“How do you expect me to sleep without you beside me?”
I’ve moved forward again, and the robe floats around me. Damien eases closer, cutting through the water, then tugs on the sash at my waist. The robe drifts open, exposing my body. He slips his hands up to my shoulders and slides it off. The damp material sticks to my arms, but I move forward, leaving the robe behind me, until I am no longer wrapped in silk, but wrapped in Damien’s arms.
“I think I ruined the robe,” I say. “I didn’t actually mean to wear it into the pool. I was watching you and got carried away.”
“I know the feeling.” His hand gently strokes my face while his other arm holds me firmly around the waist, as if afraid I’ll float away like the robe.
“Do you mind that I’m here?”
His mouth curves into an ironic smile and he pulls me closer. I feel his erection press against my thighs. “What do you think?”
I swallow and shake my head. But it’s not sex that I’ve come here for, though with Damien standing naked and erect next to me I am having a hard time recalling what my purpose actually was.
But, no, I do remember. I tilt my head up so that I can look directly in his eyes. “I was worried,” I admit.
“About the phone call? I told you it wasn’t about Carl’s threats.”
I nod, then take a deep breath. “Was it about the tennis center?”
He looks at me sharply. “You know about that?”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
He hesitates, then gives one curt nod. “Yes.”
I bite my lip, because though I believe him, I’m certain that’s not the full story.
“How did you learn about it?”
“I saw the paper. You left it by the boxing bag.”
The corner of his mouth tugs upward. “Perhaps my subconscious wanted you to find it.”
“Well,” I say with a laugh. “That’s a start.”
As I had hoped, he laughs as well. Then his shoulders relax and he pulls me closer, his arms closing around me in a tight hug. I sigh and put my arms around his neck, then bury my head against his chest.
“I’m not a fan of Richter,” he says. “The idea that a professional tennis facility will bear his name pisses me off.”
“Can’t you do something?”
“I could buy the goddamned center,” he says. “But I won’t.”
I want to look at his face, but I don’t move. I’ve told him that I suspect abuse, but he’s never told me if I’m right or not. I stay very still, wondering if now is the time when Damien Stark will reveal his secrets to me.
“The call that upset me,” he begins. “It was from my father.”
“Oh.” I’m surprised enough that I do move, leaning back so that my weight is supported by his arms as I look into his face. It’s hard, and there’s something dark in his eyes. I’d been right about his earlier hesitation, and this is the reason why. The topic of Damien’s father is never an easy one.
I know they aren’t close. I know that Damien’s father pushed him to compete the same way my mother pushed me into pageant after pageant.
I know all that, because Damien has told me. But what I suspect is truly vile; I believe that Richter was abusing Damien, and that Damien’s father knew. But he forced Damien to stay with the son of a bitch anyway.
I swallow, and then speak the words that I know I shouldn’t: “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” The word is simple and final.
“Right. Okay.” I try to keep my voice casual, but I know I’ve failed when he presses his forehead against mine, his hands firm on my shoulders.
“I know it bothers you,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”
I start to protest. Every Proper Nikki attribute that was pounded into my head by my mother is ready to burst out and reassure him that no, really, it’s fine that he’s keeping secrets, fine that he doesn’t want to talk to me. Fine that though I now turn to him for comfort, he leaves our bed in the middle of the night to find solace in solitude.
Proper Nikki wants to say all of that, but I mentally shove my heel hard into the blond twit’s ass.
I take a deep breath, and this time it’s not Proper Nikki or Rebel Nikki or Social Nikki. It’s just me, wishing that I had some magic formula to make everything better for Damien, whether he tells me the truth or not. “It does bother me,” I admit. “But only because I don’t like to see you wounded.”
“And here I thought I hid my scars so well.” He is only half-teasing.
“You do,” I say. “But you’re talking to an expert at hiding scars. I see them even if no one else does. And I know how much it helped me to talk to you. To know that I could borrow your strength if my own wasn’t enough.”