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  I manage the maneuver successfully, thank goodness, and Damien releases my hand and slips his arm around my waist. It is summer, but this close to the beach the air is cool, and I lean against him, relishing his warmth. Damien tosses the keys to the valet, who I think is going to weep with joy at the prospect of sliding behind the wheel of that exceptional car.

  "Let me guess," I say, as we wait for our rather inefficient valet to get a ticket for Damien. "You own the building." I glance at it as we speak. Only the entry is well lit, and in the shadows, I see clusters of people. Couples talking together. Men wearing everything from swim trunks to business suits. I suppose that's normal. After all, the beach is just across the street.

  "This building? No, though I might put in an offer if it comes up for sale. It's an office complex right now, but with this location, it could be converted to a very successful hotel. I'd keep the rooftop restaurant, and not just because I'm friends with the owner."

  The valet hands Damien the card, and for the first time, I notice the restaurant name on the valet stand. "Le Caquelon?" I ask as we head for the door. "I haven't heard of it."

  "It's excellent. Fabulous view, even better food." He grins wolfishly as he looks me up and down. "And the tables are very, very private."

  "Oh." I swallow, because there it is--that sensual ping that is Damien. That makes me turn on a dime from calm and collected to a swooning mass of sensual, sexual need. I'm going to make you come, he'd said, and dear God I hope that is a promise he intends to keep.

  I clear my throat and try to calm my speeding pulse. I'm sure he can feel it beating against him. "What does the name mean?" I ask.

  Before he can answer, the clusters break apart, then seem to re-form into a mob. Now camera strobes are flashing and the vultures are shouting their questions. It's happened so quickly that I don't even have time to think. Automatically I wipe all expression from my face, then paste on the tiniest of smiles. For so many years, I've hid behind a practiced, plastic mask. Social Nikki, Daughter Nikki, Pretty Pageant Nikki.

  Right now, I am Public Nikki.

  Damien's hand tightens around my waist, and though he says nothing, I feel the tension building in him. "Just walk," he whispers. "All we need to do is get inside." Inside, as his attorney Charles explained to me, we are safe. Inside, they would be trespassing.

  "Nikki!" A voice stands out from the din, so familiar in its tone that I want to slug the shouter. I don't, however, react. Instead I face straight ahead and reveal only that tiny public smile.

  "The photos that came out last week from the Miss Texas bathing suit competition have gone viral. Is it true you leaked them to promote a new modeling career?"

  In my mind, I imagine my hand tightening into a fist, my nails biting into my flesh.

  "What about television? Can you confirm that you'll be starring in a new reality show next year?"

  No, not a fist. I am holding a razor blade, that tight, sharp line of steel biting through my skin, the cold pain something I can grab on to.

  No.

  I force the thought of blades and pain out of my mind. It infuriates me that these parasites are a catalyst for my weakness. They aren't worth my time, much less my pain.

  "Nikki, how does it feel to have snagged one of the world's most eligible bachelors?"

  I breathe in deep as Damien's hand tightens around my waist, pulling me even closer. Damien. I don't need the pain--I don't. They are nothing--nothing. I am centered. And I have Damien to help keep me whole.

  "Mr. Stark! Can you comment on the rumor that you refused to attend next Friday's tennis center dedication?"

  For a moment, I think that Damien stumbles, but then we are moving again, and in front of us the doors open and a man who must be seven feet tall bursts through, flanked by two men in suits who move to either side of us. The three form a triangular-shaped barrier, and we move like an arrow through the crowd, over the threshold, and into safety.

  As soon as the doors close behind us, my chest feels less tight. My breath comes easier. Damien takes his arm from around my waist, but twines his fingers in mine. He looks down at me, the question clear in his eyes. "I'm fine," I say as we hurry toward the elevator. "Really."

  The tall man, Damien, and I enter the car, but the other two stay behind, presumably to make sure none of the vultures try to enter the restaurant pretending to buy a meal. Once the door slides shut, I look up at Damien. His eyes blaze with raw fury, but beneath it there is concern for me that is so potent I almost weep.

  Slowly, he lifts my hand, then gently, sweetly, he kisses my palm.

  "I am so, so sorry, my friend," the giant says with an accent that I can't place. "A busboy saw the reservation book. It would appear he hoped to make more than just his share of the tips tonight."

  "I see," Damien says. His voice is level, but there is a tightness to it, and the pressure of his hand on mine increases. I doubt that I am the only one who can tell that Damien is working hard to control the temper that had been so famous back in his tennis days. The temper that had, in fact, caused the injury that left him with dual-colored eyes. "I'd like to have a word with that young man."

  "I've already dismissed him," the tall man says. "He was escorted off the property at the same time I came to assist you and the young lady."

  "Good," Damien says, and I silently echo the thought. Because considering the rage that I see etched on Damien's face, if that busboy was still on the premises, he should be very, very worried indeed.

  3

  Damien says nothing else during the ride to the rooftop restaurant, and the air in the small elevator car is thick. I'm sure our escort--who I've decided is Damien's owner friend--is mortified that one of his employees leaked the news of where Damien would be. And the fact that Damien hasn't formally introduced us is more proof of how much the incident has upset him.

  Damien's manners are always stellar.

  As for me, I can't help but regret going out at all. The paparazzi were bad, but this cloud of gloom is worse.

  I squeeze Damien's hand. "They'll get tired of us soon enough. Some movie star will divorce some other star. Or a reality star will get caught shoplifting. We're boring by comparison."

  For a moment, I think my ploy hasn't worked. Then he lifts our joined hands and presses a kiss on my knuckles. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should be the one making you feel better."

  "I'm with you," I say. "That's as good as it gets."

  He tightens his fingers around mine as he looks up at the man. "Alaine, I've forgotten my manners. I'd like to introduce you to my girlfriend, Nikki Fairchild. Nikki, my friend Alaine Beauchene, one of the best chefs in the city and the owner of Le Caquelon."

  "It's a very great pleasure to meet you," he says, taking my hand. "Damien has told me so many good things."

  "Oh." I'm not sure why, but the words surprise me. I can easily picture me talking about Damien with Jamie, but somehow the idea of Damien chatting with his friends about me isn't something I've contemplated before. I can't deny that the knowledge feels nice. It's one more thread in the tapestry that is Nikki and Damien.

  "Thank you for rescuing us," I say. And then, because I can't help but jump all over this peek into Damien's life, I add, "How do you two know each other?"

  "Alaine's father practices sports medicine. We got to know each other on tour."

  "Two young men crisscrossing Europe," Alaine says wistfully. "Those were good times, my friend."

  I am watching Damien carefully. I may not know much, but I do know that his years playing tennis were hardly full of happy, fluffy memories. But when he smiles, it seems genuine. "Those were the best times," Damien says, and I feel an odd sense of relief knowing that his years on the tennis circuit were not total hell. That there had been one or two moments of sunshine peeking through the gloom.

  "The two of us and Sofia," Alaine says with a laugh. He glances at me. "Two years younger than us, and the little imp was determined to stick like glue. Have you heard any
thing? How is she?"

  "Fine," Damien says, and I am certain that Alaine catches the curtness of his tone, because his lips curve down in the slightest of frowns before curving back up again in what I can only assume is an attempt to be jolly.

  "At any rate," he says as the elevator glides to a stop, "enough about the old days. You are here now for the food, not the memories."

  The doors open, and Alaine gestures for me to exit first. I do, and find myself in a reception area that can only be described as spectacular. It's not elegant, and at the same time it's not casual. It is uniquely its own, with a glass roof that is open to the night sky crisscrossed by colored beams of light. The maitre d' station is an aquarium, and the hair of the girl who stands behind it is at least as colorful as the fish in the tank.

  The wall to the left is entirely made of glass and reveals a chunk of Santa Monica and the Westside, along with a bit of beach, and the tiniest view of the Pier. The wall in front of us seems to be made up of panels that glow in the same colors as the beams of light crisscrossing the ceiling. I'm not sure if the design is modern or futuristic, but I like it. It's funky and different and so brightly colored that I don't see how the gray fog that has settled over this evening can stay.

  "I must get back to the kitchen," Alaine says. "But Monica will show you to your booth. Ms. Fairchild, it has been a pleasure. Enjoy your meal, and I hope to see both of you next Friday at the dedication." His voice rises as if in question, but I can't answer since I have no idea what he's talking about.

  "I won't be attending," Damien says. "But I'll call you next week. We should have drinks."

  His words are perfectly polite and certainly friendly, but they are spoken from behind a mask. I wonder if Alaine can see it. Does he truly know Damien? Or does he only know the bits and pieces of the man that Damien has selectively revealed over the years?

  I have a feeling that it is the latter. I doubt that anyone has ever seen completely beneath Damien's mask, and the thought that I am included in that group makes me sad. I want so desperately to shine a light into those dark places, and I even believe that Damien wants me to. But he's spent so long building walls to protect his privacy that I think he forgot to build a door. And now all I can hope is that we can chip away at the stone together.

  We've been following Monica across the room, weaving between the tables to reach a bright green panel of light. She grabs a handle that I hadn't noticed and uses it to slide the panel to one side, much like the walls in Japanese movies. Inside, there is a table between two booth-style benches. But it's not a true booth, because if you slide through or walk behind the bench seats, there is an open area between the table and a window that looks out onto the spectacular, brightly lit Santa Monica Pier.

  I follow Damien to the glass, drawn by the allure of both the man and the vibrant colors.

  "Your wine is already breathing," Monica says, gesturing to the table, "and you have both flat and sparkling water. Will you be having your usual, Mr. Stark?"

  "Just dessert," he says. "For two."

  She inclines her head. "It will be right out. In the meantime, please enjoy the wine and the view."

  She leaves, the panel closes, and Damien stands completely still beside me. And then, without any warning at all, he lashes out and slams his palm against the glass.

  "Damien!" I expect to hear a commotion from the booth beside us, or at least the clatter of Monica's heels as she comes to check on us. There is nothing, though. Apparently we're better insulated than I would have guessed.

  "Do you know how much I'm worth?" Damien asks, and I blink at the seemingly random question.

  "I--no. Not exactly."

  "It's more than the GNP of many countries, and it's damn sure enough to keep me as comfortable as I want to be for the rest of my life and then some." He turns to face me. "But it's not enough to keep those bastards away from you."

  My heart melts. "Damien. It's okay. I'm fine."

  "You're on the goddamn Internet in a bathing suit because of me."

  "I'm on the Internet in a bathing suit because my mother forced me into pageants from the time I was four. And because I didn't have the balls to say no to her when I got older. I'm on the Internet because of those jerks out there. I'm not on the Internet because of you."

  "I don't like that something that comes from me hurts you. I don't like it," he repeats. "But I don't know that I have the strength to change it."

  "The strength?" I repeat, but he doesn't answer.

  I see the shadows cross his face before he turns back to the window. Damien Stark, the strongest man I know, is twisted into knots, and suddenly I am scared. "Damien?"

  His palm against the window clenches, and I can see his muscles tighten. "I owned a small, gourmet wine and cheese company once," he says. "Or rather Stark International did."

  My mind spins at the shift in conversation. I don't know why he's telling me this, but I trust he has a point. I ease behind him and press against his back. I put my arms around his waist and brush my lips against the nape of his neck.

  "Tell me about it," I say.

  "It was an old company, family run, good reputation. I loved their products and thought it could be a profitable partnership. And it was--for about a year."

  "What happened?"

  "The press learned that Stark International was behind this mom-and-pop business and started lambasting them. Didn't matter that we weren't mass-producing the food. We hadn't changed the system. We had simply provided enough capital to let the company grow within its own parameters. But they were called out as Big Business disguised as the Little Guy, a trick designed to fool consumers. All the negative attention stopped growth cold. Suddenly a company that was solidly in the black was in the red."

  "What did you do?" I hold my breath, because I am certain I know where he's going, and I don't like it.

  "I pulled out. Very publicly and very loudly. Even so, it took a while for the business to get back on its feet. Being associated with Stark International almost destroyed the company whose cheese and wine I loved so much."

  "I'm neither cheese nor wine," I say softly. "And I'm not spiraling down. I could never spiral down with you beside me. You hold me up, Damien. We both know it."

  He is silent for so long that I think my words haven't touched him. And then, with an abruptness that takes my breath away, he spins us around, so that my back is against the cool glass. He steps away long enough to turn to face me, and then suddenly his mouth is on mine, and he is kissing me. His mouth is hard and demanding against mine, and I am held fast between the glass and Damien, an infinity of night stretched out before me, and the power of his kiss the only thing that is keeping me anchored.

  When he breaks the kiss, I see an unfamiliar ferocity in his eyes. "I will do it," he says. "If that's what it takes to protect you, I will leave you. Even if it kills me."

  "You won't," I counter, my breath coming hard and fast as my chest tightens painfully in protest and fear. "You won't because it would kill me, too."

  "Oh, Nikki."

  He lowers his head to close his mouth over mine once again, more gentle this time, but just as possessive. I arch back, losing myself in his touch. I am like a switch, and all it takes is the slightest contact from Damien to send a wild current through me. To light me up and make me shine.

  "Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?"

  "Tell me," I beg.

  "I want to strip you bare and press you up against the glass. I want to trail my fingers over you lightly, just enough to make you awaken to my touch. I want to watch the lights of the Pier flash behind you, and I want to watch my own reflection in your eyes as you come."

  My mouth is dry, so the little "oh" that I say doesn't actually come out as sound.

  "But I can't," he says. "I believe I told you that I wasn't going to touch you."

  "I won't hold you to it," I say.

  "But that would be breaking the rules."

  I have to
force myself not to whimper. "You're playing games with me, Mr. Stark."

  "Yes," he says plainly. "I am."

  "I suppose that's fair, sir," I say. "I'm yours, after all. At least for the night. But tomorrow, I'll be a rich woman and the game's going to have a new set of rules."

  For a moment, he is perfectly still. Then he nods slowly. "You raise a good point, Ms. Fairchild," he says. "I need to make sure I get my money's worth."

  "Your money's worth?"

  "Did you read the article in Forbes I sent you?" he asks. "The reporter did a good job of describing my philosophy in business."

  "I read it." In fact, I'd read it several times, savoring every tidbit I learned about Damien the Businessman.

  "Yes, sir," he corrects.

  "Yes, sir," I repeat. "I read the article."

  "Then you know that I attribute much of my success to my ability to extract as much value as possible from every monetary transaction."

  I lick my lips. "And I'm a monetary transaction?"

  "You are indeed."

  "I see. And how do you intend to extract value?"

  "I already told you," he says. "If you're not going to pay attention ..."

  "You said you were going to make me come."

  His mouth curves into a lazy smile and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "So I did. Good girl. You get an A in class, after all." Then, with a devious gleam in his eye, Damien takes hold of the cord at the small of my back and begins a slow tugging motion.

  Oh. My. God.

  It's as if he's creating electricity out of friction, and I close my eyes as my breath comes shallower and faster. "Damien," I whisper.

  "Do you like that?"

  "Yes--oh, God, yes."

  "Good," he says. And then releases the cord.

  The friction stops and my eyes fly open.

  He's looking down at me, his smile a little too smug. "Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?"

  "No," I lie, but even I can hear the petulant whine in my voice.

  He laughs, then kisses my nose. "Patience, sweetheart. Right now, I have a treat for you." He presses a button on the table and a light above the panel door shifts from red to green.

  I glance at Damien curiously. "The panels lock to allow guests their privacy. When the food arrives, the server presses a button on the outside and the button turns red."