss chocolates. He looks up at me, and I see confusion in his eyes. “You got me candy from the confectionary I own?”
“No,” I say. “You got them for me. Ages ago, when you took me on the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. I saved the box.”
He still looks confused, but he opens the box. But there’s not chocolate inside, but a variety of small items. He reaches in and lifts out a tiny wrapped bar of soap. It’s from Desert Ranch, the exclusive spa that Damien once treated me to. I see his mouth twitch with amusement, his smile growing wider as he pulls out the tiny Eiffel Tower, a miniature bottle with sand from our private beach, and a tiny pine cone from the house in Lake Arrowhead where we’d gone after his trial and recently spent Christmas.
I see the delight on his face as he inspects each item, but when he comes to the last, he laughs outright—the pair of silk panties I’d left in his limo that night we’d met at Evelyn’s.
“You’re a hard man to shop for,” I say. “So I took some of my souvenirs and made you a box of memories.”
“Nikki, it’s. . .” He trails off, his voice thick with emotion.
