“We’re leaving,” he says, and I can only nod mutely.
“Where are we going?” I ask, as we take the elevator down. There are two other couples in the car with us, and only the tips of our fingers are touching. It is so intimate, though, that I feel like I’m naked before them.
“The apartment,” he says curtly.
Thank God. If he wanted to go all the way back to the Malibu house I was going to lose my mind. Even so, I’m not sure I can make it the few short blocks.
But then the elevator doors glide open and as soon as our companions step off in front of us, we are accosted by the flash of cameras, the press of microphones, and the overlapping queries of a dozen demanding voices.
Now I clutch Damien’s hand and move closer to his side.
“Mr. Stark!”
“Damien!”
“Nikki, over here!”
“What can you say about your refusal to speak at the dedication of the Richter Tennis Center?”
“Can you explain your decision, Mr. Stark?”
I hold tight to Damien and keep my head down as we press forward toward the street. I assume at first that these are simply the same reporters and paparazzi that had been hovering about when we’d arrived. But then I see that in addition to the TMZ and E! reporters, there are vans from CNN and even the Wall Street Journal.
Apparently someone noticed Damien’s arrival, and the word spread like wildfire.
I squeeze Damien’s hand tighter, hoping he has a car nearby. It may only be a block to the apartment, but I do not want to walk it with these vultures following in our wake.
“What about the rumors out of Germany, Mr. Stark?” a voice calls, and Damien’s hand tightens around mine as he leads us firmly and silently toward the valet stand.
“Nikki, is Damien Stark off the bachelor block?”
“Damien! How will the talk of a possible German indictment affect your holdings in the European Union?”
My mind is spinning. An indictment? I force myself not to look at Damien, and instead look forward, my face a mask of disinterest. There is no way—no way in hell—that I am letting these vultures see that I haven’t a clue what they’re talking about. Is Stark International in some kind of legal snafu? Is that what he meant by the tapestry unwinding?
“Nikki! Mr. Stark! Germany! Indictment!” The voices blend together into a hideous cacophony. “Richter! Dedication! Damien! Damien! Damien!”
Damien must have summoned Edward without me realizing because the limo pulls to a smooth stop in front of the valet stand, and Edward gets out.
“No,” Damien says. “I’ve got it.” As Edward gets back in behind the wheel, Damien tugs me forward, then opens the rear passenger door, his body shielding me from the blinding storm of lights and questions.
I’m just about to slide into the car when Damien pulls his hand from mine, then turns and faces the crowd. A hush falls. Considering Damien’s staunch policy of not talking to the press, I think the paparazzi are at least as shocked as I am.
“I will not be attending the dedication ceremony for the Richter Tennis Center,” Damien says, in the firm clear voice he uses during business meetings. “While I fully support the construction and operation of such a center, I cannot in good conscience support its dedication honoring a man I don’t respect. As for your other questions, neither Ms. Fairchild nor I have any comment.”
Immediately, the air fills with mingled voices, each louder than the next, none discernible. They are shouting follow-up questions, shouting for Damien to turn for a picture, shouting for me to step away from the open limo door. Damien ignores them, turning to face me. I realize that I am still standing frozen, slightly bent midway in the motion of entering the limo.
And then, another voice rises above the noise, this time from the far side of the street.