Claim Me: A Novel (2 page)

I am so lost in my thoughts that I don’t realize that Blaine has approached me. He taps my lower lip with the end of his paintbrush and I jump.

“Damn, Nikki, you were in the zone.”

“Are you done?” I do not mind posing, and Blaine has become a good friend. But right then, I just want him gone. Right then, all I want is Damien.

“Almost.” He holds his hands up, looking at me through his
makeshift frame. “Right here,” he says, using the brush to indicate. “The light on your shoulder, the way your skin glows, the mix of colors …” He trails off as he walks back to the portrait. “Damn,” he finally says. “I am a fucking genius. This is you, kid. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you could walk right off the canvas.”

“So you’re done? I can come look?” I turn without thinking, realizing too late that he probably wanted me to stay still. But suddenly I don’t care. All thoughts vanish. Blaine, the painting, the world around me. Because it’s not the painting that I see. It’s Damien.

He is right where I’d imagined him, standing on the top step, leaning casually against the wrought-iron banister and looking even yummier in real life than he did in my mind. I might have spent the entire afternoon with him, but it doesn’t matter. Every glimpse of him is like ambrosia, and I will never get my fill.

I soak him in, my eyes lingering on every perfect feature. His defined jaw highlighted by the shadow of stubble. The wind-tossed black hair, thick and smooth and so familiar to my fingers. And his eyes. Those amazing dual-colored eyes that are focused so intently right now that I can feel the weight of his gaze upon my skin.

He is dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. But even in such informal attire, there is nothing casual about Damien Stark. He is power personified, energy harnessed. And my only fear is the knowledge that one can neither capture nor hold on to a lightning bolt, and I do not want to lose this man.

His eyes meet mine, and I shiver from the shock of the connection. The athlete, the celebrity, the entrepreneur, the billionaire persona all fall away, leaving only the man and an expression that makes my blood heat and my insides curl with longing. An expression that is so raw and primal that were I not already naked, I’m certain that every stitch of clothing would have turned to ash, burned away by the heat in his eyes.

My skin prickles, and I have to force myself not to move. “Damien,” I whisper, unable to resist the feel of his name upon my lips. The word seems to hang in the room, trapped in the air that is thick between us.

By the easel, Blaine clears his throat. Damien shifts enough to look at him, and I think it is surprise that I see on his face, as if he’d forgotten that we aren’t alone. He crosses the distance to Blaine and stands at the artist’s side in front of the huge portrait. From my position, I can see the wooden frame across which the canvas is stretched and, to the side, the two men studying an image that is hidden from my view.

My heart pounds against my rib cage and my gaze does not waver from Damien’s face. There is something rapturous in his eyes, as if he is looking up at an object of worship, and his silent benediction makes my knees go weak. I want to reach out a hand and steady myself on the frame of the bed beside which I’m posing, but my wrists are still bound behind my back.

My immobility reminds me of the situation, and I fight another smile—I am not free. I am Damien’s.

In Blaine and Damien’s original concept for the portrait, I’d simply stood in this spot, the gossamer drapes set to flutter about me, my face turned away from the artist. The image was sensual, but aloof, as if someone was yearning for that woman but would never touch her. The portrait was stunning, but something was missing. Damien suggested that we contrast the free-flowing drapes that graze lightly over my skin with the constriction of a bloodred rope, and that we bind my hands behind me.

I didn’t hesitate to agree. I wanted the man. Wanted to be bound to him. To belong to him. To be claimed by him.

No longer would my image be unattainable. Instead, the woman in the portrait was a prize. An ephemeral goddess tamed by a worthy man.

Damien
.

I search his face, looking for clues to his assessment of the portrait, but there is nothing. This is his corporate expression, the unreadable mask he wears so as to not give away his secrets. Damien is extremely good at hiding his secrets.

“Well?” I ask, when I can stand it no longer. “What do you think?”

For a moment, Damien remains silent. Beside him, Blaine shifts nervously. And though only seconds pass, the air is thick with the weight of eternity. I can almost taste Blaine’s frustration, and I understand the impulse when he finally blurts out, “Come
on
, man. It’s perfect, right?”

Damien’s shoulders rise and fall as he draws in a deep breath then faces Blaine with respect. “It’s more than perfect,” he says, turning to me. “It’s her.”

Blaine’s smug grin is like sunshine. “I gotta say, I’ve never been shy about bragging on my own work, but this is … well, it’s wow. Real. Sensual. Most of all, it’s honest.”

Damien’s eyes never leave mine, and I draw a shaky breath. My pulse pounds so loudly it’s a surprise I can hear anything else. I’m certain that the rising and falling of my chest must be visible, and I fear that Blaine can tell that I’m trying desperately to quell the wellspring of desire that bubbles violently within me. It takes all my effort not to beg Blaine to leave the room, to cry out for Damien to kiss me. To touch me.

A sharp
beep
shatters the heavy silence, and Damien yanks the phone out of his pocket, then spits out a curse when he reads the text. I see the shadows gather on his face as he slides the phone back, the message unanswered. I press my lips together as my skin begins to prickle with the first stirrings of worry.

Blaine, his head tilted as he inspects the canvas, is oblivious. “Nik, don’t move. I just want to touch up the light right here, and—”

The shrill ring of Damien’s phone interrupts Blaine’s words. I
expect Damien to ignore the call as he had the text, but he surprises me by answering. But not before moving out of the room with such swift, firm steps that I barely even hear the curt, “What?”

He does not meet my eyes.

I force myself to stand still for Blaine, fighting a sudden wave of fear. This is not a business call; Damien Stark does not get upset over business. On the contrary, he thrives on the chase, on the conquest.

No, this is something else, and I can’t help but think about the threats that have been made against him, and the secrets that I know he still keeps. Damien has seen me stripped bare in every way possible. And yet it seems as though I’ve only seen glimpses of him, and those cast in shadows.

Get a grip, Nikki
. Wanting privacy for a phone conversation isn’t the same as keeping a secret. And every phone call isn’t some grand conspiracy to hide either his past or some new danger.

I know all of that. Even more, I believe it. But sane rationality doesn’t soothe the little pang in my heart or the knot of fear that sits tight in my belly, and standing stock-still and naked and bound is not a straight path to well-adjusted thoughts. Rather, it’s a twisting, winding road of angst, and I’m suddenly careening down it without brakes, and hating myself for going there.

I want to hug myself, but my bound wrists make that impossible.

The truth is that I’ve been on pins and needles since my former boss made his threats against Damien. Carl’s company had pitched a project to Stark Applied Technology, and when Damien declined, Carl blamed me. He fired me, too, but he didn’t stop there, and the last time I saw him he promised to fuck Damien over. So far, nothing has happened. But Carl is determined and resourceful, and in his mind, he has the moral high ground. As
far as he’s concerned, Damien squelched one of Carl’s most important business deals. The projected loss of capital must be in the millions, and Carl isn’t the kind of man who would consider either the money or the slight to be water under the bridge.

That fact that nothing has happened in over a week bothers me. What could his silence mean? I’ve thought about it and thought about it, and the only conclusion I can reach is that something has happened—and Damien has chosen not to tell me.

I might be wrong—I hope I am. But worry and fear twist inside me, cruelly whispering that although Damien has shone a light onto all my secrets, his are still shrouded in gray.

“Well, hell, Nikki. Now you’re frowning.” Blaine’s gripe is laced with a chuckle. “Sometimes I wish I could crawl into that mind of yours. I’d love to know what you’re thinking.”

I manage a smile. “Deep thoughts,” I say. “But not bad ones.”

“Good,” he says, but there’s a question mark in his eyes, and maybe even a hint of concern. I wonder what Evelyn, Blaine’s lover who’s known Damien since childhood, has told him about Damien’s past. For that matter, I wonder if Blaine knows more than I do about the man who has consumed me so completely. The thought only makes me frown more.

Damien is gone only a few minutes, and when he returns I am overwhelmed by the urge to run to him. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Nothing that looking at you won’t make better.”

I laugh, hoping he doesn’t notice that the sound is hollow. Once again, he is wearing the face he shows the public. But I am not the public, and I know better. I look hard at him, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. When they do, it is like a switch has been thrown. The hard lines of his mouth curve into a genuine smile, and once again I am alight with the glow of Damien.

He walks toward me, and my pulse increases with the tempo of his steps. He stops only inches from me, and I am suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe. After everything we’ve done together—after every hurt he’s soothed and every secret he’s seen—how is it that every moment with Damien can feel like the first one?

“Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?”

“I—” I draw in a breath and try again. “Yes,” I say. “As much as you mean to me.”

I am trapped in the heat of his gaze and his proximity. He’s not touching me, but he might as well be. There is nothing about me at that moment that isn’t a reflection of Damien, of how I feel about him and what he’s doing to me. I want to soothe him, want to stroke his cheek and run my fingers through his hair. I want to pull his head to my breast and whisper soft words, and I want to make love to him slowly and sweetly until the shadows of the night are gone and the morning light bathes us in color.

From his post at the canvas, Blaine coughs politely. Damien’s lips curve up in a grin that matches my own. We’ve done nothing more than look into each other’s eyes, and yet it feels as though Blaine has witnessed something deeply intimate.

“Yeah, right. So, I’m going to head on out. The cocktail party’s not until seven on Saturday, right? So I’ll come by that afternoon and see if she needs any last minute touch-ups. And I’ll take care of hanging her when I set up the rest of the canvases on easels.”

“Perfect,” Damien says, not looking at him.

“I gotta say,” Blaine adds, as he gathers his things, “I’m going to miss this.”

For just an instant, I think I see something melancholy in Damien’s eyes, but it passes almost immediately. “Yes,” he says. “So am I.”

I’m not sure when Blaine leaves, I only know that he’s gone, and Damien is still there, and he’s still not touching me, and that
I’m going to go a little crazy if I don’t feel his hands upon me soon.

“Is it really done?” I ask. “I still haven’t seen it.”

“Come here.”

He reaches out, and I shift to give him my back, expecting him to untie me. He doesn’t, though. Instead he puts his hand on my shoulder and eases me toward the canvas. I have to move carefully because of the red silk cord wrapped around my left leg, but he doesn’t make any effort to untangle me. And he certainly doesn’t bother to pass me the robe that’s laid out on the foot of the bed.

I grimace, lifting my brows in question. Damien doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Why, Ms. Fairchild, surely you don’t expect me to sabotage such an amazing opportunity.”

“Mmm.” I try to sound harsh, but I’m pretty certain he can hear the laughter in my voice.

He doesn’t respond, though, because we’ve reached the painting. I gasp—it’s me, yes. The curve of my ass, the swell of my breast. But it’s more than me. The image is alluring and submissive, strong and yet vulnerable. It’s also anonymous, as Damien had promised. In the portrait, my face is turned away, and my golden curls are piled atop my head, a few tendrils spilling down to caress my neck and shoulders. In the real world, those curls no longer exist, my long tresses having recently been traded for a shoulder-length cut.

I frown, remembering the weight of the scissors in my hands, remembering the way I’d hacked at my hair when what I’d really wanted was to take that sharp edge to my flesh. I’d been lost then, certain that the only way back was to hold fast to the pain like a lifeline.

I shiver. It’s not a memory I like.

Automatically, my gaze dips to the legs of the girl in the portrait. But her
—my
—thighs are close together and angled such
that the worst of the scars aren’t visible. The scar on my left hip is, though. But Blaine has managed to make that raised welt part of the beauty of the painting. The edges are blurred, almost as if it’s in soft focus, and the red cord skims over the marred flesh, as if being bound too tight caused the wounds.

When you get right down to it, I suppose that’s true.

I look away, unnerved by the inescapable reality that the girl on the canvas is beautiful, even despite the scars.

“Nikki?”

I glance out of the corner of my eye and see that Damien is looking at me, not the painting, and there is concern on his face.

“He’s talented,” I say, my lips flickering into a conjured smile. “It’s a wonderful portrait.”

“It is,” he agrees. “Everything about it is exactly what I want.” There’s a familiar heat in his voice, and I understand both his spoken words and what remains unsaid.

I smile, and this time it doesn’t feel plastic.