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  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."

  I stiffen and pull back so that I can see his face. "Those fucking bastards."

  The corner of his mouth lifts. "I agree completely with your assessment, but the truth is I've been accused of worse." I search his face and see nothing of my own anger. Whatever is bothering him, it isn't this ridiculous accusation. That's just one part of the story.

  "Okay," I say. "Go on."

  "Apparently the prosecutors and judges weren't thrilled with the allegations. The prosecution released an official statement that the charges against me were dropped after additional evidence was brought to the court's attention."

  Considering that's exactly what happened, I'm still not seeing the problem. But I say nothing, content to wait.

  "Now the press is pushing to see the evidence."

  Oh . . .

  I squeeze his hand tight. "Damien, that's--" I cut myself off, because I don't know what to say. Horrible? I think of how wrecked he was after the dismissal and try to magnify that a million-fold if those photos are released to the whole goddamned world. My chest constricts and my skin feels prickly merely from the thought. I can't even imagine how Damien must feel--or how brutally the release of those photos will rip him apart.

  I suck in air and try again. "Surely they won't. The evidence is sealed, right? What did Maynard say?" I'm babbling, but I know nothing about the law, and even less than that about the law in Germany. Does the press have a right to see the evidence? Will the court or the prosecution turn the photos over to save its own reputation?

  "Vogel is on it, and Charles is staying in Munich to work with him. He's optimistic, but it's too early for me to have any real sense of the outcome."

  "I see." I want to tell him that it will be okay, but I can't quite bring the lie to my lips. Because if those photos are released, it will rip him apart. And, yes, Damien is strong, and I know that he will heal. But like the cuts on my thighs, that wound will never go away. Part of him will have died, and nothing will be the same again.

  "I'm sorry I hurt you," he says as he brushes the pad of his thumb across my lips.

  I open my mouth, drawing him in, then close my eyes and savor the taste of him. "Aren't you the one who told me that pain and passion go hand in hand?" I murmur when I finally release him.

  I watch as his eyes darken, then gasp as he pushes me back onto the narrow bed. Desire--hot and heavy--slams through me with such force and power it makes me dizzy. I need him--I need his hands upon my breasts and his body against mine. I need his tongue in my mouth and his cock deep inside me.

  I need to feel the connection between us. I need to revel in it, to bathe in it.

  I need to feel what I already know--that Damien is mine, and that I am and always will be his.

  His hands are holding fast to my wrists, keeping my arms stretched above my head. He holds me tight, and I wince from the pain of my skin twisting in his grip, then cry out again when he violently kneads my breasts through my thin cotton shirt. "Do you like that?" he asks.

  "Yes, oh, God, yes."

  He lowers his mouth to my breast, suckling through my shirt before shoving it up, then tugging my breast free from my bra. He is straddling me at the hips, and I am breathing hard, unable to move as his hands hold me down and his mouth closes over my now bare breast. He draws the nipple in between his lips, sucking so intensely that I arch up, then cry out when he bites down, his teeth drawing tighter than the little silver rings from the night before.

  He pulls away, tugging the nipple with him, and I arch up, wanting more--wanting that sensual bite, that seductive sting.

  "Tell me what you need," he demands.

  "You," I say. "I need you."

  "Goddammit, Nikki," he growls, "that's not what I mean. Tell me what you need."

  And that's when I realize--of course he saw the flute. Of course he knew what I was thinking. Damien knows; hell, he always knows.

  "I need you," I repeat hoarsely. "That's all I need. I wasn't going to do it, I swear. I thought about it, but I wasn't going to do it."

  "Oh, baby." His mouth closes over mine, and he is kissing me, wild and hungry and with so much fervency I feel as though we will both get lost in it. His hands move over my body and I writhe under his touch, every sense firing. "I'm sorry," he says. "I brought you there, and I'm so fucking sorry."

  "No," I say. "It's me. Only me. And you're what keeps me strong. Oh, God, Damien, please," I add, because I cannot have his hands on me and have this conversation at the same time. "Now, please, I need you now."

&nb
sp; "Nikki." My name is an anthem as his fingers thrust aside the negligible material of my thong and his fingers sink deep inside my already dripping cunt. "Oh, baby."

  I shift my hips and struggle against his hand that still holds me fast. Whatever anger or hurt I'd felt moments ago has completely evaporated. This is Damien, the man that I love. The man that I need, and I want him inside me. I want him touching me. I want--dear God, I simply want.

  He releases his hold on me to unfasten his pants and free his cock. I tilt my head up, then suck in air when I see him, thick and hard. I shift my arm, my fingers itching to stroke him.

  "No," he says, and I have to bite my lower lip to hold back my cry of disappointment as I comply, keeping my arms stretched high above my head.

  "Hurry," I beg. I spread my legs wider, desperate for him. I am liquid flame. I am hedonism personified. I am lust and need and passion.

  And then he is above me, his mouth upon mine, wild and wet even as the head of his cock slides over my sex, cruelly teasing me but never entering me.

  I arch and writhe, begging him with my body, and when that doesn't work I nip his lower lip with my teeth and demand, "Now, Damien, fuck me now."

  And then I moan as he thrusts hard inside me. My skirt is around my waist, my thong shoved to one side. He balances with one hand beside our joined bodies. The other hand is twined with my fingers above my head.

  The plane hits a pocket of air, and I cry out in alarm and pleasure as we free-fall, then slam back at altitude, the motion thrusting Damien even deeper inside of me. I want my hands to be free--I want to cup his ass and push him hard inside me--but he is giving me no leeway. He breaks the kiss and as he balances above me, he looks deep in my eyes. Our bodies are touching only where his hand circles my wrist and where his cock is thrusting so enticingly in and out of me.

  "That's it, baby," he says, going deeper with each stroke, his body rubbing my clit with each motion. "I want to watch your face as you explode. I want to know that I've taken you to the brink, and then I want to go over the edge with you.

  "Come on," he urges as the storm rises like a wellspring of colors inside me. "Come on, baby--oh, yes," he groans as my body explodes around his. The orgasm ripples through me, making me arch up and cry out and writhe with a wanton desperation. I'm not sure if I'm trying to escape this riot of sensation or if I'm trying to make it go on and on. All I know is that Damien has not stopped thrusting and the muscles of my sex are still spasming around him and I am clawing at the cover on this bed and arching up and trying to breathe and--

  "Oh, God," I cry as one final, violent jolt of electricity cuts through me just seconds before Damien finds his own release. I collapse, limp, onto the bed and though my eyes are heavy, I cannot pass up the joy of watching pure sensual satisfaction play across his face. Then he smiles at me, his expression so tender that I can think of nothing more than curling up next to him.

  As if in answer to my thought, he lowers himself beside me, and the hand that just a few minutes ago held so fast to my wrist now traces lazy strokes down my arm.

  "Welcome to the Mile High Club," he says, and I burst out laughing.

  I roll closer and nestle against him, sated and satisfied and happy. "You are what I need, Damien. You're all that I need."

  I have surrendered to this man completely, and now, once again, it feels wholly right. Between Damien and me, sex is as necessary as conversation. It is our method of discovery. Our sharing of trust. And our ultimate surrender.

  It is, I think, his "I love you" spoken with his body, if not with his words.

  I'm drifting, neither awake nor asleep, when Damien's words bring me fully back to myself. "No matter what the German court decides, there's a good chance those pictures are going public."

  There is no emotion in his voice, and that chills me more than anything. I don't move. We are spooned together, my back against his chest, his arm draped over my waist. I keep my eyes closed, as if that somehow makes the words less real. "Why would you say that?"

  "I think your earlier thought was right," he says. "I think my father might be the one behind this."

  "Damien, no." I roll over now--I have to see him. "Do you really think so?"

  "It makes sense. If I go to jail, his asset stream dries up." Despite the fact that Damien's father makes my mother look as sweet and cuddly as the Easter Bunny, Damien has continued to support the man.

  "Even if you're right, that only explains how the court got the photos. Why on earth would you think that he'd make them go public?"

  He rubs his fingers together, symbolizing money.

  I shake my head, not following.

  "Tabloids. Internet sites. So-called news programs. They'll all pay a lot for information if they think it will sell ad space or papers."

  "Shit," I say, because he is right, and that pretty much sums it up. "Maybe it's not him."

  "Maybe not." But I can tell that he doesn't believe it.

  "What will you do?"

  "I'm still thinking about that," he says, and there is a dangerous edge to his voice.

  "Will you tell me when you decide?"

  He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Yes," he says. "I promise."

  I breathe in deep, wishing I could somehow make everything better for him, but knowing that's just not possible. "How much longer before we get home?" Part of me wants the plane to land right now. Part of me wishes we could stay in flight forever.

  "A few more hours," he says, idly stroking my bare arm, the touch feather-soft and sweetly enticing. "But we're not going home. Not right away."

  "We're not? Where are we going?"

  "One of my favorite places," he says, brushing a kiss across my hair. "I think you'll like it."

  Chapter Eleven

  The narrow mountain road twists and turns so much that I am beginning to feel a bit nauseated. It's late, but the full moon casts a glow over the towering pines that grow so thick along the side of the road that it seems as though we are traveling through a tunnel. We are in a Jeep Grand Cherokee that someone from Damien's staff left for him at the Ontario airport just outside of San Bernadino. It's the least sporty car I have ever seen Damien drive, but he looks perfectly at home. In fact, I can't remember a time when Damien has ever looked out of place. It's that cool confidence that lets him slide into any situation, and I amuse myself by thinking of him going from a high-powered board meeting to a survivalist weekend retreat.

  "You're grinning," he says.

  "I'm picturing you in a loincloth holding an atlatl," I admit. "Damien Stark, the leader of the tribe."

  "Please tell me this isn't a retreat you're planning for us," he says. "Not unless it involves you in a Raquel Welch style fur miniskirt for a weekend."

  "Even then you wouldn't like it," I tease. "I believe the women were in charge of the cooking back in the caveman days."

  "Good point," he says with a wicked grin. I don't bother to take offense. We both know that my cooking skills take a nosedive once you get past "peel back plastic cover and set microwave for five minutes."

  "Are we getting close?" He has told me only that he wants to take me someplace before we head back to LA. Beyond that, he is giving me no clues.

  "Just around this bend." As the Jeep curves to the right, the trees break for a moment and I see the water of Lake Arrowhead sparkling like a diamond in the moonlight. I've only been up in the San Bernadino Mountains once, and that was when I came to visit Jamie one Christmas. Snow had come early that year, and we rented a car with snow tires and made the slow trudge up the mountain to Big Bear. In the end, neither of us had actually put on skis, but we'd had a fabulous time sitting in the lodge, sipping Irish coffee by the fire, and watching all the guys in tight snow pants.

  A few more curves, and the view of the lake disappears. I'm totally turned around, but it's obvious that Damien knows exactly where he's going. He hasn't told me a thing, though. So although I've clued in to the general concept of a mountain retreat, I don't know if
we're going to a resort, a hotel, a friend's house, or yet another property that Damien owns.

  The beam of the headlights glance over a wooden sign indicating a private drive, and Damien turns onto it, then follows an even steeper, even more narrow road. The trees are closer on both sides of the Jeep, and in the dark I'm actually starting to feel a bit claustrophobic. Then we are cresting the rise, and all I see is an Alpine chateau looming in front of us, nestled among the towering pines. It is a stunning property, with wooden shingles and stone chimneys, and the kinds of angles and turrets that give the impression that we haven't left Bavaria. Or perhaps that we made a wrong turn on the way home and ended up in Switzerland.

  Damien slows the car at an intricate iron gate, then rolls down his window and punches in a code, thereby destroying all illusions that this extravagant place is either a hotel or a bed-and-breakfast or a mountain spa resort.

  "You own this?"

  He eases the Jeep through the slowly widening gap in the gate. "I wanted a weekend getaway. Something I could drive to at the last minute. Something out of the way."

  "Palm Springs not appealing? Your Santa Barbara hotel too long a drive?"

  "The condo in Palm Springs is on the golf course," he says, "and since I'm not much of a golfer I let my staff reserve time as a perk. As for Santa Barbara, it's an exceptional property, but sometimes a man just wants to be alone. Or not alone," he says, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

  I squeeze back, amused. "You know those computer apps where you can put a little flag on a map for every town you've lived in or where all your Facebook friends are from, or whatever?"

  "Sure."

  "We need to get one of those for all your properties."

  His answering grin is smug. "I'll get right on that. And then we can start working our way through them, one by one. Only a few of my properties have been properly christened."

  "Is that so? Well, then. Maybe we should start with your Arrowhead property," I say. "Maybe we should start tonight."

  "I can't think of a better way to spend the evening. Or the morning. Or the afternoon."

  I grin as I take another look at the massive structure. "This place is huge. I say we christen these rooms first and then we can move on to other locations. That will take us, what? A year?"