I grimace. “They make me want to pull out my Leica and snap pictures of them. Then we’d see how they like it.” I frown. “On the other hand, I love that camera.” I think back to the day that Damien surprised me with it after I’d told him how I dabble in photography. “I don’t want to soil it by taking pictures of them.” I say the last word as if there’s a nasty taste in my mouth.
“Besides,” Damien says, “no tabloid will pay for a picture of one of them. They want you. And because of that—because of me—you’ve lost a level of privacy.”
I shift in my seat to look more directly at him. Is this the source of his concern? Was that what the telephone call was about? His lawyers warning him about some new picture of us that will appear on the cover of a half dozen magazines next week? Mentally, I flip back through the last week, trying to think what image could be so mortifying that it would cause Damien so much consternation.
Already, the tabloids have gotten hold of a half dozen shots of me in a bathing suit, courtesy of the various pageants I’ve entered over the years. Seeing myself displayed at the grocery store checkout line had been a less-than-fun experience, but I’d taken about a million deep breaths and reminded myself that those pageants had been open to the public and at least two of them had even been televised.
I can’t think of anything else disturbing that could be printed about me or about the two of us together. Certainly there’s nothing that Damien and I have done in public that I’d be embarrassed for my mother to see. And as for in private—well, if the paparazzi have pictures of us in private, they would have to be very brave indeed to face Damien’s wrath and publish them.
But there is the balcony of the Malibu house.
Every day I’ve stood naked and bound in front of that open door, and although Damien owns acres and acres, and the distant beach is a private one, surely a resourceful photographer could—
I can’t even finish the thought. A wave of fear crashes over me, so palpable that I suddenly feel nauseated. And despite the cold that seems to settle over me, I realize that my armpits are damp with perspiration. “They don’t have anything new, do they?” I say, trying hard to make my voice sound normal. I can handle the attention that goes with being Damien’s girlfriend. But nude images of me splashed across papers and the Internet? Oh, dear God …
“It’s not like they’ve stepped it up a notch, right? I mean, it’s not like someone’s been aiming a long lens at the balcony. Have they?”
“Good God, no.” His response is so fast and full of such astonishment that I know my guess completely missed the mark.
I relax, the feeling returning to my body. “Good,” I say. “I thought—” I break off, because I need to take another deep breath. I realize my fingernails are digging into the flesh above my knees, and I release my grip and force myself to relax. I don’t need the pain to get through this; there’s nothing to get through except fear. And besides, I have Damien to hang on to.
“Nikki?”
When I speak, my voice actually sounds normal. “I just thought that since you brought up the paparazzi, that maybe that was what the call was about.”
“Call?”
“Earlier,” I say. “At the house. You looked so upset.”
His eyes widen with what I recognize as genuine surprise. “Did I?”
I lift a shoulder in concession. “I doubt Blaine noticed. But I know you.”
“Yes,” he says. “Apparently you do. But no, that call had nothing to do with those vultures.”
I can almost see a red haze of anger surrounding Damien, but I don’t know if he’s angry at the original caller or with me.
I clear my throat and continue the conversation as if I’d never even mentioned it. “Besides,” I say, “the paparazzi are not one of your acquisitions. More like an infestation. I don’t like them, but I’m learning to live with them.”