Claim Me: A Novel (42 page)

I am trembling with relief from his words, and can only nod stupidly.

“I’ve been in hell without you,” he says. “Every minute was a fight against temptation. I wanted to send a plane for you. To say to hell with whatever was best for you and scoop you up for my own selfish needs.”

I lick my lips. “I think I would have been okay with that.”

“No,” he says, with an awed shake of his head. “I was so proud of you. Those things you said. The risks you took. You exorcised the demons, Nikki. The press may be an irritation, but you’ve taken their power away. They can’t destroy you. Not about that. Maybe not about anything.”

“It was easy. I just remembered how strong you’re always telling me I am.”

He brushes his fingertips across my cheek. Then he closes his mouth over mine in a long, deep welcoming kiss that makes my knees go weak and the rest of my body tingle in anticipation of his touch.

“I want to make love to you,” he says.

“Thank God,” I reply, which makes him laugh.

“But we can’t.”

I look up at him, suddenly afraid that I’ve been wrong and that he’s going to kick me out after all.

“I have to go meet with my attorneys.”

“Oh. Well, later?”

“Most definitely later. And for a very long time. But right now, would you come with me? I want you beside me when I meet with the lawyers.”

“Of course,” I say. “So does this mean I can stay?”

“You damn well better.” He slowly smiles, his eyes bright.

“What?” I say.

“I’m just hoping that you’re not a mirage.”

My smile widens. “I’m real.”

“Prove it,” he says, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the emerald ankle bracelet. I gasp. “Put it on,” he says.

“But how—”

“I went back,” he says, bending to fasten it around my ankle, the light brush of his finger against my skin sending shockwaves rippling through me. “I had to have you with me … even if only a talisman.”

“Damien.” My voice is choked, my heart too full.

He stands, then presses a finger to my lips. “Later. Say too much and we’ll never get out of here. I want you right now—but I can’t miss this meeting.”

I grin and follow him to the door, anticipating later.

He pauses at the threshold. “Just one more thing. When I said you could stay? What I meant to say was I love you.”

I’m looking right at him as he speaks, and his eyes are shining. My mouth curls up into a delighted smile, and I find myself laughing like a child.

So what that we’re facing a murder trial? Damien and I love each other.

And right now, that’s enough for me.

Fear yanks me from a deep sleep, and I sit bolt upright in a room shrouded with gray, the muted green light from a digital alarm clock announcing that it is just after midnight. My breath comes in gasps, and my eyes are wide but unseeing. The last remnant of an already forgotten nightmare brushes against me like the tattered hem of a specter’s cloak, powerful enough to fill me with terror, and yet so insubstantial that it evaporates like mist when I try to grasp it.

I do not know what frightened me. I only know that I am alone in an unfamiliar room, and that I am scared.

Alone?

I turn swiftly in bed, shifting my body as I reach out to my right. But I know even before my fingers brush the cool, expensive sheets that he is not there.

I may have fallen asleep in Damien’s arms, but I have awakened alone.

At least now I know the source of the nightmare. It is the same fear I have faced every day and every night for almost two weeks. The fear I try to hide beneath a plastic smile as I sit beside
Damien day in and day out as his attorneys go over his defense in meticulous detail. As they explain the procedural ins-and-outs of a murder trial under German law. As they practically beg him to shine a light into the dark corners of his childhood because they know, as I do, that those secrets are his salvation.

But Damien remains stubbornly mute, and I am left huddled against this pervasive fear that I will lose him. That he will be taken from me.

And not just fear. I’m also fighting the damnable, overwhelming, panic-inducing knowledge that there isn’t a goddamn thing in the world I can do. Nothing except wait and watch and hope.

But I do not like waiting, and I have never put my faith in hope. It is a cousin of fate, and both are too mercurial for my taste. What I crave is action, but the only one who can act is Damien, and he has steadfastly refused.

And that, I think, is the worst cut of all. Because while I understand the reason for his silence, I can’t quell the selfish spark of anger. Because at the core of it all, it’s not just himself that Damien is sacrificing. It’s me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears to remain at bay. My anger is unfair, and I know it. But I’m just so damn scared.

I take slow, even breaths, and after a moment, I feel calmer. I realize that I am splayed across Damien’s side of the bed, and I breathe even deeper, as if his scent alone can bolster me and erase my fears.

But it isn’t enough. I need the man himself, and I peel myself away from the cool comfort of our bed and stand up. I’m naked, and I bend to retrieve the white, lush robe provided by the Hotel Kempinski. Damien brushed it back off my shoulders after our shower last night, and I left it where it fell, a soft pile of cotton beside the bed.

The sash is a different story, and I have to dig in the rumpled
sheets to find it. Last night, it had bound my wrists behind my back. Now, I tie it around my waist and tug it tight, relishing the luxurious comfort after waking so violently. The room itself is equally soothing, every detail done to perfection. Every piece of wood polished, every tiny knickknack or artistic addition thoughtfully arranged. Right now, however, I am oblivious to the room’s charms. I only want to find Damien.

The bedroom connects to an oversized dressing area and a stunning bathroom, but though I check briefly in both, I do not see him, and I continue through to the living area. The space is large and also well-appointed with comfortable seating and a round worktable that is now covered with sheaths of papers and folders representing both the business that Damien is continuing to run despite the world collapsing around our ears, and the various legal documents that his attorney, Charles Maynard, has left for Damien to study.

The room is exactly as we left it last night, even down to the two crystal high ball glasses on the coffee table that held the whiskey we’d sipped while we sat talking on the couch, my feet in his lap and his fingers casually stroking my leg. My skin tingles from the mere memory of his touch, and I cannot help but smile. Despite the circumstances, the night was sweet. This is our last night before the proceedings officially begin, and by some unspoken agreement we said nothing about the reason that we are here in Munich. There was only the two of us and the fire that is forever between us. A fire that started with only the soft glow of coals during dinner, and then exploded into a pyrotechnical display when he finally took me to bed.

Was that really only a few hours ago?

For that matter, can it really be true that Damien’s trial will begin only a few hours from now?

The thought makes me shudder, and although it is far too obvious that I am alone in this massive suite, I glance once more
around the room, as if by the force of my will alone I can make Damien appear before me.

No such luck.

Frowning, I wander to the table and then to the bar, hoping to find a note. But there is nothing. I pick up the receiver on the house phone and dial zero. Almost immediately there is an accented voice on the other end. “How may I help you, Ms. Fairchild?”

Relief crashes over me. “He’s down there?” I whisper, though I know the answer must be yes. Why else would the concierge assume that I am the caller, and not Damien?

“Mr. Stark is in the Jahreszeiten Bar. Shall I have a phone brought to his table?”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll get dressed and come down.”

“
Sehr gut
. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you.” I’m about to hang up when I realize there is something. “Wait!” I catch him before he clicks off, then inveigle his help with my plan to distract Damien from whatever nighttime demons urged him from our bed and down to the lobby.

I dress quickly, literally grabbing the first thing I see. We’ve spent a few hours escaping reality over the last few days by shopping on Munich’s famous Maximilianstrasse, and I have acquired so many shoes and dresses I could open my own boutique. Last night, Damien had been far too cavalier when he peeled a stunning trompe l’oeil patterned sheath off me. Considering that dress cost more than my first car, I thought it deserved more than a careless toss across the back of an armchair.

Now, though, I’m glad it’s there. I let the robe drop where I stand and pull the dress on, then run my fingers through my hair. I force myself not to go into the bathroom to primp and freshen the make-up that has surely rubbed off. It’s more challenging
than it sounds; the mantra that a lady doesn’t go out unfinished has been beaten into my head since birth. But with Damien at my side I have thumbed my nose at many of the tribulations of my youth, and right now I am more concerned with finding him than with applying fresh lipstick.

I shove my feet into a nearby pair of pumps, grab my bag, and hurry out the door toward the elevator. Despite the age of the building and the elegance of the interior, the hotel boasts a modern feel, and I have come to feel at home within these walls. I wait impatiently for the elevator, and then even more impatiently once I’m in the car. The descent seems to take forever, and when the doors finally open to reveal the opulent lobby, I aim myself straight for the old English style bar.

Despite the late hour on a Sunday, the Jahreszeiten Bar is bustling. A woman stands by the piano softly singing to the gathered crowd. I barely pay her any heed. I don’t expect to find Damien among the listeners.

Instead, I wander through the wood and red leather interior, shaking off the help of a waiter who wants to seat me. I pause for a moment, standing idly beside a blonde woman about my age who is sipping champagne and laughing with a man who might be her father, but I’m betting is not. I turn slowly, taking in the room around me. Damien is not with the group at the piano, nor is he sitting at the bar. And he does not occupy any of the red leather chairs that are evenly spaced around the tables.

I’m starting to worry that perhaps he was leaving as I was coming when I remember the fireplace. The last time we came down here, we drank Glenfiddich and talked about all the things we were going to do when we returned to Los Angeles. But tonight, I see no fireplace.

I move to the left and realize that what I thought was a solid wall was actually an optical illusion created by a pillar. Now I
can see the rest of the room, including the flames leaping in the fireplace set into the opposite wall. There is a small loveseat and two chairs surrounding the hearth. And, yes, there is Damien.

I immediately exhale, my relief so intense I almost use the blonde’s shoulder to steady myself. He is seated in one of the chairs, his back to me and the rest of the room as he faces the flames. His shoulders are broad and straight, and more than capable of bearing the weight of the world upon them. I wish, however, that they didn’t have to.

I move toward him, the sound of my approach muffled by both the thick carpet and the din of conversation. I pause a few feet behind him, already feeling the familiar pull I experience whenever I am near Damien, as if he is a magnet and I am inexorably drawn to him. Across the room, the singer is now crooning
Since I Fell For You
, her voice cutting sharp and clear across the room, as if she is serenading Damien and me alone. Her voice is so mournful that I’m afraid it is going to unleash a flood of tears along with all of the stress of the last few days.

No
. I’m here to comfort Damien, not the other way around, and I continue toward him with renewed resolve. I press my hand to his shoulder, and bend down, my lips brushing his ear. “Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?”

I hear rather than see his answering smile. “That depends on who’s asking.” He doesn’t turn to face me, but he lifts his arm so that his hand is held up in a silent invitation. I close my hand in his, and he guides me gently around the chair until I am standing in front of him. I know every line of this man’s face. Every angle, every curve. I know his lips, his expressions. I can close my own eyes and picture his, dark with desire, bright with laughter. I have only to look at his midnight-colored hair to imagine the soft, thick locks between my fingers. There is nothing about him that is not intimately familiar to me, and yet every glance at him
hits me like a shock, reverberating through me with enough power to knock me to my knees.

Empirically, he is gorgeous. But it is not simply his looks that overwhelm. It is the whole package. The power, the confidence, the bone-deep sensuality that he couldn’t shake even if he tried.

He is exceptional. And he is mine.