Then, with my heart beating wildly in my chest, I turn and walk away.
It takes remarkable strength not to turn and look behind me, but I manage the task. I head back into the kitchen, then follow the short hallway that leads to the service elevator. I get in and descend one level to the second-floor library. That floor isn’t available to the party guests. It is Damien’s private space, and though I am feeling decidedly on edge, I know that I belong there, too, and I smile as I step off the elevator and into the small alcove that houses a computer workstation. This area cannot be seen by anyone climbing the stairs, but neither can I see those magical, sparkling lights. And magical and sparkling is exactly what I need right now.
I move out of the alcove, passing the dimly lit shelving until I come to the open mezzanine. The lights twinkling on the railing are no less impressive from this angle, and I take my camera off my shoulder and focus in close, so that nothing but dots of diffused light fill my sight, each pinpoint radiating out into vibrant prisms of color.
I snap, then snap again, and soon I’m lost in the world that I’m capturing on camera. The perfection of the angles of this house I love. The tattered cover of a Philip K. Dick novel that Damien has left on a side table. Even the cocktail party guests, or what little I can see of them, as they seem to float above me. From here, I cannot make out voices. And I can see only the head and shoulders of the few who venture close to the landing.
Nor can I see my portrait, and right then, I am glad. I am so happy to know that Damien didn’t breach my confidence, but I still feel exposed and raw.
I know that Damien is behind me even before he speaks. Perhaps I subconsciously heard his footsteps. Or maybe I caught the scent of his cologne.
More likely we are simply so attuned to each other that it is impossible to be in close proximity without my body crying out for the touch of his hand.
“I hope this means you aren’t still mad at me,” he says.
I am standing at the railing, my back to him, and I feel the whisper of a smile touch my lips. “Should I be?”
I hear the rustle of his clothes as he moves closer to me. He is right there, right behind me, and I can feel the air thickening between us. “I’m truly sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean for Giselle to know. And I certainly never expected her to tell Bruce.”
I close my eyes, thinking of Blaine and the secret Damien kept. “You are an exceptionally good man, Damien Stark,” I say.
For a moment, he is perfectly still behind me. “No, I’m not. But every once in a while I do a good thing.” He slides his hand gently over my bare shoulder and I draw in a trembling breath. “Evelyn told you?”
“Yes.” I hear the need in my voice. I am certain that he hears it, too.
His hands close around my waist and he pulls me close, then presses his lips into my hair. “I wish she hadn’t done that. I didn’t want you to be upset with Blaine.”
“I’m not. I might have been if I’d learned first that it was him, but you deflected that.” I turn in his arms, then tilt my head to look at him. “Like I said, you’re a good man.”
“I’m still sorry. And even sorrier that Giselle came early. She wasn’t invited, and I know it embarrassed you.”
“I’ll survive,” I say, and then, because I think Evelyn might be right about Giselle’s motivations, I add, “Why didn’t you tell me that you and Giselle dated?”
He looks truly baffled by the question. “You never asked.”
“You knew I wondered,” I say. “That night. Our first night.”
He thinks for a moment, and then his mouth quirks up as if my question is amusing him.
“Dammit, Damien,” I say, smacking him lightly on the arm.
“Giselle and I went out a few times, but it was long before she and Bruce got married. And if I recall correctly, at the time Giselle came up, I was in the process of seducing you. I didn’t think that outlining my dating history would be conducive to the tone I was trying to set.”
I have to smile. The memory of that ride in Damien’s limo is beyond delicious.
“After that,” Damien adds, “the topic never came up again. And there’s no reason it should. There is only one woman I’m interested in,” he says, with such fervency that my legs go weak.
He tilts my chin up. “Better?”
“Yes.” My scowl is more for myself than for him. “I don’t like feeling like a jealous harpy,” I confess. “But suddenly I’m being bombarded by Giselle. The painting, the trip back from Palm Springs, what Tanner said, and then finding out that you two actually used to date.”
“I have no idea what Tanner said or what Palm Springs has to do with anything, but I can assure you that as far as the painting is concerned, Giselle has promised me again that she won’t tell anyone that you’re the model. She can be flighty, but she won’t break her word.”
“You talked to her tonight?”