by J. Kenner
My cheeks heat, but I nod. “Then what are you doing?”
“We want to stop the publication of the painting itself. Or any other of Blaine’s works. It’s his style that’s partly fueling the fire. The idea that the image is dark and erotic.”
“Oh.” My cheeks burn even hotter. “But how can you keep them from printing photographs? I saw the reporter taking pictures at the party. And there must be dozens of Blaine’s paintings in Southern California. Anybody could invite a reporter in to take a few snaps if they want some extra cash.”
“The owner of the painting doesn’t own the copyright,” Damien explains. “That remains with Blaine. So that’s how we’re handling it.”
“Of course, they can still print photos of you,” Charles says, and I know that there are many, many photos of Damien and me together.
“I understand,” I say. “I suppose every little bit helps. But how on earth did you pull all this together so fast?”
“I’m sure you realize that Damien is one of my most important clients—”
“One of?” Damien interrupts indignantly.
“My most important client,” Charles corrects with a laugh. “When he sends me a text outlining an urgent matter, I set the wheels in motion.”
I glance at Damien, realizing that sometime last night, despite everything else, he actually found the time to do this for me.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you both.”
“It’s only a start.” Damien looks at Charles. “Did you bring the footage?”
Charles pushes some papers on the coffee table aside and comes up with a DVD. “Everything that’s aired so far, and as much of the raw footage from outside Nikki’s condo as we could obtain.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Someone leaked this story,” Damien says. “I intend to find out who.”
“But you just said that if it’s the truth there’s nothing you can do legally.”
“No,” Damien says with a thin, dangerous smile. “There’s not a damn thing I can do legally. But I want to know who did this to you. Don’t ask me to stop, Nikki. Because I won’t.”
“I’m not going to ask,” I say. The truth is, I want to know, too. “But how is looking at the footage going to help?”
“I’m going to identify all of the reporters asking you questions,” he says. “And then Charles or I will have a little talk with each of them.”
It is probably very wrong of me, but I can’t help but wish that I could be a fly in the room during those conversations.
“Anything else?” Damien asks.
“Not about this.” Charles glances toward me. “But Germany is heating up, Damien. They have the janitor now. We need to expect the worst.”
“I always expect the worst,” Damien says. “It’s how I’ve survived so long.”
“There are other issues in Europe,” Charles says. “You really should—”
“I know,” Damien says, with a quick glance toward me. “But I’m tied up here at the moment.”
“Wait,” I say. “I may not know the details of what’s going on, but if the company’s having legal trouble overseas and you need to be there, then go. I’ll be fine.”
“She’s right,” Charles says. “You’re needed in London.”
I’m surprised that Charles has mentioned London and not Germany. “Sofia?” I ask, and can’t help but notice the surprised look that Charles shoots at Damien.
“There are financial problems I need to take care of,” Damien says.
“You can handle everything in a few hours,” Charles adds. “But you need to be on-site.”
“Fine,” Damien concedes. He crosses to the window and looks over the city spread out beyond the glass. “I’ll leave Friday night.”
“That’s the tennis center dedication,” Charles says. “Damien, you should go.”
“But I’m not going. I’ve already said why. That’s final.”
I look between the two men. It’s a standoff, and my money is on Damien.
Soon enough, I’m proven right.
“Fine,” Charles says. “You’ll leave Friday, then. If you’re out of the country, that’s another excuse we can throw to the press.”
“I don’t give a damn what you say to the press,” Damien says, his voice sharp with irritation. “There and back again, Charles. And if you can’t get me in and out quickly on commercial flights, then tell Grayson we’re taking the Lear.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
He turns to me. “You’re sure?”
“There are a lot of things on your resume,” I say. “But I’m pretty sure babysitter isn’t one of them. Yes. I’m sure.”
“Fine, but I want you to stay here while I’m gone.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ll be fine at home.”
“They’ll hound you,” he says. “And they’ll hound Jamie,” he adds, because he knows me well enough to know that matters. “Mostly, it will make me feel better. Please, Nikki. Right now I’m asking. Don’t make me demand.”
It’s his way of saying that he’s the one making the rules in this game I agreed to continue. I nod in acquiescence. The truth is that I’d rather stay here, too. I want to be strong enough to say that I really don’t care if they accost me on the stairs up to the condo. I want to—but I’m not.
“Fine. I’ll stay.”
“Thank you. Besides, I want to install better security at your place. Charles, on your way out, tell Sylvia to make arrangements for that and to let Ms. Archer know when the installation will happen. What?” he demands, noticing my smile.
“Nothing.” Fortunately, I don’t think Jamie is going to mind having a security team swoop down on her. And Damien is just being Damien.
As usual, he reads my mind. “Correction,” he says to Charles. “Tell Sylvia to ask Ms. Archer if she’s amenable to a security system and, if so, when would be a convenient time for the install. Better?”
I nod. “And thanks.”
We walk Charles out, and as soon as the door closes behind him, I move closer to Damien and press my palms against his bare chest. “London, huh? I miss you already.”
“Just so we’re clear, I don’t want you to stay in my apartment because I’m worried about you.”
“No?”
“I want you here because I like the idea of you in my bed.”
“That works out well, then. Because I like being in your bed, too. Mostly, though, I like being in your arms.”
20
By mid-afternoon on Friday, I’m craving traffic jams and smog. I want to go out in the world, and damn the reporters and paparazzi and plain old gawkers.
At the same time, I’m enjoying this bubble of domesticity I’m sharing with Damien. He’s kicked back on the sofa, his bare feet on the coffee table, his iPad in one hand and a sparkling water near the other. He’s wearing a Bluetooth headphone in his far ear, so from my perspective it looks as if he’s mumbling to himself. I’ve long ago tuned him out. As fascinated as I am by Damien in general, I do not need to know the ins and outs of the labor problems that one of his subsidiaries is having in Taiwan.
As for me, I’ve just finished reading a downloaded copy of The Martian Chronicles, and though I’d started the story with a picture of a young Damien in my mind, by the end, I’d been sucked in by the plot and the characters.
Now, though, I’m feeling at loose ends. I don’t have my laptop, so there’s not much actual work I can do. I’m not in the mood to start another book, and the television doesn’t interest me in the slightest. I consider putting on a fashion show for Damien featuring the clothes he’s stocked in the closet, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. I’ve been dominating his time lately, albeit unintentionally, and though he makes light of his need to oversee his empire, I know that the world of Damien Stark will unravel if he is not actively at the helm.
I go to the kitchen to brew a cup of green tea, since it’s supposed to be calming and I feel so antsy. I’m actually
not freaking out about the press, but I can’t decide if that’s because I’m dealing so well with this new crisis in my life, or if it’s simply because Damien and I are locked up here in his castle in the sky, and the problems of mere mortals are really not our concern.
I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s the latter and that when I go out into the world or log on to the Internet, this smug sense of control is going to blow away like so much dandelion fluff. As evidence of my theory, I have only to look at my phone. My mother has called twice, and each time I’ve let it go to voice mail. I have not listened to the messages. I have not called her back. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever will. My mother has the ability to push me over the edge where even a Hummer full of paparazzi could not.
Despite a world filled with paparazzi and Elizabeth Fairchilds and other unpleasant beings, I am so antsy that I consider testing the waters of the outside world by taking a walk down to the Museum of Contemporary Art. It’s only a few blocks away, and I doubt that there are reporters waiting to ambush me there. It’s also close enough that Damien won’t worry. Or he won’t worry as much, because if I start to freak he is less than five minutes away by foot.
Besides, I really want some fresh air.
I take my tea and a fresh water for Damien and head back into the living room, arriving at the same time as Sylvia, who is coming in from the back entrance that connects to the office of Stark International.
“Ms. Fairchild,” she says. “How are you?”
“Good,” I say. “How’s life on the outside?”
Damien grins at me. “Going a little stir crazy?”
“Not that I don’t love this fairy palace, but—”
He makes a noncommittal noise, then turns to Sylvia, who appears to be hiding a smile. “What have you got for me?”
“Just a few signatures,” she says, handing him a clipboard and several documents. She glances at me. “And this came for you,” she adds, then holds out a plain white envelope. It’s addressed to me, care of Stark International. There’s no return address, but the postmark is from Los Angeles.
“That’s weird,” I say, as Damien tosses the clipboard onto a cushion and comes to my side.
“Open it,” he says.
I do. There’s a folded piece of paper inside. I pull it out, unfold it, and immediately feel sick.
Bitch. Slut. Whore.
“Motherfucker,” Damien breathes, plucking the letter and the envelope from my hand. He takes a magazine from the coffee table and puts them both between the pages, then hands the magazine to Sylvia. “Get this to Charles. Don’t get fingerprints on it.”
“Of course, Mr. Stark. Ms. Fairchild, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No, of course you didn’t,” I say.
“It’s okay, Sylvia.” Damien’s words are a dismissal.
She nods. “I’ll just come back for those documents later.” She starts to leave, then pauses and turns back to me. “I apologize if this is out of line, Ms. Fairchild, but I just wanted to say that I saw the painting when I was at the Malibu house coordinating with the decorator before the party.”
I’ve been staring blankly at the magazine in which the vile note is hidden, but now I look up at her face with interest.
“It’s a beautiful portrait,” she says. “Stunning and engaging. Frankly, I think Mr. Stark got a bargain. As far as I’m concerned, it’s worth at least two million.”
I’ve been blinking back tears as she speaks, and now I burst out with a laugh that is choked with tears. “Thank you,” I say, then sniff. I shoot a wry grin toward Damien. “I like her.”
“Yes,” he says dryly. “She’s very capable.” His mouth is thin, but I can see the hint of amusement, not to mention the silent nod of thanks when he tells Sylvia, “That will be all.”
She nods, then slips out of the apartment.
“There are a lot of fucked-up people in the world,” Damien says to me. “Don’t let them get to you.”
“You’re never going to be able to track who sent that letter.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to try. By the way, I figured out which reporter originated the story.”
“Did Charles go see him?”
“He refused to reveal his source. I may pay him a visit myself, but I thought I’d go the more civilized route first. I’ve hired a private investigator. I’m guessing he met in person with the source. With any luck, my guy will learn something.”
I nod, but I don’t expect much. Honestly, I’m not sure I care. I’m certain it wasn’t Jamie or Ollie, and they are the only two who could truly injure me by being duplicitous. Other than that, it’s the information alone that hurts, and no matter who revealed it, there’s no putting that genie back in the bottle. Not now, not ever.
“I want to go out,” I say to Damien, who stares at me for a second, obviously trying to digest my sudden change in topic.
“Any place in particular?”
“I was thinking about the MoCa,” I say. “I figure there aren’t many reporters lying in wait there.”
“All right,” he says. “Let’s go.”
“But then I changed my mind,” I continue. “I want to go shopping. Let’s go look for things for the house. There are all sorts of cute stores on Melrose. Or anywhere in West Hollywood. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“I always have fun when I’m with you,” he says. “But that area is crowded, and it only takes one person who gets off on tabloid news calling TMZ or some other rag before we’ll be surrounded by the vultures.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t care. I want back in the world. It’s not like they can’t get me in here, too. Didn’t one of them just send me a letter?”
He winces, but nods. “All right, then,” he says. “I guess we have a date.”
We’re not looking for anything in particular other than each other’s company, and that makes wandering the stores pleasant, especially since no one seems to be paying any attention to us.
A new store has opened on Fairfax selling high-end antiques, and a massive bed with a head and footboard that is intricately carved from oak immediately catches my eye.
“A bed, Ms. Fairchild?” Damien asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s worth considering. After all, the house is currently without a bed.” I lie down on it, then roll onto my side and pat the mattress, making a point to smile suggestively. “Shall we test it out?”
His lips twitch. “Careful. You’re subject to my rules, remember? Who knows what I might make you do?”
“Good point,” I say, moving to sit up. I reach out and hook a finger through the belt loop of his jeans, then tug him toward me. He stumbles and falls forward, knocking me back a bit before he blocks his fall with a hand on the mattress.
“Well, hello,” he says, then kisses me. “I swear I didn’t orchestrate that.”
I laugh, and am about to steal a kiss of my own, when I notice that the girl at the counter is staring at us. It’s possible she’s simply amused or annoyed by the customers who are playing on the furniture. But I don’t think so.
I stand up abruptly, pushing past Damien. “Let’s go,” I say, my cheeks burning. “This bed isn’t nearly as cool as our old one, anyway.”
The clerk says nothing as we’re leaving, and I think I must have been imagining things. I’m proved wrong fifteen minutes later when we exit the next store.
We’d been shopping in ignorant bliss, looking at decorative candles and pretty vases made of ornamental glass. But the moment we step out onto the sidewalk, we’re accosted by cameras and microphones and a screaming mass of reporters that I can only assume must have popped up en masse out of the sewers.
Damien is already holding my hand. Now he squeezes tighter, and I squeeze back, letting the pressure of his hand around mine focus me.
“Nikki! Is it true that you were fired from Innovative for violating a morals clause?”
“The tennis center dedication begins in four hours, Mr. St
ark. Can you elaborate on your previous statement regarding Merle Richter?”
“Damien! Have you been informed about the content of Mr. Schmidt’s affidavit? Is it true that he was paid to keep quiet?”
I don’t know who Mr. Schmidt is, but I make it a point not to glance at Damien. There’s no way that I’m letting these bastards catch my ignorance on film.
“What are you going to do with your million dollars, Nikki?”
I almost answer that one. Surely, if I explain that the money is going to fund a business, they’ll find me less interesting.
A thin-lipped reporter in a neatly pressed suit steps forward and shoves a microphone in my face. “Can you comment on the rumors that you’ve slept with men in the past for money? Is Mr. Stark your most lucrative client?”
The words strike me like a blow, and I stumble backward, suddenly nauseous. Worse, I’m caught off guard, and my facade has dropped. Tomorrow, all the tabloids will have a shot of my horrified expression. And I know damn well that the captions will suggest that I’m horrified that my secret has been revealed—not that the story is bullshit.
I don’t even realize that Damien has released my hand until I hear the sharp crack of his fist intersecting with the reporter’s jaw.
“Damien! No!”
He turns to me, and I see the fire in his eyes. And I know that right then, his violent, fiery temper is one hundred percent aimed at vindicating me.
“No,” I repeat, grabbing his hand before he can take another swing. “Do you want to get arrested? They’ll take you away from me, and even if it’s only a few hours until you post bail, I’ll be alone until you get out.”
That calms him somewhat, and he takes my hand and yanks me back into the store. He has his phone out, and I hear him telling Edward to bring the limo around.
The salesgirl had been watching through the window, and now she turns to Damien. “Um, mister? Tell him there’s an alley in the back.” She nods toward the throng still gathered in front of the store. “Unless you want to go through those creeps again.”
