by J. Kenner
We’d traveled across Europe for a month after he proposed, and while we were there, he’d suggested we simply do it. Get married on a mountaintop or on the sands of the Côte d’Azur. Return to the States as Mr. and Mrs. Damien Stark.
I’d said no.
I want nothing more than to be Damien’s wife, but the truth is that I also want the fairy-tale wedding. I want to be the princess in white walking down the aisle in my beautiful gown on my special day. I may not agree with my mother about much, but I remember the care that she and my sister put into Ashley’s wedding. I’d envied my sister a lot of things, not really understanding that she’d had her own demons to battle, and when she walked down the aisle on a pathway of rose petals, my eyes filled with tears and my one thought had been, Someday. Someday I will find the man who will be waiting for me at the end of that aisle with love in his eyes.
And it wasn’t just my own desire for the fantasy wedding that made me insist we wait. Like it or not, Damien is a public figure, and I knew that the press would be covering our wedding. It didn’t need to be the fanciest affair—in fact, I wanted it outside on the beach—but I did want it to be a beautiful celebration. And since I knew the paparazzi would be pulling out all the stops to get tacky pictures, I wanted a collection of portraits and candid shots that we controlled. Fabulous pictures that we could give to the legitimate press, outshining—I hoped—whatever ended up in the tabloids.
More than anything, though, I wanted the story and photographs to overshadow the horrible things printed just a few months ago, when Damien had been on trial for murder. I wanted to see the best day of our lives on those pages in sharp counterpoint to, and in triumph over, the worst days.
I have said all of this to Damien, and while I know he doesn’t fully agree with my reasons for needing this wedding, I also know he understands them.
As for me, I understand his fear that I’ve taken on too much. But this is my wedding we’re talking about. The nightmares are only my fears; they are not my reality. I can handle it; I can handle anything if the end result is walking down that aisle toward Damien.
“Everything is going great,” I say to reassure us both. “I’ve got it all under control. Really.”
“You found a photographer?”
“Are you kidding? Of course.” It is a lie. And that’s a risk, because Damien can read me better than anyone. I force myself not to hold my breath as I wait for him to ask me details—name, studio, credentials. Those are questions I can’t answer because the truth is, I haven’t found a photographer to replace the one Damien fired last week after we learned the man had made an under-the-table agreement to sell unapproved candid photos of the wedding and reception to TMZ.
And that’s not even our only problem. I found out yesterday that the lead singer for the band I’d lined up had decided to drop everything and move back home to Canada, which means we are now entirely without entertainment.
I need to get off my ass and find someone—and I need to do it fast. As Damien had so kindly reminded me, the wedding is just a few days away.
But, hey, it’s not like I’m feeling stressed or anything.
I frown, realizing that maybe there is a solid explanation for my nightmares, after all.
“What is it?” Damien asks, and I fear that despite all my efforts to keep these minor ripples in the wedding planning out of his hair, it’s about to get gnarly.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just thinking about my massive to-do list.”
I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t buy it. But I am a bride, and like most grooms, he knows innately that “handle with care” is standard operating procedure. “In case it escaped your notice, we have the cash to pay someone to help you. Use it if you need it.”
“What? Like a wedding planner?” I shake my head. “For one thing, the wedding’s too close for that. For another, as I keep telling you, I want to do this myself. I want it to reflect us, not the latest fad in weddings.”
“I get that,” he says, “but you’ve taken on a hell of a lot.”
“You’ve helped,” I respond.
He chuckles. “As much as you’ve let me.”
I lift a shoulder. “You have a universe to run.”
It’s a simple fact that I have more time than Damien. I’m juggling only one small business, which has exactly one employee—me. He’s running Stark International, which has about as many people as an emerging country. Maybe more. And, yes, I have been busy, but that’s partly because Damien didn’t want a long engagement. And since I didn’t think I could stand waiting, either, I was happy to agree.
It’s been three months since he proposed, two months and twenty-nine days since I started diving into planning and prep, balancing my software development business against the business of my wedding. I’m proud of what’s come together, and I’m even more proud that I’ve done so much of it on my own. Hell, I’ve actually been getting some use out of all those etiquette classes my mother forced me to sit through. Imagine that.
I aim an impish smile at him. “Maybe you’re right. I mean, it is a bit stressful doing everything so fast, but I’m actually having a lot of fun working out the details of decorating the beach and organizing the caterer and pulling all the pieces together. I suppose we could push the wedding back a few months to make things even easier on me.”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “Don’t even joke about that. Not unless you want me to scoop you up, toss you on the helicopter, and elope to Mexico. Which, for the record, I still think is a fantastic idea.”
“Vegas would be easier,” I tease.
“There’s no beach in Vegas,” he says, his expression going soft. “Even if I’m kidnapping you, I won’t deny you the surf or the sunset.”
I sigh and fold myself into his arms. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
“Enough to marry me,” he says.
“And then some.”
He hooks his arm around my waist and tugs me close, then brushes his lips over mine. The kiss starts softly, a feather-touch, a tease. But there’s no denying the heat between us, and soon I am moaning, my mouth open to him, his lips hard against mine, taking and tasting. He pulls me closer to him, my name like a whisper on his lips, and the embers that are always burning between us burst into white-hot flames.
His hand slides along my back, then under my tank top at its base. The sensation of skin upon skin is delicious, and I sigh with pleasure, then gasp with longing as those clever fingers slip beneath the waistband of my yoga pants and curve over my rear. He tugs me closer, his erection hot and hard between us, as his fingers slip inside me. I’m liquid heat, and I want nothing more than to strip us both bare and let him take me right here, on the hardwood floor.
Passion thrums through me, and I swear I can feel the house vibrating around us.
It takes me a moment to realize that the thrum isn’t entirely the result of my lust for my fiancé—it’s the arrival of his ride, the helicopter approaching from the north to settle on the helipad that Damien installed on the property.
I pull away, breathless. “You’re going to be late, Mr. Stark.”
“Sadly, you have a point.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, and the pressure of his tongue at that sensitive juncture is almost as enticing as the feel of his erection hard against me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me today?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever fucked you in the helicopter.”
I laugh. “It’s on my bucket list,” I assure him. “But today’s not the day. I’m meeting with the cake lady.” Rather than a regular wedding cake, I’d decided to go with tiers of cupcakes, with only the top layer being the traditional cake with fondant icing. The baker, a celebrity chef named Sally Love, came up with an exceptional design for the icing on each individual cake, and she’s going to incorporate real flowers on the tiers, making the overall design both elegant and fun. Not to mention tasty. Damien and I went together to pick out the flavor for the top layer, and also sele
cted ten possible flavors for the cupcakes. Today, I’m going back to narrow the ten finalists to the final five.
“Do you need me?” he asks.
“Always,” I say. “But not at the bakery. You did your part, I’m just finalizing the cupcake choices.”
“Don’t ditch my tiny cheesecakes,” he says.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Is Jamie going with you?”
“Not today,” I say. My best friend and former roommate recently moved back home to Texas for the express purpose of getting her shit together. She’d come back three days ago determined to be the best maid of honor ever—which meant that I’d had to field a full hour of apology when she explained to me why she might not make it to the bakery today. “She drove up to Oxnard last night, and she’s not sure when she’ll get back today. She did a play there a few years ago, and the director’s a friend who now does commercials, and . . .” I trail off with a shrug, but I’m sure Damien understands. Jamie’s still trying to land a gig.
“And if she gets a job?” he asks.
I shrug again. I’m torn between wanting her to be cast and wanting her to take as much time as she needs to get her head back on straight. I miss Jamie, but Hollywood pretty much ate her up and spat her out, and although my best friend likes to pretend like she’s tough enough to take it, underneath the careless sex kitten veneer is the heart of a fragile woman. And it’s a heart I don’t want to see broken.
Damien kisses my forehead. “Whatever happens, she has you. That makes her one step ahead of the game already.”
I smile up at him. “Will you be back tonight?”
“Late,” he says, then trails a fingertip over my bare shoulder. “If you’re sleeping, I’ll wake you.”
“I look forward to it,” I say, then tilt my head up for a quick kiss on my lips. “You better go get dressed, Mr. Stark,” I say, then push him off toward the bedroom. He’s back remarkably fast, securing his cuffs as he walks toward me, then taking my hand as he tugs me onto the balcony with him. I follow him down the staircase and along the path toward the helipad.
We pause at the edge, and he kisses me gently one last time. “Soon, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, but what I hear is I love you.
I watch as he bends over and hurries under the spinning blades to board the helicopter, which has SI emblazoned on the side. Stark International. I grin, thinking that SU would be more appropriate—Stark Universe. Or Stark World. Damien is, after all, my whole world.
I shield my face from the wind, then watch as the bird rises, taking Damien away from me. I know he’ll be back tonight, but already I feel hollow.
I consider going inside to get dressed, but instead I follow the flagstone path that cuts through the property until it reaches the beach. I walk along the sandy shore, imagining my wedding. We’ve planned it for sunset, with a party to follow. Considering who Damien is, the guest list is relatively small. We’ve invited our mutual friends as well as a number of key employees of Stark International, Stark Applied Technology, and the rest of Damien’s subsidiaries. Also, some of the recipients of grants from Damien’s various charitable organizations.
The ceremony itself is going to be short and simple, with Damien and I having only a best man and a maid of honor, respectively. Since my father ran off ages ago, I don’t have a man to walk me down the aisle. I considered asking one of my best friends, Ollie, but even though he and Damien have negotiated a truce, I didn’t want to risk marring my wedding day with drama.
And there’s no way I’m having my mother do it. How could I stand to have her give me away when I’ve spent the last few years running from her? I have not, in fact, even invited her to the wedding. Which means I have no parent to give me away. So I’m going to walk myself down the aisle, a journey on a pathway of rose petals, with Damien Stark standing tall and elegant at the end of it.
We’ve written vows—short and sweet—and we both agree that what is important is getting to the meat of the ceremony: Do you take this man? Do you take this woman? I do, I do, dear God, I do.
The reception is a different story—that we expect to go on all night. Maybe even into the next day. After Damien and I head out on our honeymoon after the appropriate socializing and cake-eating interval, Jamie is taking charge of the Malibu house and she, with the help of Ryan Hunter and the rest of the Stark International security team, will make sure that anyone who needs a place to crash has one, and anyone who needs a lift home gets one.
Even though we’ll be off on our honeymoon for most of it, it is the details of the reception that have been occupying most of my time. I’ve arranged for tents, dance floors, lanterns, and heaters. There will be a buffet, three bars, and a chocolate fondue station provided by Damien’s best man, his childhood friend Alaine Beauchene. I’m a little flummoxed by my music conundrum, but I’m revved up and eager to solve it, and I tell myself that by the end of the day I will have arranged both the music and the photographer. I am nothing if not optimistic.
Other than that, the only major things still needing to be wrapped up are finalizing the cake—which I’ll do in a few hours—and then the final dress fitting. The dress is a Phillipe Favreau original that we purchased in Paris after hours of conversation with Phillipe himself. It is insanely expensive, but as Damien reminded me, there’s very little point in having gazillions of dollars if you don’t enjoy them. And I really did fall in love with the design.
Phillipe is custom-making it for me, and it is being shipped from his Paris studio. There were some nerve-wracking delays, but I’ve been assured that all is on schedule now, and it is set to arrive at his Rodeo Drive boutique tomorrow morning. His most trusted associate will make any final alterations tomorrow afternoon and deliver it the next morning—Friday—so that it will be locked up safe in the Malibu house, all ready to transform me into a bride on Saturday.
All in all, things are going reasonably smoothly, and I can’t help but smile. So what if I’ve had a few nightmares? For the most part, I’m kicking serious wedding butt, and I don’t intend to stop.
I breathe deep, content, then fling my feet through the surf, sending the water sparkling. Mrs. Damien Stark.
Honestly, I can’t wait.
“Ms. Fairchild!”
I look up to see Tony, one of Damien’s security guys, hurrying down the beach toward me.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Fairchild, I tried your phone but there was no answer.”
My phone, I remember, is by the bed. “What is it?” I ask, alarmed. “Is it Damien?”
“No, no, nothing like that. But there is a woman at the gate,” he says, referring to the gate that Damien had installed at the property entrance after the paparazzi got all crazy during his murder trial. “Ordinarily, I would simply send her away and insist that she make an appointment, but under the circumstances . . .”
“What circumstances?”
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “the lady says that she’s your mother.”
Chapter Four
My mother.
My mother.
Holy shit, my mother?
My knees go watery and I have to force my arms to stay at my sides so I don’t reach out automatically for Tony. There’s nothing on the beach that I can use to steady myself, and right now I really need steadying, so I stand perfectly still and smile and hope Tony doesn’t yet know me well enough to pick up on the fact that I’m totally and completely freaking out.
“I wasn’t expecting my mother,” I manage to say. “She lives in Texas.”
“I knew she was from out of state, Ms. Fairchild. I checked the lady’s ID. Elizabeth Regina Fairchild, address in Dallas. I assume she’s here for the wedding.”
“Right. I just—she’s not supposed to be here until Friday,” I lie. I conjure what I hope is a bright smile, but I fear it looks like something out of a low-budget Halloween thriller. “So, right. I guess tell her to drive on up to the house. If you could buzz Gregory and ask h
im to settle her in the first-floor parlor, I’ll run in and get dressed,” I add.
“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” If he has picked up on my nerves, he is either kind enough or well trained enough not to say anything.
I hurry back up the path and take the stairs to the third floor. I want to ensure that I don’t see my mother until I’m dressed and made-up and looking polished and pretty enough that maybe—maybe—she’ll wait an hour or two before she starts in on me.
Once I’m in the bedroom, the first thing I do is grab my phone off the table and dial Damien. The second thing I do is end the call before it has the chance to connect.
I sit on the edge of the bed and suck in air. My heart is pounding so hard, my chest hurts, and I am holding my phone so tightly in my right hand that it is making indentations into my palm. My left hand is curled in on itself, and I concentrate on the sensation of my fingernails digging into my palm. I imagine my nails cutting through skin, drawing blood. I focus on the pain—and then, disgusted with myself, I hurl my other arm back and toss my phone across the room. It shatters from the impact, an explosion of plastic and glass, a smorgasbord of sharp edges now glittering on the floor, tempting and teasing me.
I rise, but I am not heading toward those shards. I will not touch them, not even to sweep them away. They are too tempting, and despite the fact that I’ve grown stronger in my months with Damien, I do not trust myself. Not now. Not with Elizabeth Fairchild just two floors below, waiting like a spider to draw me in, wrap me up, and suck the life right out of me.
Shit.
My mother.
The woman who locked me in a dark, windowless room as a child so that I had no choice but to get my beauty sleep. Who controlled what I ate so meticulously that I didn’t make the acquaintance of a carb until college.
The woman whose image of feminine perfection was so expertly pounded into her daughters’ heads that my sister committed suicide when her husband left her, because she’d clearly failed at being a wife.
