by J. Kenner
Chapter Eight
Before I even have time to think, Damien has tugged me back into the Town Car. He yanks the door shut, smacks the back of the front seat, and urges the driver to, “Go! Just go!”
He does, and soon we’re inching out through the sea of reporters and paparazzi. The windows aren’t tinted, and Damien pulls me toward him, obviously with the intent of hiding my face in his chest. But I jerk away and bend over, my head in my hands and my eyes screwed tightly closed.
“Nikki…” He puts a tentative hand on my back, but I don’t respond. I can’t. My mind’s on overload, and it’s taking every ounce of my concentration to simply keep from screaming.
A child?
Damien has another child?
The words slice through my head, as cold and sharp as a steel blade. I stay hunched over, tucked into myself until the Town Car finally makes it into the valet garage. I hear the door open and a man’s voice fills the car.
“Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry. I have no idea how anyone even knew you were coming. Your wife made the arrangements and we assured her complete confidentiality. I promise you, I will personally get to the bottom of this and terminate whoever is responsible for this leak.”
“We’ll talk,” Damien says in a voice I’ve only rarely heard. One that contains a controlled explosion. “In the meantime, my wife and I would like to go to our room.”
“Of course. I have your key right here.”
“Nikki.” All harshness has left his voice. It’s as gentle as I’ve ever heard it. As gentle as it was when he found me on my floor years ago after I’d hacked off all my hair in a last ditch effort to keep myself from cutting.
I draw a breath, then look into my husband’s eyes. A child. How could he not tell me he had a child?
“Come on out of the car,” he says. “Let’s go up.”
One more breath. Then another. I straighten, then hold out my hand. “Give me the key,” I say, my voice raw. “I need time.”
I watch as his face shatters, as visibly as if I’d shoved my fist into a mirror. “Nikki.” It’s my name and his voice, but it’s almost unrecognizable under the weight of all his pain.
A child.
Dear God, has he slept with another woman?
My stomach lurches, and I fear that I’ll be sick.
No. No. A thousand times, no.
Not Damien. Not that.
But even with that certainty pounding in my head, I can’t bear the thought of going with him to the room. I look away, not meeting his eyes as I slide out of the car, then hold my hand out to the manager. “I’d like to go to my room now.”
The man’s eyes dart over my shoulder, his expression like a scared rabbit. Damien must nod, because suddenly relief paints the man’s face and his lips curve into a professional smile. “Of course. Jacob can show you up. Your luggage will be along shortly.”
He signals to one of the bellmen lingering by the door, and Jacob and I start walking toward the service elevator. I know that Damien is watching me go, willing me to turn around, to extend my hand and tell him to come with me.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
And so I face the wall until the elevator begins to ascend. Then I slowly turn, stare hard at the back of Jacob’s neck, and will myself not to cry.
* * * *
The penthouse is amazing, just as I’d known it would be. Three walls of mostly glass and a stunning view of San Francisco. But I barely even notice.
I pace the room, my thoughts roiling with every step, and in a room this large, I can take a lot of steps.
He did this to us.
Damien.
This is all on his shoulders. All of it. The press assault. Being blindsided. The whole rotten, miserable experience.
And as for the child … well, maybe he did that to us, too. Who the hell even knows?
Except I do, of course. Or, at least, I know enough to know that he didn’t have an affair. No matter what else, I know that for certain. Damien would never cheat on me. His devotion is my true north.
His name is still echoing in my thoughts when the door opens and a bellman rolls a cart in, Damien right behind him. I stiffen, then sit ramrod straight on the edge of the couch while Damien gives the guy a tip, then puts out the Do Not Disturb sign and locks the door.
When he comes back to me, I see the resolve and the apology on his face.
“I haven’t touched another woman since you, Nikki,” he says, and I shock us both by bursting out laughing.
I laugh so hard I actually slide off the couch and end up on the floor. So hard that my chest hurts and I have to force air into my lungs. It’s hysteria, of course, but in a way it feels good. It’s pain, and goddamn me, I need that now.
But I need to talk to Damien, too, and so I force myself into control, then breathe deep until I get my voice back. “Good God, Damien, do you think I don’t know that?”
I push myself up off the floor so that I’m standing right in front of him, my head tilted back, my eyes locked on his, all his pain and regret reflecting right back at me. But I have no pity. Not now. Not after everything.
“You’ve known this was coming, haven’t you? You’ve known that there was a bomb buried right between us. You’ve known for days. Days, Damien. And when I asked you about it, you lied.”
He opens his mouth, but I lift a finger, cutting him off.
“Trouble at work? Why would you tell me that? Why wouldn’t you just tell me the truth?” I taste salt and realize that tears have been streaming down my face. My vision is blurred and I wipe them away, then sigh as I sit again. “Tell me now, Damien. Tell me everything.”
For a moment, he just stands there. Then he drags his fingers through his coal black hair, nods, and begins.
“I went out with Marianna a few times the year before you moved to LA. A friend introduced us. She wasn’t looking for anything serious—or so she said—and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I nod, remembering what Damien said when he first pursued me—that before me, he didn’t date. He fucked.
They were careful, he said. He used a condom. She said she was on the pill. But neither method is infallible—Anne is proof of that—and so it’s theoretically possible that the little boy really is Damien’s.
“I’ve seen pictures of him,” Damien admits. “Dark hair. Blue eyes. It’s possible.”
I nod. Damien’s eyes aren’t blue, but Jackson’s are. And since Jackson is his half-brother, Damien could have that recessive gene, too.
In other words, based on looks alone, the little boy—Nate—could really be Damien’s. “Is he?” I ask. “Is the boy yours?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I demanded a paternity test. She declined. Maybe that means I’m not. Or maybe it just means that her attorney isn’t willing to take a chance until he has a hefty settlement from me.”
“Attorney?”
Damien nods. “The bastard demanded I set up a trust for Marianna and the child or else he’d leak everything to the press.” His mouth twists wryly. “I wasn’t expecting it quite this soon.”
“And Charles?” I ask, referring to Damien’s attorney.
“I’ve talked to him. He advised me not to petition the court for a paternity test since that would surely end up in the press. Like I said, we weren’t expecting this. Not now.”
“Well, what were you expecting?” I snap.
“To handle it.” His voice is pretty snappy, too. “To get the whole goddamn mess resolved.”
“And what? Then I wouldn’t even have to know about it?”
“Christ, Nikki. You know me better than that.”
“Do I? Because honestly, I’m not sure. I mean, you didn’t tell me any of this.”
“No,” he says simply. “I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
He hesitates, opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then he shakes his head and drags his fingers through his already-mussed hair. “I
don’t know.”
The answer is like a stab through my heart. “I see.” I push myself to my feet. “I need some time,” I say, then start to head for the door.
I feel lost. Vulnerable. But when Damien reaches for me, I shake him off, which only makes fresh tears prick in my eyes. Because Damien is my rock; he’s the one I go to when I’m vulnerable. Only now he’s turned our world upside down.
“Nikki—”
“No. I need some space. I just—I just need to be alone right now.”
I don’t wait for him to answer. I don’t take a key or grab my purse. And I don’t turn around to look at him. If I do, I know I’ll start crying again, and I can’t do that. I need space. I need to pull myself together and figure out what to do. Except there isn’t anything to do. The situation is what it is.
But it’s not the situation that’s twisted me up in knots. It’s the way Damien handled it. The way he kept me out of it. The way he put up a wall of lies. Or at least obfuscations.
That’s between us now, and the weight of that reality has knocked my entire world off kilter.
I barely even notice riding the elevator to the lobby. And it’s not until I’m sitting at the bar that I realize I even had a destination in mind. It’s almost one now—we should be heading for Sausalito, but so much for that plan—and as far as I’m concerned it’s well past time for a drink.
I order a bourbon on the rocks with a cherry, then amend that to make it a double. It’s my lunch, after all. But when the bartender brings it, I don’t take a sip. Instead, I use the tiny straw to stir the drink, watching the ice move, the motion relaxing. Almost hypnotic.
“You look like a woman who’s had a hard day. And it’s really far too early in the day for that.”
I look up to find myself staring into a pair of gorgeous gray eyes. The man’s not too bad either. He’s tall and trim and looks like he just came from a fashion shoot for a corporate catalog.
“I’d buy you another,” he says in the wake of my silence. “But you haven’t touched that one yet.”
“No. But thank you for the offer.” I’m about to tell him that not only do I want to be alone, but that I’m married. Which he must know, since the engagement ring I wear next to my wedding band is winking under the bar’s lighting.
But I don’t have to say anything to the man at all. Instead, a familiar voice behind me says a single word. “Leave.”
Gray Eyes looks over my head at Damien. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Then he holds up his hands and takes a step back. “Just chatting with the lady.”
“The lady is mine.”
Since I still haven’t turned to look at Damien, I’m not surprised when Gray Eyes looks at me, his expression like a question mark. I nod, he glances from me to Damien, then he inclines his head, turns, and saunters out of the bar.
One beat, then another. I know Damien is still behind me; I can feel him there, as if his presence alone reshapes the fabric of reality.
After a moment, I can’t stand it anymore. “If you’re staying, at least come around here where I can see you.”
He does, taking the stool beside me and signaling that he’ll have what I’m having.
I take a sip, and when his drink arrives, he does the same. A moment later, he says, “I’m so sorry, Nikki,” and once again I have to blink back those damn tears.
“You say you couldn’t tell me. But, Damien, this is us. Do you know what those words did to my heart?”
“Do you know what it did to mine seeing that boy’s face? Realizing that he looks like me? Christ, Nikki. The thought of having a child that I didn’t know about. A child who isn’t yours. Ours. A baby I never saw grow or heard speak a first word. You know what that means to me.”
He curses softly, then lifts his glass and downs the whole damn thing. Then he turns and looks at me. “How do I tell the woman I love—the mother to my little girls—that if that boy is mine, I have to be in his life. I have to be.”
His words reach out and twist my heart, and I have to will myself not to cry again. Of course, he would have to be in Nate’s life. Damien would never be absent. Would never hurt a child by his absence, or any other way. He knows too well what it means not to have a real father. Just as I know what it means not to have a real mother.
I reach over and take his hand, and the instant I touch him I know that we’ll get through this. God knows we’ve been through worse.
“Damien,” I say softly. “I get it. But all you had to do was tell me. Did you really think I wouldn’t understand?”
“Yes. No.” He releases a frustrated sigh. “Hell, Nikki, I…”
I wait for him to finish, then swallow when he says nothing else and that gulf between us increases again. “I know you weren’t celibate before me. It’s not the fact of this child that bothers me. That’s not what hurts. What hurts is that you built a wall, Damien. Brick by brick, you’ve been building a wall between us these last few days. And I never in a million years would have believed that could happen.”
He rubs his temples. “I know.”
I take a long sip of my bourbon, then push it away from me. “I’m going back to the room. Are you coming?”
“In a minute,” he says, reaching for the rest of my drink.
I give him a tight nod, then extend my hand. “Do you have a key?”
He passes it to me, and it all seems so normal that I can hardly get my head around it. I start to reach for him, then pull my hand back, unsure if he even wants my touch right now.
The thought breaks me a little more, and I turn away, then hurry out of the bar, both relieved and disappointed when I step on the elevator and see that Damien really hasn’t followed me.
As the doors close, I lean my head against the wall, trying to remember when I’d felt this helpless. Not since Germany. Not since Damien was on trial for murder and pushed me away, thinking he’d save me by freeing me. But it hadn’t worked. And this time he’s not pushing me away, not really. We’re exactly the same distance apart as we were before. But there’s that goddamn wall between us now.
Fuck.
I left my phone in the suite when I went down to the bar, and I return to find it ringing. I hurry to the living area and glance down at the coffee table where I left it, expecting that the call is from Damien, but it’s not. It’s from Jamie. And she’s called at least twice.
Dear God, the kids.
I snatch the phone up and press the button to answer the call. “What’s going on? Are the girls okay?”
“The girls?” Jamie’s voice rises with incredulity. “Are you okay?”
For the first time, it hits me that this whole mess is out there for all the world to see. And isn’t that just too fucking special?
“No,” I say honestly. “I’m not okay.”
“Didn’t figure you were. How’s Damien?”
I don’t tell her that he’s the reason I’m not okay, not the existence of a little boy named Nate. I should tell her. She’s my best friend. And if I can’t go to Damien, then it’s Jamie that I want to cling to.
Except right now, I just want to sleep. I don’t care that it’s not even dinner time or that I had such carefully made plans for the day. None of that matters now. I just want to close my eyes, forget it all, and hope that the sun shines brighter tomorrow.
And the only real comfort I can take is the surprising, unexpected realization that even though everything feels like it’s going to hell, I haven’t once thought of taking a blade to my skin.
Chapter Nine
I went to sleep expecting to wake in Damien’s arms, because even when we argue, we both find solace in the other’s touch.
But when I’m awakened by the morning sun streaming in through the windows, I realize that I’m alone. Frowning, I roll over, looking at Damien’s side of the bed. The covers are rumpled, but I don’t know that he’s slept there. I tossed and turned all night. The twisted bedding is probably from me. Especially since his side of the be
d is cool to the touch.
Which means I slept alone. And so did Damien.
I choke back a sob, then lay back down, pulling my knees up to my chest. All I want is to go back to sleep. But I know I can’t. Damien and I are both ripped up, I know that. But I also know that the only way we’ll heal is together.
I have to buck up and find him.
That’s not as easy as it should be. The penthouse is huge, but I search every room, and there’s no Damien. That’s when I remember the rooftop patio. I head out to the balcony, then climb the stairs, relief flooding me when I see him standing beside one of the support columns for the rooftop cabana.
I start to walk toward him, but pause when I see that he’s not alone. There’s another man with him, my view of him no longer blocked by the cabana. A lean man, ruggedly handsome, with deep set eyes and a hard expression.
And, apparently, very good hearing, because the moment I gasp in surprise, he turns those eyes to me. Automatically, I smooth the dress I’ve been wearing since yesterday. At least I didn’t come up here in my robe. Or naked.
I take a step toward them, my eyes on Damien and not this stranger, a man with a primal, dangerous air about him. “I didn’t realize we had company,” I say, and though I’m trying hard to keep the reprobation out of my voice, I’m sure a hint of it comes through.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I told him this wouldn’t take long,” the man says, his voice surprisingly sensual, all the more so because of its deep British accent. “I’m Quincy.”
“Oh!”
“Quincy Radcliffe,” Damien says. “My wife, Nikki.” He extends a hand to me, and I go to him gratefully, not realizing until I slide my hand into his how deeply I needed to feel the touch of his skin against mine.
“I apologize for the intrusion, but my investigation led me to San Francisco anyway, and I thought I would tell Damien the good news in person.”
“Good news?” I echo. “Good news would be great.”
They both smile at that, and we settle around the table that doubles as a fire pit.
