“My name is Nikki Fairchild, and I recently accepted one million dollars as a modeling fee for a nude Blaine original. The completed portrait now hangs in Mr. Damien Stark’s Malibu home, and it is an exceptional piece of art. It is both tasteful and erotic. And it does not show my face.”
I pause to collect my thoughts. The reporter nods encouragement, and I smile. We’ve only spoken a few words, but I like her.
“I agreed to the painting, and to the million, because I needed the money. It has not been spent, nor will it be until I am ready. But I also insisted that the arrangement be confidential and that no one except Mr. Stark and the artist know that it was me in the portrait. Somehow, though, my identity has been revealed, and Mr. Stark and I have been harassed nonstop by reporters and photographers who apparently have nothing better to do with their time. And the truth is, now I have regrets.”
I wonder, as I say that, if Damien will see this tape.
I soldier on. “Not about the painting. Not about the money. No, my regret is that I asked Blaine and Mr. Stark to keep my identity confidential in the first place. I will admit that there was a time when I was ashamed of my body, but that time has passed. I think the portrait is outstanding. And I think the modeling fee was fair. Then again, what is a fair price to paint a woman’s body? If Mr. Stark had paid me ten dollars, would the press now be calling me a cheap harlot?”
I glance at Evelyn, who is grinning. “To be honest, I think Mr. Stark got off easy. If he wants a second nude portrait, he’ll have to pay me two million dollars. At least.”
Near me, the reporter nods encouragingly. “As of this morning, the gossip about me has shifted. Apparently now I’m a woman who would sleep with a murderer to get ahead. Let’s think about that. Do I sleep with Damien Stark? I do, and gladly, but not to get ahead. Instead, I am honored and humbled that he wants me in his life and in his bed.”
I realize suddenly that I am not nervous at all. I feel strong. This—these words—feel right. “As for the allegation that Damien Stark is a murderer, I can only say that I do not believe it. The evidence will acquit him. But if by some horrific fault in the universe he is convicted, then that will change nothing. I will not and would not leave his side.”
I draw a breath and move on to my wrap-up. “I do not intend to make any more statements to the press, so I will add one final thing for the record. I am in love with Damien Stark, and I am leaving for Germany in an hour to support him through his trial. He is an innocent man, and he has been wrongly accused. Thank you.”
I stand in front of the presidential suite at the scarily luxurious Kempinski hotel in Munich and draw in a breath. I owe a huge debt to Sylvia, who could lose her job if Damien decides to be angry that his assistant told me where he was staying.
I’m not sure how he’s going to react to seeing me here, and I have no way of knowing if he saw my interview. And even if he did, I have no way of knowing if it moved him.
As for that interview, when I was in the taxi from the airport to my hotel, I read through Jamie’s half-dozen emails describing how the press was going wild. Apparently I am no longer a harlot and Damien is no longer a murderer. Now we are star-crossed lovers.
The press is nothing if not fickle. This time, at least, we’re on the warm, fuzzy side of the press.
More important, phase one of my plan worked. And knowing that gives me courage. Surely the next part will work, too. Because I really don’t want to have to call Sylvia and ask her to book me into the Munich equivalent of a Motel 6.
Enough stalling.
I draw a deep breath, knock firmly on the door, and wait.
A moment later, I hear Damien’s voice. “One minute!” And then I hear the lock turning and I’m holding my breath as the door is pulled inward.
And there he is. He’s wearing black trousers and his shirt hangs open. He looks both dashing and distracted. He’s got his arm up as he attempts to fasten the cuff, and when he sees me, he freezes.
“Nikki.”
“Do you want me to get that for you?” I ask.
Wordlessly, he holds out his arm. I button the cuff from my position in the hallway, then step inside and do the other one. Then, without speaking, I start to work on the line of buttons on the shirt.
His body is tense and wary, and I can’t tell if he’s happy to see me, angry, or uncertain that I am real.
“I saw your press conference,” he finally says.
“Oh?” I try to sound light and encouraging, but inside my heart is breaking. If he saw it and wanted me here, wouldn’t he have pulled me into his arms?
“I didn’t expect you here so quickly.”
“When you know you want to be with someone you love, you want to get there as fast as you can.” My smile wavers, and I’m suddenly afraid I’m going to cry. I hadn’t even let myself admit until now how much I wanted to hear those three little words from him. But I did—I do. And not only is he not saying them back, but he’s probably going to send me away, too.