by J. Kenner
“Hi, Nikki, this is Lauren with the flowers for tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know that we’re all set. It was last minute, but we were happy to make the change.”
I frown and glance at Damien, who looks as confused as I feel.
“So we’ll be there in the morning to set up, this time with the lilies and gardenias. And we’re sending a selection over to Sally, too, for the cake. Thanks again, and we can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Congratulations again to you and Damien.”
The call ends, and I stare at the phone like it is a serpent.
What the fuck?
What the bloody fuck?
“She switched them,” I say. “My mother actually fucked with my wedding.” I meet Damien’s gaze. I know mine is angry. His is murderous. Not because of the flowers—I sincerely doubt he cares about sunflowers versus gardenias—but because of what that woman has done to me over and over and over.
“It’s like she’s reaching out from Texas and twisting the knife. Like there is no pleasure in her life unless she’s screwing with me.”
I stalk around the bedroom, trying to get my head together. I feel cold and angry and out of control. Whatever pleasure I’d felt when Damien and Evan presented me with my wedding dress has been swept away. It’s as if this wedding will never truly be my own. And now I either have to endure a wedding with my mother’s stamp upon it, or I have to spend my wedding day sorting out this mess.
“Dammit,” I howl.
“It will be okay,” Damien says, pulling me into his arms.
“I know it’ll be okay. It’s not like we’re talking about curing cancer. But that’s not the point. She just went and turned the whole thing around on me.”
“And at the end of the day, we’ll still be married,” he says reasonably.
I am in too bitchy a mood to listen to reason, but it’s still there. Inescapable and true and hanging in the air between us.
I stalk around the room a bit more, while Damien eyes me with trepidation, as if I’m a bomb about to go off.
Smart man.
Finally, the bubbling anger cools, leaving calm calculation.
I feel the prickle of an idea, and slowly it grows. After a few more laps around the room, I stop in front of Damien.
“I can fix this,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I can howl and complain that she fucked up my wedding. Or I can turn it around on its ear, flip my mother the bird, and say that she didn’t fuck up my wedding, she did me a favor.”
“Did she?”
My smile is slow. “Yes. And I’ll tell you why.” I grab the collar of Damien’s shirt, pull him toward me, once again feeling light and free. I kiss him hard. “I can tell you,” I repeat, and then flash a smile full of wicked intentions, “but you’re going to have to make me.”
Chapter 9
I stand on the third-floor balcony looking out at the calm Pacific. It is a beautiful evening, perfect for an outdoor wedding.
It is almost sunset. Just about time for the ceremony to begin.
Damien is beside me, his arm around my waist. The expanse of his property, lush green fading to pale sand, spreads out before us.
Usually, the beach is empty this time of day. Right now, however, it is dotted with white tents and glowing lanterns. Guests mingle, indistinguishable from this distance, and I hear the soft strains of Frank Sinatra drifting up to us. Beyond the line of tents, the paparazzi are camped out, ready to pounce.
I can’t help but smile at the thought that we’re pulling something over on those vultures.
Beyond them, the Pacific glows a warm purple tinged with orange from the swiftly setting sun.
Soon, I think. Soon I will be Mrs. Damien Stark.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” Damien asks as the air fills with the thrum of his helicopter. It swoops down in front of us to settle gently on the helipad.
I take one more look at the panorama spread out before me. “I’m sure,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the rotors.
Below us, Gregory and Tony are loading suitcases into the bird.
I rise up on my toes and kiss Damien, hard and fast and deep. I pull away, breathless, and smile at the irony—it took a shove from my mother to drive home something I should have realized all along.
I press my palm to Damien’s chest, wanting to feel the beat of his heart beneath my hand. “It’s not the walk down the aisle that matters—it’s the man waiting for me when I get there. You said it yourself, it’s the only wedding I’ll ever have, and this is the way I want it.” No stress, no drama, no paparazzi. No polite chitchat, no worries about music or food or flowers or unexpected relatives showing up out of the blue. Just Damien and those two little words—I do.
“And all the work you’ve put into the reception?” he asks, even though we talked about this last night—about how I’d been working so hard for perfection that I lost sight of what Damien already knew—that so long as we end up as man and wife, “perfect” is a given.
Still, I indulge him by answering again. I understand he needs to be certain that I am sure I want to do this.
“The party’s important, too,” I say. “And they’ll have a great one.” I nod toward the beach. “Trust me. Jamie has it under control. If anyone knows how to make sure a crowd has a good time at a party, it’s my best friend.” I smile more broadly. “I asked Ryan to help her. They’ll party through the night, and anyone who has a mind to can watch us get married in the morning. And Evelyn promised to spin the crap out of it for the press.”
Damien’s smile is as wide as my own. “I love you, Ms. Fairchild,” he says.
“You won’t be able to say that much longer. Soon it’ll be Mrs. Stark.”
He takes my hand and tugs me toward the stairs. “Then let’s go,” he says. “The sooner, the better.”
We hurry hand in hand down the stairs, then sprint for the helicopter, heads down, laughing. Damien helps me aboard, and once we’re strapped in, he signals the pilot and the bird takes off.
So, with the guests waving goodbye from the beach and the paparazzi snapping wildly, we elope into the sunset, leaving our wedding guests to eat our food, drink our champagne, and dance into the night.
—
Damien and I stand on a beach beside a foaming sea that is shifting away from the gray of night into a cacophony of colors with the rising sun. That was something else I’d realized: I couldn’t get married at sunset. I had to have a sunrise wedding.
I am wearing my wedding dress and the necklace that Damien gave me, and when I saw the look in Damien’s eyes as I walked the short distance down the aisle to him, I knew that whatever trouble it took to rescue the dress was worth it. I feel like a princess. Hell, I feel like a bride. And in Damien’s eyes, I feel beautiful.
I am not wearing shoes, and I curl my toes into the sand, feeling wild and decadent and free. There is no stress, there are no worries. There is simply this wedding and the man beside me, and that is all that I need.
In front of us, a Mexican official is performing the ceremony in broken, heavily accented English. I am pretty sure I have never heard anything more beautiful.
“Do you take this man?” he asks, and I say the words that have been in my heart from the moment I first met Damien. “I do.”
“I do,” says Damien in turn. He is facing me as he speaks, and I can see the depth of emotion in his dual-colored eyes. Mine, he mouths, and I nod. It is true. I am his, and always will be.
And Damien Stark is mine.
A few feet away, a small boy who has been paid some pesos is holding Damien’s phone, streaming video of our wedding back to Malibu, where Jamie is projecting the ceremony onto one of the tent walls, just in case any of the guests are still sober and awake after a long night of partying.
Here on our beach, the official pronounces us man and wife. The words crash over me, heavy with meaning, filling my soul. “That day,” I whisper, my heart full to bursting. “Th
at day when you asked me to pose for you—I never expected it to end like this.”
“But it hasn’t ended, Mrs. Stark. This is just the beginning.” His voice sounds full to bursting, and his words are absolutely perfect.
I nod, because he is right, and because I am so overwhelmed by the moment I can manage nothing else.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, then captures my mouth with his. The kiss is long and deep, and all around us the locals clap and cheer.
I cling to Damien, never wanting to let go, as the sun continues to rise around us, casting us in the glow of morning.
Perfect, I think. Because the sun will never set between Damien and me. Not today, not ever.
have me
Chapter 1
Mrs. Damien Stark.
Those three simple words fill my thoughts as they have all morning, ever since I spoke the magic words that transformed me from Nikki Louise Fairchild, a single woman, to Nikki Fairchild Stark, a wife.
I feel the tug of muscles as my mouth curves up into a grin, followed by the tightening of Damien’s hand around mine. “You’re smiling,” he says.
“I can’t seem to stop,” I admit. We have been walking side by side along a Mexican beach, the cool water of the Pacific rising up to froth around our ankles, then rushing back out again in a rhythm as old as time.
Now I turn to face him, and my breath catches in my throat even as my pulse picks up tempo. I have looked at him so many times, and yet every glimpse is like the first. He is power and perfection, love and honor. He is the culmination of my dreams, the embodiment of my fantasies.
He is the future, I think.
Most of all, he is mine.
He is standing with his back to the ocean, the blue sky spread wide behind him as the waves churn around his feet. He wears swim trunks low on his hips and an open short-sleeved button-down. It catches the breeze, the white material emphasizing his athletic build and the sleek, tanned chest that my fingers itch to stroke.
Even dressed so casually, Damien looks like a mythical god rising from the sea, a being so powerful that even the elements cower at his command. And in a moment of giddy certainty I know that this man would have been as successful on a battlefield as he is in a boardroom.
Not for the first time, I think about the fragility of circumstance. What if we had been born a hundred years apart, or even twenty, or ten? What if he hadn’t judged that beauty pageant so many years ago? What if I had caved to my mother and become a model instead of pursuing my dreams? And what if I’d slapped his face instead of accepting his offer of one million dollars in exchange for a nude portrait of me?
I would have survived, yes, but surviving isn’t the same as living, and with Damien, I am vibrantly, brilliantly, happily alive.
I tell him my thoughts, wishing I had the words to truly describe the way my heart swells with both relief and gratitude when I think about how even the tiniest snip of the threads in the tapestry of time could have sent our lives spiraling down different paths.
“You’re a miracle,” I conclude, hoping that he understands despite the inadequacy of my words.
“No,” he counters. “We’re the miracle.” His words make me shiver, because Damien Stark gets me in a way no one else ever has, or ever will. And that, I think, is the real miracle.
I watch as he glances at his wrist, then grimaces in wry amusement when he doesn’t find a watch there. I laugh. “Out of your element, Mr. Stark?”
“Happily roughing it,” he counters, then turns toward the horizon. “What time do you think it is?” he asks. “Almost eleven?”
The sun looks down upon us from above, and I tilt my head back, shielding my eyes with my hand as I gaze at its white-hot heat. This is the time of day when the sand glitters and light sparkles off the ocean’s froth like liquid fire. Appropriate, I think. Because right now, I want nothing more than to burn in Damien’s arms.
“That’s probably about right,” I say. “Why? Do you have some pressing engagement?”
He grins in response to the amusement in my voice. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
I raise my brows in legitimate surprise. “Oh, really?” I’m certain he hasn’t planned a lunch. After all, we had a romantic breakfast on the beach right after our wedding ceremony, and that was only a few hours ago. We’d indulged in everything from delicate crepes to plump berries to coffee with thick, heavy cream. No way is he hungry again already.
“All right,” I say. “Out with it. What’s up?”
He says nothing, but merely hooks his arm through mine. “We should be getting back.”
I narrow my eyes, but fail at my effort to look stern. Because, of course, I know what he has planned. Or at least I know the gist of it. This is our wedding day, after all. And there are certain traditional ways of passing the time immediately after tying the knot. Frankly, I’m all for that plan. What I don’t know are the specifics of what Damien has in mind.
I examine his face, noting in particular the determined gleam in his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
His mouth twitches as he fights a smile. “Not even if you beg.” He leans toward me, then brushes his lips over mine. “And I do like it when you beg,” he adds, his voice full of wicked promises.
The kiss is soft and teasing, but my reaction is anything but gentle, and I have to fight the urge to press myself hard against him as a familiar heat pools between my thighs. “Damien,” I say, and I hear something close to desperation in my voice. Passion is never far beneath the surface with the two of us, and just that simple kiss has sent fire rippling through and over me.
I reach out and grab his shirtfront, then use it as a lever to pull him closer even as I move toward him. The air between us is charged, and I feel the surge of electricity rush through me as I press against his bare chest, now slick from the heat and humidity.
Beneath the thin material of my bikini top, my nipples tighten, and I make a small sound of longing. I changed out of my wedding dress before breakfast, and now I am wearing only this small top, tiny bikini bottoms, and a sheer pink sarong wrapped around my hips and knotted at the side. But even such minimal attire is too much. I want nothing but skin on skin, and I ease my hips forward, desperate to feel him against me.
He is hard, his erection straining against his baggy trunks. I shift my hold on him, cupping my hands on his ass and pulling him tighter, closer. He groans, the sound so full of desperate need that my entire body quivers, and I think that I might come simply from the force of his desire.
But no—I want more. I want to pull him down with me into the sand. This man who is my husband.
I want his hands upon me, his cock inside me. I want his lips, his touch. I want his heat.
I want everything he can give and more.
Best of all, I know that he wants it, too.
“Damien,” I whisper, then release him as I fumble at the knot on my hip. The sarong is thin and gauzy, but it will suffice as a makeshift blanket.
His hand closes over mine, and I tremble with anticipation. I draw my hand away, then close my eyes, more than willing to let him undress me.
Except he doesn’t.
I stand for a moment, confused and disoriented, then open my eyes to find him looking at me. I see the desire on his face, as vibrant and wild as my own need. And yet he makes no move to touch me again. On the contrary, he takes a single step back, his eyes never leaving mine.
He is denying us both, and that simple fact both pisses me off and turns me on.
I gather self-control around me like a cloak, then lift an eyebrow. “Playing games, Mr. Stark?”
“Absolutely,” he says with a wicked grin. “And just in case you’ve forgotten, I don’t play if I can’t win.”
“Really?” I say, enjoying myself. “And what’s the prize?”
He steps closer, still not touching me, but so close that I can hear my own heartbeat echoing against the hard breadth of his chest. “You are.”
My heart flutters in my chest. Even now—even married—he makes me feel as deliciously alive as I did the first time he touched me. “In that case,” I whisper, the words thick with the weight of truth, “you’ve already won.”
He reaches out and strokes my cheek so gently I’m not sure that I can truly distinguish his touch from the breeze. “Yes,” he says. “I have.”
He twines his fingers with mine, then starts to lead me across the sandy beach toward a boardwalk.
“At least tell me where we’re going.”
“Back,” he says.
I start to say that I had already figured that much out. We are on a secluded beach, in a remote part of Mexico that I can’t pronounce and couldn’t ever find again. After deciding to skip the wedding drama and elope, we’d left LA in one of Damien’s private jets. We’d left it at a fair-sized airport with Damien’s regular pilot, Grayson, who I presume has taken it back to the States. Damien and I had been chauffeured across the airport in a Jeep, then boarded a small, single-engine prop plane with only two seats and a tiny cargo area. Damien himself had taken us the rest of the way.
Damien explained the switch in aircraft by telling me that the runway where we were going couldn’t accommodate a jet. As it turns out, “runway” was a bit of an exaggeration. The landing strip was little more than a length of packed dirt. I’d been terrified that I would die before we arrived and could take our vows. Damien had been exhilarated.
And while I might have preferred a plane with more than one engine and some asphalt to land on, I wouldn’t have traded the look on Damien’s face for anything. Not the joy I saw as he maneuvered the craft, nor the pride and expectation when we deplaned, climbed into a waiting Jeep, and drove the short distance to the remote—and utterly spectacular—resort.
The property is small, with fewer than ten guests at any time. It caters exclusively to couples looking for a romantic retreat, and from what I’ve seen so far, the owners know their business well. For although our personal concierge told me that the resort is fully booked, neither Damien nor I have seen any sign of the other four couples. Instead, it is as if we are alone on this remote stretch of beach—or as alone as one can be with a staff who caters to your every whim.