Damien’s brows lift. “Do you?”
“Evelyn’s pretty excited about cutting the balls off this asshole.”
“I’ll bet she is,” he says, but his lips twitch, and I’m grateful he’s amused and not pissed.
“We have an attorney, too. He’s going to come with contracts that Bertrand supposedly has to review. Everyone goes through his suite, making arrangements and kissing his ass. And everyone we use is someone with serious clout in the industry.”
“Let me guess,” Damien says. “Evelyn’s pulling Charles in. And Wyatt’s in on the game, too.”
“That’s why you make the big bucks. You’re so damn smart.”
He lifts a finger and points it at me, and I know damn well what it means—just wait until we’re alone.
I glance down at the floor to hide my grin. “Anyway,” I conclude, “once Bertrand realizes it’s all gone south, he’ll also know that some heavy-duty names know who he is and what he’s done. That’s when you and Ryan do your thing. Lay out the ground rules and tell him that he either turns over the photos and leaves Carmela alone or the weight of all these people in your orbit will bear down on him.”
“No police?” Ryan asks, presumably so that Damien knows we’ve thought this through.
“Too risky,” I say. “The photos might get released to the press during the investigation.”
“Agreed.” He takes a seat opposite Damien. “I gotta say, I’m impressed. Maybe I should offer Nikki and Carmela a spot on my security team.”
“Mmm,” Damien says, in a way that makes me think that he may have already seen through all my maneuvering. I hope not. I want this party to be special. I want it to be a true surprise.
After a moment, he stands and goes to the window where Ryan had been only moments before. He looks out, then nods. “All right,” he says, turning back to face the room. “We’ll go with your plan. Evelyn is going to make the call to him, I assume?”
I nod. “She’ll get him to Santa Barbara Friday morning, ostensibly for a sunset shoot. Friday’s the earliest everyone can come together, and if we wait, we may run into more scheduling fiascos.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry about Vancouver. We’ll have to cancel.”
He looks at Ryan and then at Carmela. “Not a problem. Anything for my friends. I’m pretty sure Vancouver’s not going anywhere.”
“Damie, my pet, you are a prince.” Carmela rises and glides across the room to him, then presses soft kisses to both corners of his mouth.
She pauses in front of me. “Nikki, darling, it is not personal,” she purrs as I fight a laugh. “I am Italian, you know.”
She heads toward the door with Ryan, and Damien and I follow. He closes the door behind them, then turns to me, his mouth opening to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance. I’m right there, my mouth hard against his. His lips part, possibly in surprise, and I take full advantage, tasting and teasing and feeling the depth of the kiss right down to my toes.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he says when I finally pull away, breathing hard. “I hope that was a reflection of your deep and constant lust for me, and not an indication that you have any lingering jealousy whatsoever about Carmela.”
“Not jealous,” I say, rising up on my tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “I’m just glad that we’re helping them. And,” I add with a tiny little smile, “I want to make sure that when you walk out that door, it’s me who’s on your mind.”
“Sweetheart, you’re always on my mind.”
Chapter Eight
I watch—a little nervous, a little excited—as Damien flips through the pages of my proposal, a red pen in his hand. It’s eighty-three pages with the appendix, and Damien is going through it as slowly as a college professor reviewing a student’s dissertation proposal.
I’m grateful for the attention to detail, but I’m also nervous as hell. Because I’ve poured my heart, my talent, and my experience into those pages, and what if Damien tells me it sucks?
Granted, he’ll say it more politely, but in the end, crap is crap.
And—for better or for worse—Damien loves and respect me enough to tell me the truth.
Which explains why I’m fidgeting.
Which explains why Damien shoots me a look that very clearly says I should calm down.
And which also explains why I end up in the kitchen pouring myself a glass of wine even though it’s barely past lunch.
I putter around the kitchen, contemplating my frozen Milky Way stash and trying to think about anything other than his red pen, for at least half an hour, during which time my wine magically disappears.
The apartment is an open plan, but kitchen is at an angle such that I can’t see the sofa that Damien is sitting on, so I have no idea how much he’s marked up those pages or if he’s anywhere close to the end.