Play My Game

by J. Kenner

  He is behind me, so I cannot see his face. But Carmela is in front of me, and I see the way she looks at him, as if the world is suddenly caving in around her.

  I'd braced for her to lash back at me. Instead, she looks soft and a little lost.

  And when she drops to the couch and presses her face into her hands, I know that I have stepped into Neverland.

  "Damien?"

  I steady myself, then turn in his arms so that I can see him. He does not look soft. On the contrary, he is angry and tight. He is an explosion waiting to happen, and in that moment I know that the only reason he's managing to hold it together is because Carmela is in the room with us.

  His fingers are tight around my upper arm, almost to the point of hurting. I don't object, though. I understand that this is his way of keeping me close. Of protecting me from whatever is happening--because whatever's going on is bigger than one emailed photograph sent to Damien Stark's new wife by his crazy childhood friend.

  "Damien," I repeat. "What's happened?"

  He doesn't answer. Instead, he lets go of my arm and then says very slowly and carefully, "Why did you come here?"

  At the question, Carmela looks up at me. Her eyes are red, but the softness is fading, and as she awaits my answer, I can see her hard edges clicking back into place.

  "I got an email," I say. I pull out my phone and hand it to him. As I was planning to do that all along, the email is already open on my screen. The note--Mine--and that horrible, sensual, brutally raw image.

  "I opened the email thinking it was from you," I say.

  "Son of a bitch." He smacks his hand hard against the wall, and I'm grateful it's not the one holding my phone.

  "You saw the domain name?" I ask. "When I saw Carmela, I thought she'd teamed up with Sofia." I no longer think that. Because it's very clear to me that Carmela isn't calling the shots here any more than I am.

  "She didn't," Damien says. "And this email didn't come from Sofia."

  "You're sure?" Since I know WiseApps was a domain that she set up, I thought my assumption was pretty damn reasonable.

  "She doesn't own it anymore. Transferred it while we were on the island," he says, referring to the island getaway he took me to for the last leg of our honeymoon.

  "Because of you."

  "Because of me," he confirms, and I wonder how many lawyers he'd sent swooping down on her after the fiasco in Paris and my mini-meltdown at the thought of being sued.

  "She could have transferred it to someone who's pulling this shit for her," I say.

  "I don't disagree. But she's been in tight lockdown since we left Paris. I called to confirm. Just hung up before you got here, actually."

  I nod, taking it all in. "And the reason you called to confirm that was because you got an email, too, didn't you?" I feel like my brain is mush, but I'm slowly catching up.

  Carmela has been silent through our conversation, but now she passes me her phone. It's open to an email showing the same image, but her message is different. $200,000 by 10 p.m. PST on Feb. 13 or it goes public at dawn on Valentine's Day. And all the others, too. Wiring instructions to follow. Like my email, this was supposedly sent from Damien.

  "I got the same email," Damien says. "It came from you. Nikki Fairchild Stark."

  "Fuck," I say, then drag my fingers through my hair. "What does he mean by 'the others'?"

  "More pictures, presumably," Damien says, and his tone is so calm and so even that I know he is very close to losing it.

  "Our blackmailer did not send them." Carmela finally speaks, her accent almost musical despite the horrific circumstances. "But I imagine they are ..."

  "More graphic." My hand reaches for Damien's. "Yeah. I get that." I glance between the two of them. "So what now?"

  "Now, I go." Carmela eyes Damien. "You will let me know what you decide?"

  "I will."

  With a nod, Carmela moves to a table by the window and picks up her purse, then swings it over her shoulder as if she's here in the apartment for nothing more than an afternoon coffee. "Nikki, would you mind walking me down?"

  Beside me, I feel Damien tense, but he makes no objection.

  I hesitate, then step away from Damien and toward Carmela, a woman I'd never thought I would have an ounce of sympathy for.

  Damien's fingers linger on mine as I leave, and before the elevator doors close, I look back and meet his eyes. I see the storm brewing, and I almost tell Carmela that I cannot leave him. Not now.

  But then he nods, and the doors shut, and I clutch hard to the handrail as the elevator starts its descent.

  For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then she turns to me. "We did not know. That there were cameras, I mean. Even then--even when he was with me--he never would have done that if he had known he was being filmed."

  "I know." What I don't know is why she is being so conciliatory. I draw a breath. "What did you mean? When you said Damien would let you know what he decides? Don't you have a say?"

  "I leave it to Damien to decide what to do. Whether to pay or whether to let the pictures be released."

  I simply stare at her. "And you're okay with that? With just letting him choose what happens to a pretty goddamn intimate photograph of you?"

  "I cannot lie," she says, her voice as hard as stone. "I was upset when I got the email. I do not like being used. And I would happily strangle the fucker who has put us in this position. But, yes, I will let Damien decide."

  "Why?"

  She lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "I am not ashamed of my encounters with Damien. We were both single. And we both look quite nice, yes? Under different circumstances, that image could practically be an art print."

  Her words are matter-of-fact, but I hear the hard edge of reason and anger underpinning them.

  The elevator arrives at the lobby. Before the door opens, though, I press the stop button, then use my card key to deactivate the alarm before it can start to squall. It's a handy trick I learned from Damien, who has stopped this elevator on several occasions when we just couldn't wait to get up to the apartment.

  When Carmela realizes that we're staying in this plush box until our conversation is over, she exhales loudly, then continues. "The truth is that I've posed nude before. And while you don't seem the type who would know it, there's a sex tape of me that has made the rounds. A bastard of a manager I screwed back in the day." She waves a hand as if wafting away smoke. "These photos are tame by comparison."

  "You didn't seem to think so when I arrived."

  Her smile is thin. "Just because they are tame does not mean that I'm not angry."

  I nod. That much, I understand. "And Damien?"

  "He has always been careful. Private. But why ask me? You know Damien Stark better than I do."

  I tilt my head, surprised that she would admit as much.

  She sighs. "Look, I know that I was a bitch in Munich. What can I say? I like him. And I very much liked to fuck him."

  My hand tightens around the rail. "If this is supposed to be a friendly conversation--"

  "My point is that things have changed. He's married now. I don't screw around with married men." She shoots me a wry smile. "And we both know Damien wouldn't be interested anyway. Not now. Not since he's with you."

  I nod. And while I'm not sure that I've gone from completely detesting her to genuinely liking her, I will at least grudgingly concede that she's not a total bitch.

  "The thing is," she continues, "despite his penchant for privacy, under other circumstances, Damien might say fuck it and let the picture out. Why not? He looks damn hot. And it's no secret that he used to screw around. More important, we both know that Damien's not the kind of man who bends over and takes it in the ass when someone threatens him."

  "No. He's not. So what's changed?"

  She looks at me as if I'm an idiot. "You, of course. These pictures get out, and you'll be drawn through the muck, too. And he's so damned in love with you that the thought of that just about kills h
im."

  My heart squeezes with her words, because they're true, and I know it well. What surprises me is that Carmela sees it, too.

  "Don't look so shocked," she says, as if reading my mind. "You have cast a spell over him, and the whole world knows it."

  Since I'm not sure what to say to that, I just smile and flip the switch on the elevator, allowing the door to open.

  She pauses on the threshold. "You know, under different circumstances, you and I might have been friends."

  And although I never would have believed it before, in that moment, I think she might be right.

  It's an interesting detente, and I'm amused when her parting gesture is an air kiss.

  Then I place my card key against the pad and let the elevator whisk me away, knowing full well the storm that awaits me upstairs.

  Chapter 5

  Damien is there the moment the elevator doors open, and before I even have time to draw a breath, he has taken my hand and pulled me out. I gasp, only to cry out again a moment later when he slams me against the foyer wall, stretching my arms above my head as his mouth finds mine and his body presses hard against me.

  "Christ," he says, when he breaks the kiss. "Oh, Christ, Nikki." His hands are all over me--cupping my breasts, following the line of my waist, sliding hard between my legs so that I grind down against him and moan with arousal and a wildly desperate need.

  "Yes," I say, though he has asked me no question. The word is an invitation. An admission. An acknowledgment. I want his touch--I want everything. And I need it, dear lord, how I need it right now.

  Most important, I know that he needs it, too. He needs to take me. To claim me.

  He needs to bury himself deep inside me and know that no matter how fucked up the outside world becomes, this passion between us will never fade. That I will always be there for him, whenever and however he wants.

  "Yes," I say again, even as he undresses me, not bothering with buttons or zippers but yanking me out of my skirt and ripping my blouse open so that only seconds pass before I feel his mouth close over my breast.

  He is wild and hot and though I know the source of this--though I know that this intense need stems directly from all the shit that has been piled upon us--I cannot deny that I love the way he is making me feel.

  "Tell me," he says, breathing hard as he cups my face. "Are you okay?"

  I nod, because I understand the foundation of his question. This is not only about Damien regaining control, it is about him giving me what I need--wild, hard, fast sex. Intense. Hot.

  Pleasure and pain--but right now, it is not the pain that I need.

  "I'm fine," I say. "I swear I'm fine." An odd laugh bubbles out of me. "I didn't even think of it," I realize. "I never thought of a blade, never imagined its weight in my hand or the sensation of metal slicing through flesh. Damien," I murmur, and my heart is beating fast as the full realization of what I am saying washes over me. "I didn't think of it at all. All I thought of was you. All I wanted was to get to you."

  It is a big thing, and Damien knows it. Before, I've fought the urge to cut, using him as a weapon. This time, I didn't even crave the blade, only the man.

  I crave him still, and when he looks at me with heat and wonder in his eyes, I pull him close and beg him to please, please fuck me. "I need you," I say. "Only you. And I know that you need me." I brush my lips over his ears. "Anything you want, Damien. Anything you need."

  I see the heat in his eyes, but I am unprepared when he lashes out, slams his hand so hard against the wall behind me that it shakes. "Goddammit." He backs away from me, as if horrified that he brought violence so close to me, and then kicks over the coffee table, sending all the magazines tumbling.

  "Damien!" I go to him and catch his wrists. "Damien, talk to me."

  He pulls me hard against him, then presses my head to his chest, his fingers twined in my hair. I can hear the beat of his heart, fast and steady, and I want to kiss him all over. Kiss him and make it better, even though this is something even the most fervent of kisses won't fix.

  "All I want to do is keep you safe from them," he finally says. "These goddamn vultures--and yet they're everywhere. They've followed us from day one. Before we were even married. On our honeymoon. Now this."

  "These pictures aren't about me," I say.

  "The hell they're not."

  I swallow, because I fear that he is right. Didn't Carmela even hint at that very thing?

  "All I want is to fucking protect you."

  His words reverberate through me, and I pull my head back so that I can see his face. "You do. Christ, Damien, how can you not know that you do? I'm safe with you. I'm whole with you."

  He stares down at me, his dual-colored eyes so wild that I fear the storm will consume us both.

  Then something seems to shatter in him and he kisses me hard before pulling me close. "You're my blood and my breath, Nikki. You're my life. I will always fight for you. I will always come to you. And I will happily destroy anyone who tries to hurt you."

  "Do you think I don't know that?"

  "I need you." His voice is raw, and I can feel the heat rolling off him. "Christ, Nikki, I need you now."

  "Yes." It's all I say. It's enough.

  He takes me to the window and puts my hands on the glass. "Close your eyes," he says, as he starts to ease kisses down my spine.

  I shiver as sparks of electricity ricochet through me, priming me for his touch and leaving my body begging for more.

  "Do you feel it?" he asks. "The cool glass against your hot skin, your nipples tight and needy. There's a whole world out there, and you are naked before it."

  "Yes," I murmur. He's taken me in front of a window before, and he knows that I like it. I hadn't expected to, but there is something so wildly freeing about the world falling away even as passion takes you higher.

  His kisses have reached the base of my spine and now he uses his hands to silently urge my legs apart. He strokes me, teasing my clit with a single fingertip but not slipping inside me despite the way I wiggle my hips, my soft moans of longing coming even without conscious thought.

  "Turn around," he demands, and when I do, he lifts me up so that my thighs are resting on his hips. He holds me steady by cupping my ass, and I arch back as he thrusts into me, the back of my head brushing the glass wall as I do.

  I clutch his shoulders, my fingernails digging into him as he thrusts again, the movement pushing my back against the window so that I am pinned there between him and the glass. Unlike a bed, there is no give, and I feel the power of each of his thrusts, so deep and hard that it seems as if he will split me in two, and oh, god, how I want that.

  I close my eyes and give myself over to the pleasure of his touch, of his power. I want him to take me, to have me. Maybe the world outside is going crazy, but in here, I am his.

  I am always his.

  And between us, the world is exactly as we want it.

  Tension fills his body, then bursts out of him as a powerful orgasm rocks him. I hold on, letting his release roll through me, relishing the way he looks and feels when he loses control, all barriers down, all control surrendered to me, to this moment.

  "I love you," I cry as my own release takes me, and I cling to him until the waves of passion slow and I can breathe normally again.

  "I know," he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. "We love each other."

  Gently, he cleans me up, then we curl up together on the couch, a blanket draped over us as we look out over the city in the distance.

  "You know that there's nothing I wouldn't sacrifice to keep you safe," he says. "Nothing I wouldn't do to make you happy."

  "I know," I say. "But don't do it, Damien. Don't pay. The thought of you paying extortion money makes me ill, especially if you think you're doing it for me."

  "I've done it before."

  I shake my head. I know he's thinking of Eric Padgett, the man who'd claimed that Damien was involved in his sister's death. "That was a set
tlement," I say. "And I may not be a god of all things business like you, but even I know that businesses and people pay money to settle for a whole lot of reasons, and that doesn't make it extortion. It just means that they made a business decision and their reason won out."

  He looks at me, as if trying to read something in my expression. "I have a reason to pay to keep those pictures out of the press," he finally says.

  "No, you don't." I cup his face. "Do you think I don't understand what it would cost you to pay? To give in to this bullshit?" I hold his gaze hard, because I do understand, and I want to make sure he realizes that.

  "For better or for worse, Damien, remember? Those wonderful wedding vows. And honestly," I quip, "how bad could it be? Half the women in America are already jealous of me. Once they see that picture of you, the other half will be, too."

  He is quiet for a long time, and when he speaks, his voice is both soft and urgent. "Are you sure?"

  "I wouldn't say it if I wasn't." And I am sure. I can survive those pictures being out there, and so can Damien. But if he gives in to whoever is yanking our chain, he will not only be sacrificing his own principles on my account, but he will start to slide down a horrible, slippery slope. "I'm certain," I repeat, just to make sure he understands.

  His eyes never leave my face. I hold his gaze, understanding that he is trying to see if my words match my truth.

  Finally, he nods. Just once. And then he bends over and kisses me lightly. "You're amazing. You know that, right?"

  "Of course," I say airily. "But feel free to tell me as often as you want. And honestly, I'm pretty fond of you, too," I add, reciting back the words from the clue that had come with the cupcake.

  It's when I say them out loud that something shifts in my mind.

  Fond of you.

  Fond you.

  Fondue.

  I toss the blanket off us and start to stand up. Damien takes my hand. "Where are you going?"

  "We," I correct. "Where are we going?"

  "Oh?"

  "I think we should have an early dinner," I tell him. "At Le Caquelon."

  Chapter 6

  Damien is deliberately closemouthed, but as we take the elevator up to Le Caquelon, the Santa Monica-based fondue restaurant, I know that I'm right, just as I'd been right about the cupcakes. I'd had to wait for the proper moment, but I'd been right.