I nod, but I don’t expect much. Honestly, I’m not sure I care. I’m certain it wasn’t Jamie or Ollie, and they are the only two who could truly injure me by being duplicitous. Other than that, it’s the information alone that hurts, and no matter who revealed it, there’s no putting that genie back in the bottle. Not now, not ever.
“I want to go out,” I say to Damien, who stares at me for a second, obviously trying to digest my sudden change in topic.
“Any place in particular?”
“I was thinking about the MoCa,” I say. “I figure there aren’t many reporters lying in wait there.”
“All right,” he says. “Let’s go.”
“But then I changed my mind,” I continue. “I want to go shopping. Let’s go look for things for the house. There are all sorts of cute stores on Melrose. Or anywhere in West Hollywood. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“I always have fun when I’m with you,” he says. “But that area is crowded, and it only takes one person who gets off on tabloid news calling TMZ or some other rag before we’ll be surrounded by the vultures.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t care. I want back in the world. It’s not like they can’t get me in here, too. Didn’t one of them just send me a letter?”
He winces, but nods. “All right, then,” he says. “I guess we have a date.”
We’re not looking for anything in particular other than each other’s company, and that makes wandering the stores pleasant, especially since no one seems to be paying any attention to us.
A new store has opened on Fairfax selling high-end antiques, and a massive bed with a head and footboard that is intricately carved from oak immediately catches my eye.
“A bed, Ms. Fairchild?” Damien asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s worth considering. After all, the house is currently without a bed.” I lie down on it, then roll onto my side and pat the mattress, making a point to smile suggestively. “Shall we test it out?”
His lips twitch. “Careful. You’re subject to my rules, remember? Who knows what I might make you do?”
“Good point,” I say, moving to sit up. I reach out and hook a finger through the belt loop of his jeans, then tug him toward me. He stumbles and falls forward, knocking me back a bit before he blocks his fall with a hand on the mattress.
“Well, hello,” he says, then kisses me. “I swear I didn’t orchestrate that.”
I laugh, and am about to steal a kiss of my own, when I notice that the girl at the counter is staring at us. It’s possible she’s simply amused or annoyed by the customers who are playing on the furniture. But I don’t think so.
I stand up abruptly, pushing past Damien. “Let’s go,” I say, my cheeks burning. “This bed isn’t nearly as cool as our old one, anyway.”
The clerk says nothing as we’re leaving, and I think I must have been imagining things. I’m proved wrong fifteen minutes later when we exit the next store.
We’d been shopping in ignorant bliss, looking at decorative candles and pretty vases made of ornamental glass. But the moment we step out onto the sidewalk, we’re accosted by cameras and microphones and a screaming mass of reporters that I can only assume must have popped up en masse out of the sewers.
Damien is already holding my hand. Now he squeezes tighter, and I squeeze back, letting the pressure of his hand around mine focus me.
“Nikki! Is it true that you were fired from Innovative for violating a morals clause?”
“The tennis center dedication begins in four hours, Mr. Stark. Can you elaborate on your previous statement regarding Merle Richter?”
“Damien! Have you been informed about the content of Mr. Schmidt’s affidavit? Is it true that he was paid to keep quiet?”
I don’t know who Mr. Schmidt is, but I make it a point not to glance at Damien. There’s no way that I’m letting these bastards catch my ignorance on film.
“What are you going to do with your million dollars, Nikki?”
I almost answer that one. Surely, if I explain that the money is going to fund a business, they’ll find me less interesting.
A thin-lipped reporter in a neatly pressed suit steps forward and shoves a microphone in my face. “Can you comment on the rumors that you’ve slept with men in the past for money? Is Mr. Stark your most lucrative client?”
The words strike me like a blow, and I stumble backward, suddenly nauseous. Worse, I’m caught off guard, and my facade has dropped. Tomorrow, all the tabloids will have a shot of my horrified expression. And I know damn well that the captions will suggest that I’m horrified that my secret has been revealed—not that the story is bullshit.
I don’t even realize that Damien has released my hand until I hear the sharp crack of his fist intersecting with the reporter’s jaw.
“Damien! No!”
He turns to me, and I see the fire in his eyes. And I know that right then, his violent, fiery temper is one hundred percent aimed at vindicating me.