Authors: J. Kenner
“You are in luck, my friend,” he says. “I know exactly where she is.”
I meet Damien’s eyes and see the flash of relief. “Where?”
“Shanghai.”
“Shanghai?” Incredulity laces his voice. “Why? When did you talk to her?”
Alaine’s brow furrows. “Three, no four, days ago. Do you remember David, that drummer she was intrigued with a few years back? Apparently his band is booked for a week in a club there. She said she might be in Chicago, too, if a job the band is hoping for comes through.”
Damien presses his fingertips to his temple. His expression is an odd mix of softness and concern. It’s a paternal expression, the kind I imagine I’d see if he was worried about our own kids one day.
Our kids?
I stiffen, but in surprise, not fear. The thought came unbidden, but it is not terrifying. On the contrary, it’s soothing, as if I’ve been given a sneak peek into the future, and it is a future with Damien and a family.
“She called you?” Damien asks Alaine. “I’ve been trying to reach her by cell, but it just rolls over to voice mail.”
“It was a video call,” he says. “I asked if she’d talked to you, but she didn’t want to bother you during the trial. I’m surprised she hasn’t called you now that it’s over, but knowing Sofia, she hasn’t seen the news.”
“Can you conference her in through the account she used?”
I see Alaine’s eyes shift up, as if he’s examining the various options on his computer monitor. “I think so. Hang on.” Alaine’s image stays on the screen, but a smaller box appears in the corner. It’s a snapshot of a girl with spiky black hair tipped with red. She has a multi-pierced ear filled with tiny silver rings. Her elven face is small and delicate and her skin is unnaturally pale. Her deep brown eyes are ringed with pitch-black kohl. The only color comes from her lips, which are wide and full and striking with bloodred lipstick. It’s hard to tell her age, but even though Damien said that Sofia is almost thirty, she looks barely twenty to me. Then again, I have no idea how old this image is.
“I think this will do it,” Alaine says, then almost immediately adds, “Well, damn the girl.”
It takes me a second to understand what has happened, but then I see that a red X has appeared as a watermark over the image. “What is that?” I ask.
“She’s closed her account,” Damien says. “You don’t have another contact number?”
“Other than her cell phone? No.” Alaine’s mouth is curved down into a frown. “I swear I don’t know what she’s thinking half the time. But she said she’d call after Shanghai and let me know where they’re going next.”
“Tell her to call me, too. For that matter, hook me into the call.”
“Will do. And, Damien, don’t worry. She will turn up. She always does. And we both know that she is a mercurial soul.”
“She’s a disturbed soul,” Damien says.
“Aren’t we all?” Alaine says, but there is a sparkle in his eyes, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t understand the fundamental truth of his words.
As soon as the screen goes blank, Damien calls Ms. Ives back in and gives her a list of instructions, including searching the file for David and then tracking his current band to Shanghai. She takes meticulous notes and promises to contact him the moment she has information. As soon as she’s left, Damien folds me into his arms.
“Are you okay?”
“Frustrated,” he says. “But I’m fine.”
I see the worry etched on his face, but when he looks at me and smiles, it all seems to fade.
“Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For everything.”
My answering smile is so broad it’s almost painful. “Anytime, Mr. Stark.”
“I think I’m done here for now,” he says. “You’ve never been to London, have you? Do you want to stay the night? We could go to Harrods. Catch a show in the West End. See a few sights.”
“No,” I say. “I just want to be with you. I just want to go home.”
“And that’s another reason that we are perfect together,” Damien says. “I want exactly the same thing.”
Chapter Ten
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Stark, Ms. Fairchild. Would you care for a glass of champagne?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say, taking the glass gratefully. Damien and I are seated side by side in the rich leather recliners. There’s a polished table in front of us and equally shiny wood trim throughout the interior of the very large cabin. The seats are so comfortable I’d happily have them at home. The flight attendant is tall and slim, with a mass of curls piled on her head in a way that manages to look both cute and professional.
I sip the champagne, sigh, and have to admit that there’s something to be said for the billionaire lifestyle.
“What happened to the other plane?” I ask Damien. We’d flown from Munich to London in a small jet, similar to the one he keeps hangared in Santa Monica. While comfortable, it pales in comparison to this one.
“This is the Lear Bombardier Global 8000,” he says. “We’re crossing the Atlantic, remember? Not to mention all of the United States. I thought traveling in a plane with sufficient fuel capacity made sense. Plus it’s easier to get work done with an actual office. And sleep in an actual bed,” he adds, trailing his finger lightly up my leg and giving me shivers.
“This thing has an office and a bed?”
“There’s a bed in the stateroom,” he says.
“Wow.” I want to get up and explore, but the attendant has already asked that we fasten our seat belts as the plane is now taxiing toward the runway.
Now, she’s standing next to the jump seat. She’s speaking into a headset, presumably communicating with the pilot. A moment later, she hangs up, then walks toward Damien and me. “Mr. Stark, you’ve had a telephone call from Mr. Maynard. He tried to reach your cell, but apparently the call didn’t connect. When he realized you were on board, he called the tower and asked that we get a message to you to call him at your earliest convenience.”
“Can we hold on the runway?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll call him now,” he says, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. I watch from beside him, frowning as he’s put through to Charles. I can’t imagine why Maynard would be calling—could the court have changed its mind? Is it even allowed to do that?
I study Damien’s face, but his expression gives me no clues. It’s gone completely blank and totally unreadable. A boardroom expression designed to give nothing away to competitors—or to me.
After a moment, Damien stands, and though I reach for his hand, he doesn’t reach back. Neither does he meet my eyes. He heads to the back of the plane and disappears into what I assume is the office.
I try to focus on my book, but it’s impossible, and after I’ve read the same page over at least three dozen times, Damien finally returns. He nods at the attendant, who radios the cockpit, and by the time Damien has fastened his seat belt again we are once again readying for takeoff.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing to worry about.” He stills wears that bland, corporate mask and I feel my heart constrict, as if a giant fist is squeezing it tight.
“But I am worrying. Charles wouldn’t radio the tower unless it was important.”
He smiles, but it seems forced, and I see no corresponding humor in his eyes. “You’re right. He wouldn’t.”
“Then what is it?”
“There’ve been some time-sensitive developments on a couple of matters that I’ve been chipping away at.” His voice is level, his words perfectly reasonable. I, however, don’t believe a word of it.
“Don’t shut me out again, Damien.”
“I’m not,” he says firmly. “Not everything is about us.”
I tense, the sting of his words as potent as a slap. “I see.” I finger the book in my lap. “Well, never mind.”
“Nikki . . . ” His voice is no longer cold.
I tilt my head to look at him, my own mask firmly in place. “It’s fine,” I say.
His eyes search mine, the near-black one seeming to see so deep into me that it is almost dizzying. I hold his gaze for as long as I can before I have to look away or else risk him seeing too clearly that I’m certain his words are all bullshit. What I don’t understand is why.
I turn my head, ostensibly to look out the window as the plane gathers speed, rushing forward to its inevitable climb. And as the wheels lift off, I can’t help but think that we have reached the point of no return, Damien and I. Like this plane, we will either continue to move forward, or we will crash.
There are no other options.
And as I glance sideways at Damien with his papers spread out and his face a mask of secrets and fears, I cannot help but be very, very afraid.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed in the stateroom, feeling hollow. I brought the empty champagne flute back with me, and now I hold it like a baton—one hand on the base, and one hand on the rim, the fragile stem stretched out between my hands.
It would be so simple, I think. Just a contraction of muscles. One quick movement and—
snap.
One second, maybe less, and I’d have the stem in my hand, its top raw, the edge of broken glass as sharp as a knife.
My skirt is hitched up so that I can sit like this, and beneath the material that is stretched taut across my legs, I can see the marred flesh of my inner thighs. I can imagine tracing the stem along the edge of the most jagged one. The pain as I press the glass into soft flesh. The release as I tug it down, my skin yielding and the horrible pressure in my chest finally lessening as the valve is open and all this shit that has been building can finally explode out of me.
I want it—oh, God, I want it.
No
.
I squeeze my eyes tight, desperate for Damien’s hand. But he is not here, and it is just me, and I am not certain that I can do this alone.
Slowly, I run the rounded rim of the flute against my thigh. Just one snap—just a little pressure—
No, no, goddammit, no.
I will
not
do this, and I lift the glass, prepared to hurl it away from me, but a firm tap on the door startles me and I jump guiltily. I don’t expect it to be Damien—he returned to the jet’s office as soon as we reached altitude two hours ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Instead, I assume it’s Katie, the flight attendant, who promised to wake me when dinner was served.
“I’m not hungry,” I call. “I’m going to sleep a little longer.”
But then the door bursts open and he’s right there.
Damien
.
And there I am holding the goddamn flute.
I shift my position so that I’m sitting with my legs out and my back against the polished wood siding. I casually put the flute on the nearby table, hoping that he doesn’t realize the dark direction in which my thoughts were traveling.
He stands there for so long, I fear he isn’t going to say a word. His face is firm, his eyes sad. “You should have called me out for bullshit,” he finally says, and I allow myself the tiniest bit of relief. He didn’t see the glass; he didn’t realize what I was thinking.
“Of course it’s about us,” he continues. “There’s nothing in my life that isn’t about us. How could there be when my world revolves around you?”
“Don’t,” I say, still unbalanced and edgy. “Don’t shift the focus by plying me with romantic platitudes.”
I see the spark of anger fire in his eyes as crosses the stateroom in three long strides, the door clicking shut behind him. “Platitudes?” he repeats, his tone hard. “Jesus, Nikki, are you telling me you don’t know what you mean to me?” He reaches out to touch me, but stops with his fingers only inches from my face. “Haven’t I told you every single day that we’ve been together?”
I can feel the heat rolling off him. A violent passion. A sensual need. I close my eyes and draw a shuddering breath as my blood pounds through me in response. Oh, yes. I know how he feels about me; I feel the same way. Alive in his arms. Lost out of them. He is everything to me.
And that is why I am willing to fight so hard.
Slowly, I open my eyes and tilt my head to look at him. “I know,” I say. “But that doesn’t make it relevant. Maynard didn’t call about stock prices or your corporate logo or what they serve in the goddamn lunchroom at Stark Tower.”
He’s staring at me as if I’ve gone mad, and maybe I have a little. But dammit, I want him to understand.
“We’re not attached at the hip, Damien. Everything’s
not
about us. And that’s fine. Hell, it’s good. I don’t want to steal your autonomy any more than I want to hand you mine. But I have memorized every line of your face, and I recognized the shadows I saw in your eyes. So don’t trivialize something that really does affect us by making it sound like some minor irritation that’s going to require us to reschedule dinner next Thursday.”
He raises an eyebrow as he looks at me. “Well,” he says, and that simple word holds both surprise and acknowledgment.
After a moment, he takes the last step toward me and sits next to me on the bed. He gently takes my hand and uses his fingertip to trace lightly upon my skin. He says nothing, though, and the silence hangs heavy between us, full of both questions and hope.
I remember my thought as we took off—that we are either going to keep moving forward, or we are going to crash. Finally, I can take it no longer. I reach for him, then stroke my hand down the side of his cheek. “I love you,” I say, though the words seem too big for my throat.
“Nikki.” My name sounds as though it was wrenched from him, and when he pulls me close and holds me tight, I close my eyes, wanting—no, needing—to hear the words back. He has not said that he loves me since my first week in Germany. Not since the trial prep began in earnest and the attorneys warned him that he was risking jail and his future if he didn’t testify.
I need to hear it now, though. I desperately need him to say those three little words. Not because I doubt that Damien loves me, but because I cannot shake the fear that we are on a collision course with the real world, and that those words are our only shield once our shiny, protective bubble shatters.
He says nothing, though. He simply holds me, his arms closing tight around me as if that is all the protection I need.
When he does speak, his words surprise me. “The press has been going hot and heavy suggesting that I bribed someone to get the charges dropped.”