Claim Me
Page 61
“No, but I think it’s a start.” He meets my eyes. “Tell Stark to watch his back.”
“I’ll tell him,” I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice from shaking. “But he always does.”
18
I am actually wishing for the paparazzi as I walk toward my car. At least then I could be pissed off at them instead of worried for Damien.
The second I get in my car, I reach into my glove compartment for my phone charger so that I can call Damien, but the damn thing isn’t there. I forgot to put one in my briefcase, so my phone hasn’t charged at all today, and it’s almost dead. I dial anyway, figuring I can talk fast, and am relieved when Damien picks up immediately.
“I ran into Carl,” I say without preamble.
“Ran into him?” His voice is low and measured and very, very ominous.
“As in he came to Innovative and waited for me in the lobby.”
“Are you okay? What did he do?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him, because I can hear both the worry and the temper. “He wanted me to tell you to watch your back.”
“Did he? Tell me everything he said, exactly how he said it.”
I comply, relating the conversation in as much detail as I can manage.
“And he wouldn’t tell you any more?”
“No,” I say. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
I hold my breath, wondering if Damien will cite the thing going on in Germany. Or the tennis center. Or even the Eric Padgett settlement. There are so many things that this could be about, and though I haven’t got a clue, I am certain that Damien does.
But when he speaks, he tells me nothing. “I think this is Carl’s way of blowing smoke.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
“You said he wants to rebuild burned bridges. What better way to do that than to warn me about some upcoming danger?”
“Because there’s always some sort of danger for a man like you,” I say, picking up the direction of his thoughts.
“An angry competitor. A fired employee. A stolen patent. And then Carl comes along and tells me to be on guard, and when I next notice some nefarious deed, I will think, oh, isn’t it lucky that Carl warned me. I guess the little prick isn’t so bad after all.”
I laugh, because Carl is a little prick and nothing is going to change that. But the laughter doesn’t erase my worry. “So you’re really not worried?”
“I make it a point not to worry,” Damien says. “There’s no profit in it.”
“Damien—”
“Stop,” he says gently.
“Stop what?”
“Stop worrying about me. You’re wasting precious energy.”
“What else am I going to do with it?” I ask airily. “It’s not as if you’re here beside me.”
He laughs. “Good girl,” he says. “Where are you?”
“The parking lot. I’m going to hit the grocery store and go home.”
“Good. Can you do me a favor and pick up some—”
And that is when my phone decides to die. I curse it, but at least I got to talk to him about Carl.
Even though Damien isn’t troubled, I am, and it stays on my mind as I poke through Ralph’s, grabbing coffee and ice cream and other staples of living. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but as my list is on my dead phone, I’ll just have to wing it.
I end up with two plastic bags full of various essentials, and after I park my car at the condo, I leave the parking area and follow the sidewalk around to the front stairs. There’s a crowd gathered there, and it takes me a second to realize that they are waiting for me.
Shit.
I may have been in the mood to confront them earlier, but that has passed. All I want now is to get inside, eat ice cream, and wait for Damien.
I square my shoulders, make sure every trace of emotion is wiped off my face, and soldier on.
Immediately, they swarm me.
“Nikki! Nikki, look over here!”
“Was the portrait completely nude?”
“Does it have the usual Blaine elements like bondage?”
I’m breathing hard, and my body feels suddenly cold and clammy. I don’t understand where these questions are coming from, and I’m afraid—so very afraid—to think too hard about it.
“Why did you do it, Nikki? Was it for the money or the thrill?”
“Nikki! Can you confirm that you accepted a million dollars from Damien Stark to pose nude for an erotic painting?”
I freeze, too horrified to take another step, as camera flashes burst around me. I feel sick, and I am certain that any moment now I’m going to throw up.
“Have you ever posed nude before?”
“Is the painting a reflection of your sex life with Damien Stark?”
“Why did you agree to be tied up?”
They’re all around me, circling me, and I reach out for Damien’s hand, but of course he’s not there. My knees feel weak, and I have to force myself to stay upright. I will not fall, I will not react, I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve gotten to me.
But they have. And as variations of the same questions are thrown at me—as I try to get to the stairs but can barely move even an inch—I know that I’m going to scream soon, just for the shock of it. Just so I can get away.
A loud squeal cuts above the din, and for a moment I think that I have screamed, because suddenly the crowd is parting, and I look up and gasp.
Damien. He’s running toward me from the street, his black Ferrari left idling in the road. And if I have ever been uncertain about Damien’s capacity for murder, I no longer am. I see it in his eyes. In the line of his jaw. In the tenseness that fills every muscle of his body. Right then, in that moment, he would kill to protect me.
He reaches out and grabs my arm, and I’m so relieved he’s here I almost cry. He pulls me roughly to him, and hooks his arm around my shoulder, holding me close as he shoves us through the crowd toward the car.
He tosses the groceries onto the floorboard, then gets me settled in the passenger seat. As he straps me in I see something break inside him. “Baby,” he says, and though the word is barely loud enough for my ears, I hear the apology and the bone-deep regret.
“Please,” I whisper. “Let’s get out of here.”
He’s in the car and accelerating toward Ventura Boulevard before my mind even catches up. His right hand is on the stick, but once we’re on the freeway, he reaches for me. “I’m so sorry. The painting. The money. I never thought—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “Later. Right now, I want to pretend that it didn’t happen.”
The look he gives me is heartbreakingly sad. For a moment, we are silent. But the stillness is broken by Damien’s single hard smack of his hand against the steering wheel.
“Who did this?” he asks. “Who the fuck leaked this?”
I shake my head. It still feels like cotton. I realize from somewhere outside of myself that I am not coping well.
I slide my right hand down so that it is between my body and the door, and then I clench it tight into a fist, letting my manicured nails dig deep as I squeeze and squeeze.
“I’ll tell him,” I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice from shaking. “But he always does.”
18
I am actually wishing for the paparazzi as I walk toward my car. At least then I could be pissed off at them instead of worried for Damien.
The second I get in my car, I reach into my glove compartment for my phone charger so that I can call Damien, but the damn thing isn’t there. I forgot to put one in my briefcase, so my phone hasn’t charged at all today, and it’s almost dead. I dial anyway, figuring I can talk fast, and am relieved when Damien picks up immediately.
“I ran into Carl,” I say without preamble.
“Ran into him?” His voice is low and measured and very, very ominous.
“As in he came to Innovative and waited for me in the lobby.”
“Are you okay? What did he do?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him, because I can hear both the worry and the temper. “He wanted me to tell you to watch your back.”
“Did he? Tell me everything he said, exactly how he said it.”
I comply, relating the conversation in as much detail as I can manage.
“And he wouldn’t tell you any more?”
“No,” I say. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
I hold my breath, wondering if Damien will cite the thing going on in Germany. Or the tennis center. Or even the Eric Padgett settlement. There are so many things that this could be about, and though I haven’t got a clue, I am certain that Damien does.
But when he speaks, he tells me nothing. “I think this is Carl’s way of blowing smoke.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask.
“You said he wants to rebuild burned bridges. What better way to do that than to warn me about some upcoming danger?”
“Because there’s always some sort of danger for a man like you,” I say, picking up the direction of his thoughts.
“An angry competitor. A fired employee. A stolen patent. And then Carl comes along and tells me to be on guard, and when I next notice some nefarious deed, I will think, oh, isn’t it lucky that Carl warned me. I guess the little prick isn’t so bad after all.”
I laugh, because Carl is a little prick and nothing is going to change that. But the laughter doesn’t erase my worry. “So you’re really not worried?”
“I make it a point not to worry,” Damien says. “There’s no profit in it.”
“Damien—”
“Stop,” he says gently.
“Stop what?”
“Stop worrying about me. You’re wasting precious energy.”
“What else am I going to do with it?” I ask airily. “It’s not as if you’re here beside me.”
He laughs. “Good girl,” he says. “Where are you?”
“The parking lot. I’m going to hit the grocery store and go home.”
“Good. Can you do me a favor and pick up some—”
And that is when my phone decides to die. I curse it, but at least I got to talk to him about Carl.
Even though Damien isn’t troubled, I am, and it stays on my mind as I poke through Ralph’s, grabbing coffee and ice cream and other staples of living. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but as my list is on my dead phone, I’ll just have to wing it.
I end up with two plastic bags full of various essentials, and after I park my car at the condo, I leave the parking area and follow the sidewalk around to the front stairs. There’s a crowd gathered there, and it takes me a second to realize that they are waiting for me.
Shit.
I may have been in the mood to confront them earlier, but that has passed. All I want now is to get inside, eat ice cream, and wait for Damien.
I square my shoulders, make sure every trace of emotion is wiped off my face, and soldier on.
Immediately, they swarm me.
“Nikki! Nikki, look over here!”
“Was the portrait completely nude?”
“Does it have the usual Blaine elements like bondage?”
I’m breathing hard, and my body feels suddenly cold and clammy. I don’t understand where these questions are coming from, and I’m afraid—so very afraid—to think too hard about it.
“Why did you do it, Nikki? Was it for the money or the thrill?”
“Nikki! Can you confirm that you accepted a million dollars from Damien Stark to pose nude for an erotic painting?”
I freeze, too horrified to take another step, as camera flashes burst around me. I feel sick, and I am certain that any moment now I’m going to throw up.
“Have you ever posed nude before?”
“Is the painting a reflection of your sex life with Damien Stark?”
“Why did you agree to be tied up?”
They’re all around me, circling me, and I reach out for Damien’s hand, but of course he’s not there. My knees feel weak, and I have to force myself to stay upright. I will not fall, I will not react, I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve gotten to me.
But they have. And as variations of the same questions are thrown at me—as I try to get to the stairs but can barely move even an inch—I know that I’m going to scream soon, just for the shock of it. Just so I can get away.
A loud squeal cuts above the din, and for a moment I think that I have screamed, because suddenly the crowd is parting, and I look up and gasp.
Damien. He’s running toward me from the street, his black Ferrari left idling in the road. And if I have ever been uncertain about Damien’s capacity for murder, I no longer am. I see it in his eyes. In the line of his jaw. In the tenseness that fills every muscle of his body. Right then, in that moment, he would kill to protect me.
He reaches out and grabs my arm, and I’m so relieved he’s here I almost cry. He pulls me roughly to him, and hooks his arm around my shoulder, holding me close as he shoves us through the crowd toward the car.
He tosses the groceries onto the floorboard, then gets me settled in the passenger seat. As he straps me in I see something break inside him. “Baby,” he says, and though the word is barely loud enough for my ears, I hear the apology and the bone-deep regret.
“Please,” I whisper. “Let’s get out of here.”
He’s in the car and accelerating toward Ventura Boulevard before my mind even catches up. His right hand is on the stick, but once we’re on the freeway, he reaches for me. “I’m so sorry. The painting. The money. I never thought—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “Later. Right now, I want to pretend that it didn’t happen.”
The look he gives me is heartbreakingly sad. For a moment, we are silent. But the stillness is broken by Damien’s single hard smack of his hand against the steering wheel.
“Who did this?” he asks. “Who the fuck leaked this?”
I shake my head. It still feels like cotton. I realize from somewhere outside of myself that I am not coping well.
I slide my right hand down so that it is between my body and the door, and then I clench it tight into a fist, letting my manicured nails dig deep as I squeeze and squeeze.
