Lost With Me (The Stark Saga Book 5) Page 15

  “What turned me on is knowing that you wouldn’t ever do that. That I belong to you.”

  I feel the rise and fall of his chest as he draws breath. Then he steps back, his hands slipping from my clothes.

  I turn to face him, afraid something is wrong, but the heat I see in his eyes soon dispels that fear. “With me,” he says, then leads me to the far end of the room and up the staircase to the first landing.

  “What—?”

  But he cuts me off with a kiss, long and so deep a shudder runs through me, a tiny hint of the explosion that’s to come.

  “Look at them,” he says, turning me around so that I’m looking down into the grand room, at the people touching and kissing and petting. I watch, my blood heating as I do, and my breath coming faster as Damien’s hands stroke lightly over my back and then down to cup my ass.

  He bends forward, and I feel his breath on my neck, then I gasp when I realize that he’s used his teeth to tug the bow free. My blouse falls, attached only around my waist, my breasts now completely bare. “Mine,” he says, then starts to tug up the back of my skirt.

  “Damien…”

  “Trust me,” he says, as inch by inch more of me is revealed. Because of the slits, the front remains down, so I know my scars remain hidden, but soon enough I’m not only topless but my backside is bare except for Damien’s palms cupping my ass cheeks.

  A tremor cuts through me, and I close my eyes. He needs this, I realize. My trust. Tonight. But I want it, too. And what I’m feeling now is as much arousal as it is embarrassment.

  “Touch your breasts,” he says. “And spread your legs.”

  I hesitate, but do as he says, then moan as he slides a hand between my legs, finding me ridiculously wet. “Bend forward,” he orders, “and don’t close your eyes.”

  Once again, I comply, this time without hesitation, and as I watch the crowd below, I hear Damien’s zipper, then feel the pressure of his rock hard erection against my core. I gasp as he enters me, my hips thrusting back in a silent demand for him to go deeper, to thrust harder.

  He keeps up a slow, steady rhythm, and as he bends over me, fucking me on these stairs for all the guests to see, he cups my breast and tells me I’m beautiful. That I’m his. And that he wants to feel me come.

  “Now, baby,” he says, his fingers tight on my nipple and his cock thrusting hard into me. His other hand slides around, teasing my swollen clit. I’m incredibly wet, my body on full awareness, right on the cusp of exploding. “Come with me,” he demands, the tension building in him. Both of us climbing higher and higher until—oh, God—I actually scream when my release comes in time with his, and a dozen faces below turn and look as I shatter in Damien’s arms, my knees going weak as I sink to the ground with him beside me.

  We cling to each other until sanity returns, then he finds the tie for my shirt and fastens it behind my neck.

  We’re both breathing hard, but he pulls me close and kisses my temple.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear.

  I nod, my heart still pounding. “Yes. I think so.”

  “Think so?” There’s concern in his voice.

  “I just mean that I liked this,” I confess. “I liked it a hell of a lot more than I thought I would.”

  His eyes study mine, intent behind the mask. “I will never share you,” he says, and I shake my head in a firm no. “But I liked it, too. A hell of a lot more than I thought I would,” he adds, his words mirroring mine.

  “Take me home,” I say. I slide my hand around, cupping the back of his neck. “Take me home so that you can undress me and make love to me while you tell me about tonight. About what you liked the most. What turned you on. About what you want to do if we come back.” I study his face then smile. “When we come back.

  “Tell me all that, Damien, while you’re deep inside me. Then do what you can’t do here. And watch my face when I come.”

  17

  I wake to the warmth of the sun on my face and the sound of the shower running in the attached bathroom in the Tower Apartment. I stretch, my body stiff and deliciously sore. And while I’m tempted to join Damien in the shower, the gurgle of the coffee maker and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee is too compelling. I slide out of bed, slip on my robe, and head toward the kitchen, planning on pouring us both a cup and then heading for the shower.

  The Tower staff keeps the apartment’s refrigerator stocked, so there is fresh cream for my coffee, and I pour in a nice dollop, feeling indulgent. I take my first sip and sigh with pleasure, then pick up both mugs. I’m heading toward the bathroom when I hear my phone ring, and I detour toward my side of the bed just in case it’s Bree or Moira calling about the kids.

  It’s neither. The caller ID shows up as Jenny Neeley, our neighbor, and I frown in concern as I answer. “Jenny? Is everything okay?” We’re casual acquaintances, not close friends, and the first thing that pops into my mind is that there’s an issue with our adjoining properties.

  “What? Oh, everything’s fine. At least, I assume it is. I’m still at Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “You’re in Massachusetts?” Something about that strikes me as wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  “That’s why I’m calling. Our trip went longer than we planned, and I’m supposed to be hosting a lunch for a small group of volunteers just a few days after I get back. I thought I’d have plenty of time to get everything organized, but, well, you know how it goes.”

  “I—sure. What can I help you with?”

  “Could you text me the contact info for the caterer you used when you and Damien hosted that lovely open house at the bungalow? The one last summer.”

  “Oh. Of course. Hang on.” I switch the call to speaker so that I can continue the conversation while I look up the information, then press the button to text her the contact card.

  “You’re a doll. This is one less thing to worry about. We’ll be back the day after tomorrow. I’m picking up Dover at ten. Thank goodness that dog thinks that going to the kennel is a vacation. He’s been there four days longer than we’d planned.”

  I can practically feel my thoughts sliding into place. “So Dover wasn’t loose on the beach recently?”

  “God, I hope not or I’ll be speaking harshly to someone at Happy Tails.” There’s a pause, then she asks, “Why?”

  “I saw a dog on the beach,” I lie. “Since Dover’s an escape artist, I assumed it was him. But obviously it wasn’t, not if he’s kenneled.”

  “Maybe that means someone near us has a new dog. Dover could use a buddy. At any rate, I need to run. And thanks so much for the info.”

  I assure her it’s no problem, then end the call. I sit on the edge of the bed and pick my coffee back up, frowning as I take a sip and consider everything she said.

  There was no loose dog. Jenny isn’t in Malibu.

  I look up as Damien comes into the bedroom, his hair damp, a towel wrapped low around his hips. He looks magnificent, and all I feel is cold. All I can think about is last night. About how much I trust—trusted—this man.

  “Who was she?” I ask, proud of how steady my voice is.

  He cocks his head, his confusion obvious. “Who?”

  “The woman on the beach who wasn’t Jenny Neeley.”

  I watch his face, looking for a reaction, but there’s nothing. That goddamn, famous control. Something I obviously don’t have, because I’m on my feet now, coffee sloshing all over the sheets. I slam my mug down onto the side table, then clench my hands at my side. “Dammit, Damien, answer me. Who the fuck was she?”

  “Sofia.”

  My knees go weak, and I sit back down, realizing that I knew it all along. Who else would he keep secret from me? I know he wouldn’t cheat on me, and we’re nowhere close to my birthday or our anniversary or any other event that would have him planning a surprise for me. Certainly not on the beach in the middle of the night.

  Which means Sofia Richter, Damien’s childhood frien
d. The woman he suffered through abuse with at the hand of her father, his tennis coach. Sofia, the woman who harassed me and gaslighted me, all with the intent of getting me to cut again. Or worse.

  “I thought she was better,” I say, my voice tight. For years, Damien has paid for her care. The best doctors at the best facility money could buy. And two years ago, her doctors assured Damien that she was better. She went through a twelve-step program and everything, apologizing to me as part of that process. She even came to Lara’s welcome party when we brought her home from China and was very sweet and sincerely apologetic about the past. Or she seemed to be.

  “She is better,” he says.

  A slow rage starts to bubble inside me. “Then why the hell are you keeping secrets? Seriously, Damien, we’ve been down this road before.”

  “Because she asked me to,” he says. “She called and said she was outside on the beach. That she needed to talk to me. And she asked me to not say anything. She wanted my opinion before I talked with you—before she talked with you.”

  “With me?” I stand. “Sofia wants to talk with me?” I press my fingertips to my temples. “Have you been paying attention? The note on my car? The vandalism in my office? And oh, so coincidentally, there’s Sofia sneaking around?”

  “She had nothing to do with that.” I hear the tight edge in his voice and know that his temper is rising, too. Well, that’s too fucking bad.

  “Oh, really?” I snap. “And how the hell do you know that? What did she want? Why exactly did she come to Malibu and creep around on the beach in the middle of the night?”

  His entire body seems to crumple, and he moves to sit on the bed. I shove my hands in the pocket of my robe, forcing myself not to go to him. To wait, and to learn.

  “She had a miscarriage,” he says, and I take a step back, shocked and saddened by his words.

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  He nods. “Me, too. It got under her skin. She told me that she spent days crying, then days wrapped in relief because she’s not ready to be a mother. Then she’d do nothing but sleep from the guilt of feeling even the slightest bit relieved at having lost the child.”

  “How far along?”

  “Two months,” he says. I just nod, remembering those horrible days after I miscarried. Then the euphoria when I finally got safely past the first trimester. The plans I made. The joy. But I’m not Sofia. Not by a long shot.

  “She didn’t want you to know.”

  “Why on earth not?” I ask.

  “Don’t you get it? She holds you up as a standard.”

  The words knock me backward, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. For so long, she wanted Damien. Maybe she still does. And I’m the woman who won his heart. Maybe that’s all the standard she needs. “She shouldn’t,” I say softly. “She knows better than anyone how weak I am. Back then. Today.” I think about the brunch and meet Damien’s eyes. “Nothing has changed.”

  “Bullshit, Nikki. Everything has changed, and you know it. You’ve changed. And Sofia’s changed, too.”

  He’s right, of course. And I’m truly glad for Sofia’s recovery and sorry for her loss. But that doesn’t change the fact that whenever Sofia’s name is mentioned, my composure goes to shit. I want to trust her—I know how much she means to Damien—but there are hard memories wrapped up with that woman, and I just can’t manage.

  “Nikki?”

  I hold up a hand as I gather myself. Then I take a deep breath and look at my husband. “So you’re telling me that she came to the beach in the middle of the night to tell you that she had a miscarriage? Did she go to a hospital?”

  He shakes his head. Just one small movement. “The miscarriage was a few months ago. She called me because she wanted my help. I don’t know why she wanted to meet in the middle of the night—why she didn’t come to the office or ask me to meet her somewhere during the day—all I know is what she asked.”

  I wait, saying nothing.

  “She wanted a job, Nikki. She knew that Bree would be moving to New York, and she wanted to talk to me about being our nanny.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” The words explode out of me, and I realize that I’m in motion, pacing the bedroom with my eyes on Damien. “How the hell can her doctors say she’s sane? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. If you think I would let that woman near our kids like that, then—”

  “I told her no.” He’s on his feet, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes hard on mine. “Of course, I told her no.”

  Relief washes over me, and I step back, breaking contact, then look around the room, my mind whirling. After a moment, I go to the chest of drawers and pull on clean underwear and a T-shirt, not bothering with a bra. I find a pair of jeans in the closet, then slip my feet into a pair of flats. The dress I wore to Masque is still in a wad on the floor where Damien tossed it. I glance at it, swallowing as I remember last night. His touch. The way I’d curled against him, warm and safe and satisfied, before drifting off to sleep.

  Damien just watches me. When I grab the keys to the Lincoln off the chest of drawers, he stands. “Give me five minutes to get dressed.”

  “No. I’m going home. We’ll get past this—we both know that. But right now, I want to think.”

  “Nikki. Baby, I—”

  I hold up my hand. “I’m not mad. I’m not sure what I am. All I know is that you should have told me all of that. We talk about trust and secrets, but where Sofia is concerned it never seems to apply. And maybe I understand that there’s baggage there. Maybe I get that you’re trying to protect me. But, Damien, that’s not good enough.”

  I turn and walk toward the door, half-afraid he’s going to follow me, and then a little bit disappointed when he doesn’t.

  It’s not until I’m in the car and exiting the garage that I finally truly believe that he’s not coming. I tell myself that’s fine; it’s what I want. I need time alone. Time to think.

  I eschew the highway, taking the long way home and eventually climbing the hill to Mulholland Drive. I have no particular reason to be there, but it’s one of my favorite places in the city, and driving that winding route always clears my head. This morning, I want to be clear.

  There aren’t many other cars on the road, and I’m taking the curves faster than I should when the phone rings. It’s Damien, of course, and I punch the button to answer even though I’d be perfectly justified in simply ignoring it. “I told you I’d see you at home.”

  “Baby, pull over.”

  His voice is odd, and I frown in confusion. Then even more as I hear the steady thump-thump of a nearby helicopter. Around me, the plants blow in the sudden wind, and as a shadow falls over the car, I hit the brakes, careening to a stop as a familiar gray helicopter with Stark International printed on the side sets down on the turnaround just ahead of me.

  The rear door opens and fear explodes in my chest as Damien climbs down, then runs to my car, his body bent over and his shirt tail flapping in the copter’s down draft.

  I throw my door open and leap out, my hand shielding my eyes from the dust. “Damien? What the hell?”

  “It’s Anne,” he says as ice fills my veins. “She and Bree have been taken.”

  18

  Less than a minute after the helicopter sets down at the Malibu house, Damien and I are racing side by side up the interior stairs to the third floor.

  “Tell me,” Damien orders Ryan, who’s standing at the head of a huge table that now fills our third floor living area. Computers line its perimeter, each one manned by a person I’ve never seen before.

  “Lara,” I cry, looking frantically around the room. “Where’s Lara?”

  “With Jamie,” Ryan says, closing his hand gently over my upper arm. “Lara’s fine.” He looks from me to Damien. “Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll tell you both what I know.”

  He’s speaking calmly, his voice steady and soothing, as if he’s speaking to a child. Any other day, I’d resent it. Today, I need i
t. Any emotion from him, and I’ll lose it. I’m certain of that. I need him to be absolutely professional. I need to believe that he’ll get us past this. I need to believe I’ll get my baby back.

  I know very little, because Damien knows very little. He told me in the helicopter that Ryan called and said that we needed to get home. That Bree and Anne had been abducted, and that they were working on it and to get home as fast as possible. I spent the rest of the flight with my face buried against Damien’s chest, my body racked with sobs.

  The pilot got us home in record time, and now it’s taking all my strength not to scream at the top of my lungs. Instead, I clutch Damien’s hand, my bones crushed under the force of his own grip on me.

  “Now, Ryan.” His voice is dangerously low as we sit at the kitchen table. “Where the fuck is my daughter?”

  I’ve seen Ryan work before, but never on something this personal. This important. And even through my horror and fear, I can recognize and appreciate his cool, professional demeanor. It’s calming, in fact, knowing that he’s here. That he’s watching out for my baby.

  “Here’s what we know,” he says, still standing. “Anne and Bree left this morning for Anne’s art class. After class, as they were walking back to the car, someone approached them in another vehicle and ordered them into the back at gunpoint.

  I gasp, and Damien’s hand tightens in mine.

  “How do you know all of this?” Damien asks.

  “Moira was here watching Lara. Obviously,” he adds, seeing me nod. “Bree told her to expect them back by ten-fifteen. When they hadn’t shown up by ten-thirty, Moira assumed they’d stopped to run errands. She texted Bree, asking her to bring back Cheetos as a treat for the girls’ lunch. When she didn’t get a reply, she got nervous. Five minutes later, she called. No answer, so she called me.”

  Moira is Ryan’s little sister, and knows perfectly well what he does for a living, so her decision to call Ryan makes sense. “But how could Moira know about the car?” I ask. “Or the—the gun?”