by J. Kenner
"I do. When I touch you. When I see your skin tremble with desire. When your muscles tighten and draw me in. What is it you think that you're doing to me other than making me feel more deeply than I ever have before?"
"But you're the one in control." I shift my hips a little, silently letting him know that I hold the control now.
"No." He shakes his head. "That's an illusion. It's you, Nikki. You have captured me utterly, and you hold my heart in your hands. Be gentle with it. It's more fragile than you might think."
I swallow, then blink, moved by his words. Gently, I run my fingertip over his jawline, enjoying the feel of his beard stubble against my skin. I lean over, my body pressed to his, and draw his mouth into a slow, deep kiss.
"What do you want?" I ask once I've broken the kiss. "Right now, if you could have me any way you wanted, what would you have me do?"
"Right now, I want you beside me," he says. "I want to hold you."
His words undo me, and my throat feels thick with tears. I am weepy and emotional and don't think I've ever been happier. Gently, I ease off him and curl up next to him. My back is to his chest, and I am looking out at the world beyond the window as he casually strokes my arm. We have lain this way before, and it feels warm and familiar. It feels like us.
"I'm going to miss this bed," I admit.
"I suppose I could keep it here. But it doesn't really fit the decor."
"Well, if you're trying to be all traditional ..."
I trail off and he laughs, then pulls me tighter against him. It's so comfortable between us, and I cherish the way that I feel with Damien. I roll over, wanting to see his face, and I'm immediately glad I do. He presses a kiss to my forehead and we curl up on the bed facing each other. His hand is on the curve of my waist, and I trail my fingers lazily up and down his chest. He has only the slightest smattering of chest hair, and it feels downy beneath my fingers. I amuse myself by making patterns on his chest, and when I look up at him, the corner of his mouth is twitching.
"What?" I ask.
"Having fun, Ms. Fairchild?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"I'm glad. Earlier--the way those bastards upset you. I didn't like it."
"Me, neither," I say, in what is undoubtedly the understatement of the year. "But I'm okay now. And you seem pretty okay yourself."
"I would have happily ripped their heads off at the restaurant," he admits.
"I could tell," I say. "But I didn't just mean the paparazzi."
"Oh?" he eyes me warily.
I lift a shoulder. "I'm still wondering about that call," I admit. "Is something going on?" I blurt, because I've been holding it in all evening and can't take it anymore. "Has Carl done something?"
Damien doesn't answer, and I glare at him, irritated. "Come on, Damien. All that stuff that Carl said--we both know it isn't going to just go away."
"I hope it does just go away," Damien says. "Though I tend to agree."
"Damien!" I sound as exasperated as I feel. "Just tell me straight out. Has something happened that you haven't told me about? Is that what the phone call was about?"
"No." He brushes the tip of his finger over my nose. "I promise."
I frown as I eye him.
He shifts so that I can see him better, then draws an X over his heart.
I raise a brow, and he lifts three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.
I hold back a laugh, and he holds up his pinkie finger. "Shall we pinkie swear?"
That does it--I laugh and hook pinkies with him.
"I swear to you," he says, lifting our joined hands and kissing the tip of my little finger, "that call had nothing to do with Carl Rosenfeld."
I nod. I believe him, but I'm still worried.
Because whoever was on that telephone call had the ability to crack Damien Stark's cool veneer. And anyone who can do that is no one to trifle with.
5
I open my eyes to a blanket of stars hanging beyond the doorway, uncertain as to what has awakened me. I am groggy and I turn toward Damien, automatically seeking the soft comfort of sliding back into sleep in his arms. But instead of his warmth, I find only the rumpled coolness of abandoned sheets. I sit up, confused. I'd slept soundly, nestled safe against him, and it is disorienting to come back to the world and find myself alone.
The candle has burned down, but Damien has turned the sconce lighting on low, and each fixture emits the slightest of glows, just enough to take the edge off the darkness. I glance toward the kitchen, but that area is dark and quiet. Beside me, the sheets are cool. Damien has not been here for a long time.
I slide off the bed and lift the robe off the floor where it has fallen. I put it on, the gentle caress of the material seeming to mimic Damien's touch. I reach out for the bedframe, and untie the sash from the iron bar. I wrap it around my waist, cinching the robe. Then I close my hand over the cool iron ball. I will be sorry to see this bed go, but its purpose is done. It was a prop, an illusion chosen for a specific effect.
I tremble, struck by the sudden and unreasonable fear that everything has been an illusion, Damien most of all.
But those are just ghosts. I know better. At least, I hope that I do. I recall his words in the restaurant--that he would leave me to protect me.
I hug myself, suddenly cold. But I know that I am being foolish. Damien hasn't left me. He's simply left the bed. "Damien?"
I expect no answer, and I'm not surprised when none comes. The house is large, and over the last week, the workmen have finished painting the interior and even the grounds are almost fully landscaped. There still isn't any furniture in most rooms, but even so, he could be anywhere, and in a house this large, "anywhere" covers a lot of ground.
For a moment, I consider returning to bed and trying to sleep. He didn't wake me, after all, and I wonder if he left the room to find some solitude. He told me the phone call wasn't about Carl's threats, and I don't doubt him. But the call still disturbed him, and I'm selfish enough to want to understand why. I want him to confide in me and turn to me for comfort.
I want him to keep his promise to me about shining light on the shadows that surround Damien Stark.
But is that my only motivation for seeking him out now? If so, I really should crawl back in bed. Promise or not, Damien is entitled to his privacy. And no matter how much it may frustrate me, the promise is his to keep or to break.
My hesitation lasts only a moment, because while I do want to understand the man, I want even more to comfort him. I want to hold him and touch him and silently promise him that no matter what he needs, I am there for him.
I want ...
Maybe I am still being selfish, but I'm arrogant enough to think that Damien needs me. And, yes, I'm selfish enough to go.
I see that he left his phone beside the candle. I pause, thinking of the text he received, and then the phone call that came soon after. He either recognized the number or the caller's name is programmed into his phone. Should I look?
I hesitate just long enough to be disgusted by myself. If Damien went pawing through my call history, I'd explode into a completely justifiable rage. And yet I'm actually thinking about looking at his phone? Have I been miraculously transported back to high school?
The thought is undeniably unpleasant, and I forcefully push it out of my mind as I pad to the service elevator at the back of the kitchen. It opens on the first floor in a utility room off the main kitchen, a magnificent space filled with commercial-grade equipment that hasn't yet been used. I pass through the kitchen into a sunporch. I expect to find him in the gym that eats up at least a thousand square feet on the north side of the house. But when I get there, there is no Damien.
The room is large and divided into distinct sections. The first one I come to is a weight room, filled with machines, free weights, mats, and a boxing bag. I move quickly across the room to the functional but beautiful polished oak door that separates this room from the larger area beyond. In this second room, there is a runn
ing track complete with stations. More free weights, pull-up bars, spin bicycles, another boxing bag, and a variety of other equipment.
As is Damien's style, an entire wall of the track room is made of glass, giving a view of the property and the ocean beyond. The negative-edge pool opens off the living room on the main level, but it is also accessible from the gym, with one of the glass pocket doors opening onto the deck. From where I stand, I don't have a view of the water, but at least one of the pool's dim lights must be on, as I see the greenish-blue light undulating on the deck. For a moment I think nothing of it--Damien has left the light on since the pool was filled three days ago, ever since I mentioned that as a child I loved to sit by the pool at night with my sister and watch the light dance as the wind played across the water's surface.
Right now, however, there is no wind. Even the three drapes that Damien left unmolested had been still when I'd awakened. And the dancing light is moving in a rhythmic, controlled pattern.
I smile, knowing that I have found him.
I head to the glass door, but pause when I see the small table next to the boxing bag. A bottle of water rests atop the table, but that isn't what catches my eye. It's the newspaper that is on the floor. Reviewing the news is like a religion with Damien, but I've never once seen him not fold the paper neatly when he's finished. This section, however, is on the ground. I suppose it could have simply fallen there, but somehow, I don't believe it.
I pick up the errant sheet and immediately realize it's the sports page. Considering Damien's original career as a professional tennis player, this is hardly a shocker. But it's the headline that has me gasping with surprise--and with understanding.
Apparently a new tennis center in Los Angeles is near completion. The dedication ceremony is next Friday, exactly one week away. And the center is going to be named after Damien's former coach, Merle Richter. The man who killed himself when Damien was fourteen years old. The man who, I believe, abused Damien for five long years. The man Damien's father forced him to continue working with even though Damien pleaded to quit tennis altogether.
I remember what Alaine had said about a tennis center dedication. It had meant nothing to me at the time. Now, it means everything.
I leave the paper on the table, then exit the room through the sliding glass door. The flagstone decking is smooth beneath my feet, and the robe flutters around my legs as I move toward the pool. The property is built in the Malibu hills, and the pool's far edge is designed with the illusion of dropping away, as if you could swim over the edge and fall out into space.
Damien is swimming laps along that precipice, and I wonder if he has chosen that spot intentionally.
He is naked, and the pool lighting seems to accentuate his muscles as he glides freestyle through the water. His body is magnificent, athletic and powerful, and I feel a tight curling in my belly. Not sexual--though I would be lying if I didn't admit that there is always an undercurrent of sexual desire where Damien is concerned--but of possessiveness. He is mine, I think. But the thought is tinged with fear. Because though I know that the reverse is true--I am most definitely, undeniably his--I sometimes fear that Damien belongs to no one but himself.
I fear, too, my motivations for giving myself so fully to him. Damien fills a need in me, that much is undeniable. But I do not have the best track record in that regard, and as my hand slips almost unconsciously inside my robe to feel the rigid hardness of the scars that mar my thigh, I have to concede that I have often needed things that are not only bad for me, but very, very dangerous.
Right now, though, I don't care about my motivations. I neither know nor care if it's the truth or self-delusion, but I cannot believe that anything about Damien is a danger to me. On the contrary, he is a gift. A rescuer. A knight upon a white steed, though he would scoff at the image and insist that the horse must be a black one.
Perhaps so, but to me there is nothing dark about Damien Stark. There is only the light that he brings to my world. And that is why I feel all the more helpless when I see that he is hurting. And why I feel all the more lost when it is not me that he turns to.
I've been walking slowly toward the water, and now I stand at the edge of the pool on the side near the house. There are five steps into the water here. Wide steps designed for lounging half-in and half-out of the water. I walk out, holding the robe up around my knees so that it won't get wet.
Damien is at the opposite end of the pool and he has not noticed me. I take three steps, then move down to the next level. The water hits me just below my knees. This is the first time I've been in the pool, and I'm surprised by how warm the water is. Not quite bath-temperature, but balmy, and warmer than the night air that surrounds me.
I walk to the edge of this second level and look out toward the man who has captured my heart. My feet are about twelve inches below the pool deck now, and from this new perspective all I can see is Damien, the water, and the wide night sky. I watch, entranced, as he cuts through the water. His movements are efficient and controlled, just like the man himself. I don't realize that I've moved to the third step until I notice that I am no longer holding up the robe. Instead, the thin material is spread out like the petals of a rose floating on the gently lapping surface.
I am about to take it off and lay it on the decking when Damien stops midway through a lap. He treads water, his body turned toward me, but the shadows and light that play across his face, reflected by the motion of the water, make it impossible for me to read his expression. All I know is that I feel the heavy weight of his gaze upon me, and though I want to cut through the water and go to him, I remain rooted to the spot. It's fear keeping me here. I'm afraid that I have overstepped my bounds. That I'm interrupting a moment when he needs to be alone, and that instead of comforting him, my presence is going to have the exact opposite effect.
The longer he stays at the far end of the pool, the more that fear grows in me, so that when he finally does move toward me, I take an involuntary step backward.
It is only when I see his face that I stop. He is looking at me with such open adoration that it makes my heart skip a beat.
He stops swimming and stands in the chest-deep water. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"How do you expect me to sleep without you beside me?"
I've moved forward again, and the robe floats around me. Damien eases closer, cutting through the water, then tugs on the sash at my waist. The robe drifts open, exposing my body. He slips his hands up to my shoulders and slides it off. The damp material sticks to my arms, but I move forward, leaving the robe behind me, until I am no longer wrapped in silk, but wrapped in Damien's arms.
"I think I ruined the robe," I say. "I didn't actually mean to wear it into the pool. I was watching you and got carried away."
"I know the feeling." His hand gently strokes my face while his other arm holds me firmly around the waist, as if afraid I'll float away like the robe.
"Do you mind that I'm here?"
His mouth curves into an ironic smile and he pulls me closer. I feel his erection press against my thighs. "What do you think?"
I swallow and shake my head. But it's not sex that I've come here for, though with Damien standing naked and erect next to me I am having a hard time recalling what my purpose actually was.
But, no, I do remember. I tilt my head up so that I can look directly in his eyes. "I was worried," I admit.
"About the phone call? I told you it wasn't about Carl's threats."
I nod, then take a deep breath. "Was it about the tennis center?"
He looks at me sharply. "You know about that?"
"Is that what's bothering you?"
He hesitates, then gives one curt nod. "Yes."
I bite my lip, because though I believe him, I'm certain that's not the full story.
"How did you learn about it?"
"I saw the paper. You left it by the boxing bag."
The corner of his mouth tugs upward. "Perhaps my subconscious wanted you to
find it."
"Well," I say with a laugh. "That's a start."
As I had hoped, he laughs as well. Then his shoulders relax and he pulls me closer, his arms closing around me in a tight hug. I sigh and put my arms around his neck, then bury my head against his chest.
"I'm not a fan of Richter," he says. "The idea that a professional tennis facility will bear his name pisses me off."
"Can't you do something?"
"I could buy the goddamned center," he says. "But I won't."
I want to look at his face, but I don't move. I've told him that I suspect abuse, but he's never told me if I'm right or not. I stay very still, wondering if now is the time when Damien Stark will reveal his secrets to me.
"The call that upset me," he begins. "It was from my father."
"Oh." I'm surprised enough that I do move, leaning back so that my weight is supported by his arms as I look into his face. It's hard, and there's something dark in his eyes. I'd been right about his earlier hesitation, and this is the reason why. The topic of Damien's father is never an easy one.
I know they aren't close. I know that Damien's father pushed him to compete the same way my mother pushed me into pageant after pageant.
I know all that, because Damien has told me. But what I suspect is truly vile; I believe that Richter was abusing Damien, and that Damien's father knew. But he forced Damien to stay with the son of a bitch anyway.
I swallow, and then speak the words that I know I shouldn't: "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No." The word is simple and final.
"Right. Okay." I try to keep my voice casual, but I know I've failed when he presses his forehead against mine, his hands firm on my shoulders.
"I know it bothers you," he says. "And I'm sorry."
I start to protest. Every Proper Nikki attribute that was pounded into my head by my mother is ready to burst out and reassure him that no, really, it's fine that he's keeping secrets, fine that he doesn't want to talk to me. Fine that though I now turn to him for comfort, he leaves our bed in the middle of the night to find solace in solitude.
Proper Nikki wants to say all of that, but I mentally shove my heel hard into the blond twit's ass.
I take a deep breath, and this time it's not Proper Nikki or Rebel Nikki or Social Nikki. It's just me, wishing that I had some magic formula to make everything better for Damien, whether he tells me the truth or not. "It does bother me," I admit. "But only because I don't like to see you wounded."