Lost With Me

by J. Kenner

  “Even if he was wearing gloves, the paint on the walls would still be tacky.” Damien looks over his shoulder at Travis. “I’m guessing it’s bone dry?”

  Travis nods. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Damien extends a hand down to Eric. He hesitates, then takes it, letting Damien help him to his feet.

  “I’m truly sorry,” Damien says. “I hope you understand how the situation looked.”

  “I do.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Believe me.” He meets my eyes, his a little sad. “I’m really sorry. Doubly sorry at the state this leaves you in.”

  It takes me a second to interpret his meaning. Then I realize that if the tagger wasn’t Eric, we have no idea who did that to my office.

  Damien is way ahead of me. He’s already on the phone telling someone he needs them here right away. “No,” he adds. “Not a social call. I’ll explain when you get here, but we have a security issue. Ryan,” he adds to me, after he slides his phone back into his inside suit pocket. “Show me your office.”

  I nod, then turn my attention back to Eric. “I can’t talk about work now. But we’ll be moved in by Wednesday, and we have interviews scheduled for Thursday, including a few candidates for your old position. Do you want a slot?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

  I see Abby nod. “I’ll check the schedule and email you with a time. In the meantime, email us a current resume.”

  “Appreciate it.” His chest rises and falls as he looks at all of us in turn. “I’m really sorry about the confusion.”

  “Back at you,” Damien says. “And sorry about the throat.”

  “Remind me not to piss you off for real,” Eric says wryly, then adds, “Then again, you’d have to be an idiot to piss of Damien Stark.”

  Damien glances into the office space, and I know that he’s imagining my walls, covered in blood red paint. “Someone’s an idiot,” he says softly. “And someone’s definitely going to pay.”

  10

  “I’ll get with the building management and pull the security feed from the lobby and the elevators.” Ryan Hunter, Jamie’s husband and the Security Chief for Stark International, looks around my office. He’s lean and strong, with chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes. And right now, his jaw is tight, his body tense. In that regard, he looks much like Damien. Two men with blood in their eyes, and no idea who to lash out against. “We’ll find out who did this,” he says. “I promise.”

  “I know you will,” Damien says. “Make it sooner rather than later.”

  “You got it.” Ryan pulls out his phone and starts tapping, presumably rattling off instructions to his men. The rest of my team has already gone, and it’s just me, Ryan, and Damien in the empty, echoey offices.

  After a moment, Ryan looks up from his phone. “I’ll have the building feed within an hour. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  Damien nods, then holds out his hand, palm up toward me. “Car keys.”

  I pass them to him. And he tosses them to Ryan. “Get one of your men to get Nikki’s car back to the house. You’re riding home with me,” he adds, and I simply nod. That’s perfectly all right by me.

  His free hand is resting lightly on my back, where it’s been for the last fifteen minutes as we’ve talked with Ryan, giving him the rundown of everything that’s happened all day, including the interview with the reporter and the note I found on my car.

  Ryan holds up Mary Lee’s business card. Damien’s already seen it. In fact, he snapped a picture of it. “I think it’s a legitimate publication,” Ryan says, “but I’ll double-check. A lot of these small local presses have similar names.”

  “Even if it is legit, it doesn’t mean that the reporter is.”

  “I know,” I say, because Damien’s right. “But the office number is the one I called to confirm. I spoke with her editor.” Then I shrug as I meet Ryan’s eyes and lean closer against Damien. “Or, at least, I thought I was speaking to her editor.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Ryan says. “Like I said, she may be legit. And if she’s not … well, it was a pretty smooth scam.”

  “This bitch reporter was in the bungalow with you,” Damien says. “It could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

  I nod. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t already thought of. Beside me, his body is tense, anger and worry bubbling through him. I ease away, forcing his hand off my back so that I can take it in my own. I’m fine, I want to tell him. I’m really and truly fine.

  “I’ll get the note from Joe,” Ryan says, “then I’ll pull the feed from the parking garage, too.”

  “You really think that’s connected?” I ask.

  “I do. And it’s better if it is. I’d rather there be one person out there harassing you than several. Don’t you think?”

  And since I can’t argue with that, I don’t.

  “Why’d you come by, anyway?” I ask Damien a half hour later, once we’re tucked into his black Ferrari and speeding toward the Coast Highway.

  “My schedule changed, so I thought I’d see how your space was progressing.” He glances sideways at me. “Not well, I’d say.”

  I make a face. “I’m not moving offices.”

  His expression a little too bland. “Did I suggest that?”

  “You’re thinking really loud.”

  “Was I?” Now he looks amused. I consider that a good thing.

  “You were thinking I should have taken office space at The Domino, like you’d suggested months ago. But it wasn’t ready then. And you know why I don’t think it’s a good idea to be in a Stark property. It’s all about perception.”

  “If it’s a question of perception versus your safety, then fuck perception,” he says, then continues before I have the chance to speak. “But I’m having second thoughts about wanting you at The Domino.” He stops at a red light and turns his attention to me. “I have half a floor available at Stark Tower. I can have it remodeled and furniture in there by Monday.”

  He could, too. And I can’t deny that it would be nice to be that close to him. To the apartment. The kids have a room there and so does Bree. If I were in a crunch time, it would be so easy. Almost like the arrangement we have now with the bungalow.

  “No,” I say. Despite all the pluses, taking Stark space is just a flat-out no. “I’m willing to take your advice. I’m willing to accept your referrals. And I’m more than willing to license my products to any Stark company. But I have to have professional autonomy.”

  “At the risk of your personal safety?”

  I cock my head. “And if it was you? Would you suddenly start working from home?”

  “Nikki.”

  I cross my arms and settle back into my seat. “I’m just saying.”

  He takes my hand, then immediately releases it to shift gears. “I drove the wrong damn car today,” he says, and I have to laugh. “You should have told me about the note,” he adds, and this time there’s no humor in his voice.

  “I would have, once I got home. At the gallery, though…”

  “What?”

  “Well, that would have been a buzz kill, right? And later, when you asked me about the reporter at the house, I honestly didn’t connect the two. I’m still not sure they’re related.”

  “Two could be a coincidence. Three makes a connection.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug. “I don’t know.” Mostly, I just want it all to go away. I don’t say that, though. I don’t need to. Damien knows me too well.

  He reaches over and brushes my cheek, and I sigh and lean into him, like a cat soaking up affection. “I don’t like seeing you hurt or scared or worried.” His voice is low but intense, and I have no doubt that today has thrown him almost as much as it has me.

  “I know.” I reach up and take his hand, then kiss his fingers. “But you’re the reason I can handle being hurt or scared or worried. Because I know you’ll always be there to help me through it.”

  “Always,” he says, his voice heavy with promi
se.

  We drive in silence for a while, and Damien takes back his hand as we maneuver the twisting Malibu streets that lead to our property. “I have an idea,” he says as we soar down the canyon road. “Let’s cut Bree loose for the rest of the afternoon, then take the kids down to the bungalow. We can grill burgers on the deck and make sand castles on the beach.”

  “Yeah?” I shift in my seat so that I’m facing him, my smile so wide I feel the tug of skin across my cheekbones. “I like the sound of that. A lot.”

  He reaches over, and rests his hand lightly on my thigh. “Give Bree a call. Tell her to get the girls’ things together.”

  I’m already pulling my phone out of my purse and hitting speed dial. Three rings, then Bree’s cheery voice asking me to leave a message. I do, then call her right back. That’s one of our strictest rules—always answer calls from me or Damien.

  Again, the call goes to voice mail.

  “Damien.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, his voice tense. “You’re just nervous because of today.”

  Possibly true. But the fact that he even said that tells me that he’s nervous, too. “You try. Maybe my calls aren’t ringing through for some reason.”

  He presses the button on the steering wheel, says, “Call Bree,” and I listen to the crackle of the ringtone, frowning because the lack of clarity means we’re getting close to the dead zone that covers a two mile stretch of road leading to the house.

  Again, we get her message.

  “I don’t care if it’s paranoid,” I say. “Call the guardhouse.”

  “Already on it,” he says, and does just that. But the call doesn’t ring through. Instead, there’s just dead air.

  “Fuck. You call.”

  I already have my phone out, shaking my head when I see the No Service message in the upper left corner of the screen. “Damien.” I hear panic in my voice.

  “I know,” he says. And he floors it.

  11

  Damien sails onto our property through the underground garage, the fastest route since it avoids the long driveway that leads to the uppermost section of the property, providing guests with a majestic view of the house, grounds, and ocean beyond. The Ferrari practically flies through the cavernous space, emerging into the light right in front of the house, the tires skidding on the crushed stone drive.

  I have the door open before we’re even at a full stop, and I stumble out of the car, then sprint to the front door, punching in the key code faster than I ever have in my life. It’s maybe seven seconds from the time I leave the car to the moment the lock releases, but it feels like eternity.

  I throw open the door, burst inside, then stop dead at the sight of a strange man standing on the threshold between the sliding glass panels that mark the far end of the room and the flagstone pool deck that abuts the first level of our home.

  A huge bag of Ruffles potato chips is tucked under an arm that’s also curled in front of his body, cradling a shrink-wrapped twelve-pack of apple juice boxes. In his other hand, he holds two plastic bottles of sparkling water.

  He’s wearing swim trunks and flip-flops and nothing else, and the sight of him is so contrary to the scenario of murder and mayhem and home invasions that had been racing through my head that I simply stand there staring at him. He stares right back, and I realize in that moment that I probably look like a crazy person—eyes wild, body tense, the terror that had been clinging to me morphing into some sort of confused miasma of emotions.

  Damien is right behind me, and as I hear his low exhale of relief, I downshift even more. Whatever is going on, chips and juice don’t add up to murder and mayhem.

  Then Lara’s high-pitched shriek cuts through the silence. My blood turns to ice, and Damien springs past me, only to stop cold when Lara scurries into view, racing across the flagstones and then into the house, ending the journey with a loud cry of “Baba!” as she leaps into his arms, her name for Damien that she alternates now with cries of Daddy, too.

  “Who the he—who are you?” Damien’s tone is harsh, his words tempered only because of the little girl in his arms. In front of him, the stranger looks terrified, and I don’t blame him.

  I may know Damien well enough to understand that his tone and his posture and the fury on his face are all the remnants of fear. I understand that we’re past the moment of crisis, and whoever this guy is, he’s not currently at risk of Damien beating him to a bloody pulp.

  This stranger, however, only knows what he sees—and I hurry to Damien’s side and put a calming hand on his arm as I flash a quick smile at Lara, who’s thankfully oblivious to the still-simmering drama.

  “Where’s Bree?” I ask the guy.

  “Outside with Anne,” he says. “I went for snacks.”

  The statement is so ridiculously normal that I almost laugh. Instead I say, “We called. Several times.”

  “I—” He shakes his head. “She has her phone. It didn’t ring.” He holds up the hand with the juice boxes. “Swear.”

  “Who are you?” Damien demands again.

  “Rory,” he says, and I relax more, understanding. “Rory Claymore.”

  “Mr. Stark?” Bree hurries across the flagstones, then pauses on the threshold, Anne in her arms. “Nikki?”

  She looks between me, Damien, and Rory, her expression at first confused and then slowly shifting to understanding. “We’re having outdoor time,” she says. “Rory called to see if I could go out, and I told him I couldn’t. But I asked if he wanted to come.” She meets my eyes. “You always say that it’s okay if I want to have a friend over every once in a while, and I figured it’s even better having two adults if we’re playing in the pool.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, moving to her side, and taking Anne, who squeals, “Momma!” and wraps her arms and legs around me like a little monkey. I dance kisses over her cheek, then close my eyes as the last bit of terror drains from me, only now realizing how far I’d let my imagination run.

  “We called,” Damien says, his voice razor sharp. “Of course, you can have a friend over, but that doesn’t excuse you not answering the phone.”

  She swallows, her face pale. “I didn’t hear the house phone. And my cell didn’t ring. Not once. I’ll show you.” She races outside before either Damien or I have a chance to speak.

  “It really didn’t,” Rory says. “It was sitting on that little table by the pool the whole time. One of us would have heard it.”

  Damien’s head is cocked slightly, his eyes narrowed like he’s studying the guy. I take the opportunity to do the same, since my first impression was skewed by fear. Rory’s tall and lanky, with rich brown hair that looks stylishly messy, a few locks falling onto his forehead and brushing his wire-framed glasses. He has an attractive, intelligent face, with round features, giving him a somewhat soft appearance that’s counterbalanced by the intensity of his dark, deep-set eyes.

  “We’ve met,” Damien says, and Rory takes a step toward him, as if leading into an answer, but his words are cut off by Bree’s return, her phone clutched tight in her hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “It’s dead. It was on the charger all day until we came outside, so I have no idea why. It’s just dead.” She thrusts it into my hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I glance at the phone, and she’s right. It’s completely non-responsive. I look up and catch her mortified expression, and the last sliver of icy fear shatters. “It’s okay. I’m just glad everyone’s safe.”

  I glance at Damien while I’m talking, and though he’s still holding Lara tight, his eyes are on Rory. His words come back to me. We’ve met.

  “Rory was one of the Stark Education Foundation recipients,” Bree says proudly. “I just found out today.”

  Rory ducks his head modestly. His shoulders rise and fall in a self-deprecating shrug as he meets Damien’s eyes. “I was one of the early ones. I met you in the interview, and then my picture was in the newsletter. The SEF counselors helped me find
scholarships and work-study, and they closed the gap with a grant. Couldn’t have done it without you, man. So thanks.”

  “No thanks necessary,” Damien says. “That’s exactly how it’s supposed to work.” He extends his hand, and Rory takes it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again. Sorry about the dramatic circumstances. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “That reporter?” Bree asks me.

  “And more,” I say, then wave off her follow-up question. “Later. No point bringing a downer to the pool party.”

  Since the girls are already dressed for swimming—and equally excited by the promise of potato chips—they head back out with Bree and Rory while Damien and I go change. The revised plan is to spend an hour at the house, then walk down to the bungalow, leaving Rory and Bree to their evening. A plan that lights up Bree’s face when I outline it for her.

  Forty-five minutes later, she and I are stretched out on lounge chairs, drying in the sun, while Damien and Rory entertain our two little bundles of energy in the pool.

  “I’m so sorry,” Bree says for the fortieth or fiftieth time since I gave her the full rundown of my day. “To not be able to get in touch with me after all that drama. Honestly, I’m so sorry.”

  “No more apologies. It’s all fine. Really.” I sit up, turning slightly so that I can see her. “How come you didn’t tell me that Rory was a grant recipient?”

  “I didn’t have a clue until today. He called to ask if I wanted to go out tomorrow night, and I told him I wasn’t sure if I could because I was going to a Stark Foundation brunch, and I didn’t know how long it would go or if you’d need me to work afterwards. And then he asked me why I was going, and I realized I hadn’t ever told him who I work for.”

  She reaches for the sunscreen and squirts a liberal amount into her palms. “I never do,” she adds, as she starts to rub the lotion on her legs. “I mean, once I know someone, sure. But not at first. I told you that when I interviewed.”

  “You did, and I’m glad to hear you’ve been diligent about that. It was one of the things that impressed me from the beginning.”