Complete Me (32 page)

He lifts a brow, but his smile is gentle. “Are you under the impression that I don’t need you, Nikki?”

“I—no. But I—” I stop, confused. Because the truth is, that has been my fear, but now that he has spoken it aloud, I feel foolish. I think of the way he claimed me the night he lost himself in a flurry of tennis balls. And all the times that he has bound me, controlled me, as a counterpoint to a world spinning away from him. We soothe each other, and I know that. I
see
that. And yet I still cannot quell the fear that while Damien wants me desperately, he doesn’t need me the way I need him. That he doesn’t love me as desperately as I love him.

He runs his fingers through my hair. “Do you remember what I told you in Munich? About not wanting to touch you with those images in my head.”

Remember?
How could I forget? But all I say is, “Of course.”

“I wasn’t entirely accurate.”

“Oh.” Since I don’t know what else to say, I simply wait.

“Pictures or not—those memories are always there. I can’t shake them. I’ve never shaken them. But you make them tolerable.” He is looking hard at me now, the emotion so raw it seems to cut right through me. “You’re what gives me strength. If I am what centers you, Nikki, then you are what anchors me. Every time I touch you, every time I bury myself deep inside you—Nikki, don’t you see? You are the talisman of my life, and if I lose my grip on you, then I have lost myself.”

“Damien,” I say, because I need to hear his name. His words swell inside me, as if they will make me burst at the seams. But I hold tight to them, for they are too precious to lose.

But though I believe his words, I cannot help but realize that however much he might think I anchor him, when the abyss loomed in Germany, I had no power to pull him back.

The thought makes me shudder, and I cling to him harder.

Because those photos are still out in the world. And they have the power to destroy the man that I love.

Chapter Twenty

By Tuesday morning, I once again feel like I have a grip on my life.

Damien and I did not stay at my office on Monday. He held me, fucked me, helped make me whole again. But that was not a place I wanted to be, and he took me to the Tower apartment, his penthouse at the top of Stark Tower. During the drive, he called Ryan, instructing him to go out to the Malibu house to check on both the security there and on Jamie.

In the penthouse, he settled me in a bath with a glass of wine. He pampered me with wine and cheese in bed. He coddled me with old movies, and he made love to me so sweetly my body sang, and when morning came I was willing to give the world another chance.

I am also acutely aware of reality, and that is why I am being driven to work by Edward, who I have learned is not only Damien’s driver, but part of the security team. And he has assured Damien that he will walk me into the office himself.

Which is why he balks when I tell him I want to stop first at Starbucks.

“Ms. Fairchild, this one doesn’t have a drive-through.”

“Just park in front. I won’t be five minutes.”

The privacy screen is down, and I can see his scowl when he looks at me in the rearview mirror.

I tilt my head and scowl back at him. “Do you really think someone is lying in wait in the coffee shop for me?”

“I think that anyone willing to call your mother for photographs is willing to study you, learn your habits, and be very, very patient.”

Since I can’t argue with that, I invite him to come in with me, sweetening the pot by offering to buy his coffee.

We’re standing in line, chatting about
The Fountainhead
—the audiobook he’s currently engrossed in—when the door opens and Monica comes in. She waves and hurries over. “I was hoping I’d see you today. I wanted to tell you to ignore them. They’re just money-grubbing pricks.”

I glance at Edward. I have no idea what she’s talking about. From the expression on Edward’s face, though, I think that he does.

“What?” I say, first to Monica and then to Edward.

“You haven’t seen? It was on one of those gossip sites this morning,” Monica says. “It’s probably been tweeted all over creation.”

“What has?” I repeat, speaking slowly and clearly.

Edward reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out an iPad. He taps it a few times, then hands it to me. “Mr. Stark thought it would be better not to bother you with this today.”

“Oh, really?” I glance at the screen and my stomach curls.
Yeah,
I think.
I could have lived without this.

The article is topped by a picture of Jamie in a teeny-tiny bikini walking on the beach. That picture features an inset of Damien’s Malibu house, along with helpful text to inform the average reader that Jamie is in Malibu, strutting her stuff at the home of billionaire Damien Stark.

HAS STARK BEEN NICKED FROM NIKKI?

According to sources in the know, billionaire Damien Stark—who some believe recently bought his way out of a murder conviction—has cooled his red hot romance with pageant pretty Nikki Fairchild in favor of Nikki’s roommate, Jamie Archer, an up-and-coming actress more recently seen on the arm (and who knows what else) of heartthrob Bryan Raine. According to sources in the Inland Empire, Archer was recently hospitalized following an accident which landed Archer in the ER and one of Stark’s prize Ferrari’s in the junkyard. And yet she’s still residing at Chez Stark? What do you think, kiddies? Surely it must be love.

But has Stark really ditched the Fair Child? Or is the king of excess looking for excess in his women, as well? According to insiders, Archer and Fairchild have been on-again-off-again lovers for years. True? We don’t know, but photographs circling on Twitter show the threesome looking all too cozy recently in Lake Arrowhead where Stark keeps a mountaintop love nest.

“That,” I say as I pass the iPad back to Edward, “is a load of crap. But Jamie’s going to be pleased. They said she was up-and-coming, after all.”

“So you’re not pissed?” Monica asks.

I shake my head. “Irritated. I’m sick to death of my personal life being twisted around in the press. But the story itself? It’s such bullshit it’s funny.”

“Well, I’m totally relieved,” Monica says. “I mean, I figured it was all crap, but it got to me anyway. I had a bad breakup,” she adds.

“I’m sorry.”

“We were hot and heavy for a long time, and then he decided he was in love with someone else. Men,” she adds, glancing at Edward with a tight little smile.

“That must have hurt.” I try to imagine Damien tossing me aside for somebody else, but the image just won’t play in my brain.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “It was like someone took a knife and sliced my heart to bits. But I’m okay,” she says with a sigh. “What we had was really special. And that girl? She’s just a fling. Temporary. He’s going to come back to me. I know it.”

I want to tell her to move on. Instead, I just smile and say, “I really hope you’re right.”

I treat Edward to a latte, and he walks me to the office. “I’ll bring the limo around as soon as we have you inside,” he says, then goes with me into the building and past reception. Once I’m settled in, he disappears, presumably to park the limo in the lot and listen to his audiobook until I’m ready to go.

Despite the fact that the last time I was in this office I was treated to images of myself with my face scratched off, I actually manage to get some work done, and I’m feeling rather smug about my productivity when Giselle calls to tell me that she won’t be coming by to show me any samples today.

“No problem. I’m going to skip out in a few hours anyway.” Tonight I’m cutting loose at Westerfield’s, and Jamie and I have already planned to spend hours obsessing about our wardrobe before we decide on the perfect outfits. Coupled with the flavored vodka we’ll undoubtedly be sipping, the whole process should be fun. “Is everything okay?” I ask Giselle.

“Couldn’t be better,” she trills. “A client coming in. One of my best ones.”

“Better be careful who you say that to. Damien won’t be keen on getting knocked from the top slot.”

There’s a pause, and then she lowers her voice. “To be honest, Damien is the client. But promise me you won’t say a word. I have a feeling he wants to buy a canvas for your office.”

I laugh, delighted. “Really? I promise to be surprised.”

I’m still smiling when Damien calls. “Hey,” I say. “I was just about to head back to Malibu to get ready for tonight. Are we going to grab something out for dinner, or do you want me to bribe Jamie to cook?”

“Why don’t you two pick your favorite restaurant—my treat—and I’ll meet you at the club later.”

“Work?”

“A meeting. I have a feeling it’ll run long.”

“Oh? Where will you be? We could have Edward swing by and pick you up when you’re done.”

I’m baiting him, of course, but he gives nothing away.

“You girls have fun,” he says firmly. “But not too much fun. Not until I get there, anyway. And, Nikki,” he adds, “I’ve already spoken to my manager about security at the club, so they’re stepping it up a notch. You’ll be watched.”

“All right,” I say. I’d expected as much.

“And I’m sending Ryan to the club. I want him with you until I get there.”

Now I do feel guilty. “Poor guy. He probably used to have a life before he had to start chasing my monsters.”

“There’s nothing he likes better than taking down a monster,” Damien says. “And the fact that I pay him so well makes it even more fun. Trust me, you don’t have to feel sorry for Ryan.”

I laugh. “Okay, then. But, Damien? Please hurry.”

Westerfield’s is loud and fun with some of the best bartenders and DJs in the city. Ollie and Jamie and I discovered it even before Damien was on my radar, but we’ve been by a few times since, and the bouncer who mans the VIP entrance gives me a little salute as Jamie and I approach. Edward escorts us to the door, but he doesn’t follow us in, returning instead to the limo.

I’m wearing a slinky silver skirt and matching tank top with three inch silver shoes. Jamie is my opposite in all black, the color unusually sophisticated for her. The style, however, adds the kick that Jamie usually finds in color. It is essentially backless, all the way down to the dimples just above her ass. The bodice is held in place by a series of loose black cords that crisscross over her shoulder blades. If someone with a pair of scissors took a snip, the dress would come tumbling down. We both look hot, if I do say so myself.

“Looking good, Ms. Fairchild,” the bouncer says as we strut past him. “Knock ’em dead, Ms. Archer.”

“This is why I love Damien,” Jamie says as we move down the exclusive hallway. “He hires staff that know how to properly suck up.”

I laugh as we reach the door that opens onto the public area of the club. Ryan emerges from the shadows to join us. He nods politely, but I see just the hint of a smile when he nods at Jamie. And, unless the light is playing tricks, I see an answering smile touch her lips.

Worry starts to buzz around me like a persistent gnat, and I tug on one of the black cords crisscrossing Jamie’s back to slow her down.

“What?” she says.

“That’s what I wanted to ask.” I cut a glance toward Ryan, and even in the dim light I see the way her cheeks flush.

I remember that Ryan went out to the house last night to check on security, and have to clamp my mouth shut so that I won’t scream. “Tell me you didn’t sleep with him,” I ask when I’m sure I won’t explode.

“Swear to God,” she says. “We talked. And he’s a total gentleman. I made him eggs.”

“You what?”

She lifts a shoulder. “He came out in a hurry because of that shit with you and the photos. And he hadn’t eaten. So I made him eggs. And he said he really liked them. Next time, I might try to make him a waffle. What?” she demands after a moment, peering hard at my face.

I realize I’ve been staring at her, a little pleased, a little baffled. “Nothing,” I say. “Just—I’m glad he likes your eggs.”

“Hey. What’s not to like?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just tosses a grin over her shoulder and hurries to catch up to him. I follow, then slow to a stop when I realize my phone is buzzing. I tug it out of my tiny purse and see the text from Giselle. I open it eagerly, hoping for gossip about the canvas Damien has bought for me. Instead, I stare at her words as if she’d written them in hieroglyphics.

I’m so sorry. I truly wanted to make amends. Things got out of hand.

I read it again, but it doesn’t make any more sense the second time than it did the first. I hit the button to call her back, but the call just rolls to voicemail.

“What is it?” Jamie asks when I catch up to her.

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. I’ll tell you later.” The club is too loud for conversation, and I don’t know enough, anyway.

We’re in the main area, now, just a few yards away from the dance floor. I glance around and finally see Ollie and Courtney waving from across the room. I already know that Lisa’s not coming, after all; she left me a voice mail earlier telling me she had to go to Sacramento on business, but promising she’d take a rain check.

Jamie and Ryan make it to Courtney and Ollie before I do. I take my time approaching, my eyes searching the area for Damien, but I see no sign of him.

“Hey, Courtney!” I’m genuinely happy to see her and pull her into an enthusiastic hug. My greeting to Ollie feels more forced, but we loosen up on the dance floor. Whatever issues we have between us, a danceable beat is sufficient to take the edge off.

“Listen, Nik,” Ollie says a half hour later as we are catching our breath to a somewhat slower song. “Can we talk?”

I stiffen, because I thought we’d tabled our shit for the night.

He doesn’t seem to notice my reaction, though. He leans in so that I am sure to hear him. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About the grief I’ve given you about Stark, I mean.”

I pull back so that I can see his face—and so that he can see my surprise.

He draws in a deep breath. “I know about the photos, Nik. Nobody should have that in his past.”

It’s warm in the club, but I feel suddenly cold. “He doesn’t want your pity.”