I blink, because I am not going to cry. Instead, I concentrate on the fury that is cutting through me like a knife, giving me both strength and a weapon. Because so help me, I want to wound Damien as he’s wounded me. This cut is deep, all the more so because he is the one person I trusted most to never hurt me.
He reaches for me, his face now as gentle as I’ve ever seen it. “Nikki, please.”
“No.” I hold up my hand and shake my head as I choke back a little sob. “And for the record,” I say, coolly meeting his eyes, “of course I wore panties. Game’s over, remember? The rules no longer apply.”
I see the hurt in his eyes, and feel it cut sharply through me. For a moment, I regret the lie. I’m overcome by a desperate longing to lose myself in his arms. To hold him and comfort him, and to let him comfort me.
But I don’t. I can’t. I need to be alone, and so I let my sharp words hang in the air as I lift my head and walk steadfastly away.
But my exit doesn’t give me any satisfaction. Our game may be over, but I don’t want the relationship with Damien to end.
I think about the bed and my fear that it was a portent. About Giselle and Bruce and the trust that has cracked like a mirror. I think about the secrets that I know Damien keeps from me, and about the depths of this man who is still so much a mystery to me.
All of that haunts me. And, yes, I’m afraid.
Not of the ghosts of his past, but of the possibility that we will have no future.
13
“Nikki!”
I’m trying to escape down to the second-floor library, and Bruce is the last person that I want to see right now. Well, almost the last. At the moment, I don’t particularly want to see Damien.
I can’t, however, continue toward the service elevator without appearing incredibly rude. So I pause and wait for him to catch up with me. I try to plaster on my Social Nikki mask, but honestly, I just don’t have the energy. And I’m sure that the smile with which I greet my boss is thin at best.
“I wanted to thank you for doing such a great job at Suncoast yesterday,” he says.
“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting business chitchat. “Thank you. I was pleased you gave me such a challenging assignment on my first day.” Over his shoulder, I see myself looking down upon us. I wonder if, having seen me nude before the world, Bruce’s assessment of my professionalism has been knocked down a notch. Or twelve.
“Challenging because of the work, or because of your partner?”
“A little of both,” I admit.
“I promised you that we’d talk,” he says. “Is now a good time?”
It’s not, of course. But I’m curious. And so far, I’m only getting a business vibe. Maybe Damien only told Giselle that I’m the girl in the portrait, and Bruce has no idea. After all, it’s not like there’s a neon arrow over my head saying, She’s the One.
“Sure,” I say, relaxing a little. “Now’s great.” There is a seating area surrounding the fireplace, and he leads me in that direction. As we walk, Damien catches my eye. He has moved to the balcony, where he now stands between Evelyn and Giselle.
I look away, then smile at Bruce as I sit. “So why is Tanner the wolf?”
Bruce draws a deep breath. “Listen, before we get into all of that, I think I owe you an apology.”
Now I’m confused. “Because of Tanner? It wasn’t that bad,” I lie.
“No. Because of tonight. Giselle told me that it’s you in the painting.”
I nod, too dumbstruck to speak. So much for my shiny new theory that Bruce was clueless.
“To be honest, I didn’t think anything of it. But once we arrived, I realized that you didn’t know that I knew.”
“It’s fine,” I say, though it is a very long way from fine.
“No. It’s not. Giselle had no business telling me. I don’t think she meant anything by it, but sometimes she just doesn’t think.”
He looks at me, but I say nothing. It’s still not fine, and I am not capable of repeating the lie again.
“I wanted to talk to you now, though, because I don’t want you to think that this affects our working relationship.”
“Of course not. Why would it?”
He must know that I’m bullshitting, because he doesn’t even bother to answer me. Instead, he seems to change subjects altogether. “Did Damien tell you about my sister?”
“Um, no.”
“As brilliant a woman as you will ever meet. She does mathematical equations in her head that I can barely do with a calculator. She teaches at MIT now.”
I cock my head. “Jessica Tolley-Brown?”
“You know her?”
“Of her,” I say, not bothering to hide my excitement. “I almost entered a PhD program at MIT just so I could study under her. But what does she—”
“Do you know how she put herself through school?”
“No. Scholarships, I assume.”
“Mostly,” he says. “But my sister has expensive taste, and she supplemented her income with modeling.”
“Oh,” I say. I have a feeling I know where this is going.