“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s an illusion. It’s you, Nikki. You have captured me utterly, and you hold my heart in your hands. Be gentle with it. It’s more fragile than you might think.”
I swallow, then blink, moved by his words. Gently, I run my fingertip over his jawline, enjoying the feel of his beard stubble against my skin. I lean over, my body pressed to his, and draw his mouth into a slow, deep kiss.
“What do you want?” I ask once I’ve broken the kiss. “Right now, if you could have me any way you wanted, what would you have me do?”
“Right now, I want you beside me,” he says. “I want to hold you.”
His words undo me, and my throat feels thick with tears. I am weepy and emotional and don’t think I’ve ever been happier. Gently, I ease off him and curl up next to him. My back is to his chest, and I am looking out at the world beyond the window as he casually strokes my arm. We have lain this way before, and it feels warm and familiar. It feels like us.
“I’m going to miss this bed,” I admit.
“I suppose I could keep it here. But it doesn’t really fit the decor.”
“Well, if you’re trying to be all traditional …”
I trail off and he laughs, then pulls me tighter against him. It’s so comfortable between us, and I cherish the way that I feel with Damien. I roll over, wanting to see his face, and I’m immediately glad I do. He presses a kiss to my forehead and we curl up on the bed facing each other. His hand is on the curve of my waist, and I trail my fingers lazily up and down his chest. He has only the slightest smattering of chest hair, and it feels downy beneath my fingers. I amuse myself by making patterns on his chest, and when I look up at him, the corner of his mouth is twitching.
“What?” I ask.
“Having fun, Ms. Fairchild?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I’m glad. Earlier—the way those bastards upset you. I didn’t like it.”
“Me, neither,” I say, in what is undoubtedly the understatement of the year. “But I’m okay now. And you seem pretty okay yourself.”
“I would have happily ripped their heads off at the restaurant,” he admits.
“I could tell,” I say. “But I didn’t just mean the paparazzi.”
“Oh?” he eyes me warily.
I lift a shoulder. “I’m still wondering about that call,” I admit. “Is something going on?” I blurt, because I’ve been holding it in all evening and can’t take it anymore. “Has Carl done something?”
Damien doesn’t answer, and I glare at him, irritated. “Come on, Damien. All that stuff that Carl said—we both know it isn’t going to just go away.”
“I hope it does just go away,” Damien says. “Though I tend to agree.”
“Damien!” I sound as exasperated as I feel. “Just tell me straight out. Has something happened that you haven’t told me about? Is that what the phone call was about?”
“No.” He brushes the tip of his finger over my nose. “I promise.”
I frown as I eye him.
He shifts so that I can see him better, then draws an X over his heart.
I raise a brow, and he lifts three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.
I hold back a laugh, and he holds up his pinkie finger. “Shall we pinkie swear?”
That does it—I laugh and hook pinkies with him.
“I swear to you,” he says, lifting our joined hands and kissing the tip of my little finger, “that call had nothing to do with Carl Rosenfeld.”
I nod. I believe him, but I’m still worried.
Because whoever was on that telephone call had the ability to crack Damien Stark’s cool veneer. And anyone who can do that is no one to trifle with.
5