I have a feeling that it is the latter. I doubt that anyone has ever seen completely beneath Damien’s mask, and the thought that I am included in that group makes me sad. I want so desperately to shine a light into those dark places, and I even believe that Damien wants me to. But he’s spent so long building walls to protect his privacy that I think he forgot to build a door. And now all I can hope is that we can chip away at the stone together.
We’ve been following Monica across the room, weaving between the tables to reach a bright green panel of light. She grabs a handle that I hadn’t noticed and uses it to slide the panel to one side, much like the walls in Japanese movies. Inside, there is a table between two booth-style benches. But it’s not a true booth, because if you slide through or walk behind the bench seats, there is an open area between the table and a window that looks out onto the spectacular, brightly lit Santa Monica Pier.
I follow Damien to the glass, drawn by the allure of both the man and the vibrant colors.
“Your wine is already breathing,” Monica says, gesturing to the table, “and you have both flat and sparkling water. Will you be having your usual, Mr. Stark?”
“Just dessert,” he says. “For two.”
She inclines her head. “It will be right out. In the meantime, please enjoy the wine and the view.”
She leaves, the panel closes, and Damien stands completely still beside me. And then, without any warning at all, he lashes out and slams his palm against the glass.
“Damien!” I expect to hear a commotion from the booth beside us, or at least the clatter of Monica’s heels as she comes to check on us. There is nothing, though. Apparently we’re better insulated than I would have guessed.
“Do you know how much I’m worth?” Damien asks, and I blink at the seemingly random question.
“I—no. Not exactly.”
“It’s more than the GNP of many countries, and it’s damn sure enough to keep me as comfortable as I want to be for the rest of my life and then some.” He turns to face me. “But it’s not enough to keep those bastards away from you.”
My heart melts. “Damien. It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“You’re on the goddamn Internet in a bathing suit because of me.”
“I’m on the Internet in a bathing suit because my mother forced me into pageants from the time I was four. And because I didn’t have the balls to say no to her when I got older. I’m on the Internet because of those jerks out there. I’m not on the Internet because of you.”
“I don’t like that something that comes from me hurts you. I don’t like it,” he repeats. “But I don’t know that I have the strength to change it.”
“The strength?” I repeat, but he doesn’t answer.
I see the shadows cross his face before he turns back to the window. Damien Stark, the strongest man I know, is twisted into knots, and suddenly I am scared. “Damien?”
His palm against the window clenches, and I can see his muscles tighten. “I owned a small, gourmet wine and cheese company once,” he says. “Or rather Stark International did.”
My mind spins at the shift in conversation. I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I trust he has a point. I ease behind him and press against his back. I put my arms around his waist and brush my lips against the nape of his neck.
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“It was an old company, family run, good reputation. I loved their products and thought it could be a profitable partnership. And it was—for about a year.”
“What happened?”
“The press learned that Stark International was behind this mom-and-pop business and started lambasting them. Didn’t matter that we weren’t mass-producing the food. We hadn’t changed the system. We had simply provided enough capital to let the company grow within its own parameters. But they were called out as Big Business disguised as the Little Guy, a trick designed to fool consumers. All the negative attention stopped growth cold. Suddenly a company that was solidly in the black was in the red.”
“What did you do?” I hold my breath, because I am certain I know where he’s going, and I don’t like it.