by Leslie Kelly
He held her hand when she called her parents to tell them what had happened. The story of Neeley’s arrest would make national news, there was no way they wouldn’t find out about her involvement.
It hadn’t been easy to talk to them. But Damien hadn’t left her side.
After the call, after she’d promised them she was fine and had elicited their promise not to come, saying she’d see them in a few days for the anniversary party, she collapsed into Damien’s arms.
“I’ve never heard my father cry like that,” she sobbed.
“I know, baby, I’m sorry.”
“They’re crushed.”
“They’re terrified...imagining the could-haves rather than being thankful for the did-haves.” He stroked her hair. “Just give them a little while.”
He held her until she slept, and stayed there, holding her, all night, getting up only in the morning when someone knocked on the door to the suite. Viv yawned and stretched, watching him pull on some clothes and leave the room. She already felt a thousand percent better than she had the day before, physically and emotionally.
Getting up, she went into the bathroom. She glanced at herself in the mirror, noting that the bruises on her jaw weren’t too terrible, and the lip was healing. Outwardly, she looked as if she’d had just a minor mishap, not that she’d been attacked by a rape-and-violence-minded animal.
Inwardly—well, it was time to work on healing inwardly, too. Starting right now.
As she returned to the master bedroom, she stood out of the way to allow Damien to enter. He was carrying a vase with a huge bouquet of pink tulips.
“We’re going to have to rent the adjoining room to handle all the flowers.”
She almost smiled, the reaction funny after all the tears. “How many of them are from you?”
“No comment.”
Though she hadn’t left the bedroom, she’d been catching the scent of roses since the day before, and the aroma wasn’t merely from the dozen red ones Damien had given her yesterday that were now sitting on the bedside table.
Damien handed her the card.
“They’re from my supervisor, Tim, and the rest of the PR staff. That’s nice of them.”
“Several of the players have sent cards and notes, too. They’re all stacked up for you on the table in the other room,” Damien said. “I suspect they’re feeling some guilt about the part they played in this mess.”
“Well, I’d say that’s nice, too, except for the fact that they should.” If not for the sexist attitude and the stupid bet, Bruno Neeley might never have decided to prove his masculinity by going after her so single-mindedly.
“I agree.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the other room. “Sam and the legal folks went for sunflowers.”
Damien had told her about his friendship with Sam yesterday. She’d never interacted much with the lawyer, and wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to forgive him for urging Damien to stay away from her.
“Everybody still trying to avoid a lawsuit?” She regretted the jab when she noticed his jaw clench. “I’m sorry.”
He slowly turned on his heel, his expression bleak. “You don’t still believe that.
Knowing she’d sounded like a queen bitch, she shook her head. “No, I don’t. That was awful to say.”
“Because it’s absolutely not true, Viv,” he said, obviously thinking he still needed to convince her.
“I know.”
Damien wasn’t the type to use shady maneuvers to avoid legal trouble. As he’d said, he could easily pay her off if she decided to be money hungry.
Besides, she trusted him completely. At least, she wanted to. If she allowed herself to believe that he’d only begun dating her to avoid more bad press or legal troubles for the team, she might go crazy. She didn’t want it to be true—she wanted to believe that Damien, with all his tenderness and his passion, had begun to feel something for her.
Maybe he wasn’t crazy in love with her, maybe he never would be. But he cared. Oh, God, no man could be so shattered at the idea of something bad happening to her, could wash her hair and feed her soup and chocolate pudding, if he didn’t care.
“So what do you want to do today?” he asked, picking up a pair of jeans he’d flung on the floor near the bed. She could see he was trying to change the subject, to avoid arguing or saying anything that would upset her. “Are you hungry? Want me to order some breakfast?”
“Pudding and ice cream?”
“Nope.” He wagged his index finger, his posture easing. “Healthy stuff from here on out. You’re not milking this.”
She smiled broadly at that, glad he was giving her crap. He was challenging her to not only feel better, but to also be better today. One heartbreakingly lovely day of his tender, loving care and sympathy had been glorious. Now she had to start healing and moving on.
She’d found her smile again—now she would help him find his. “Are you sure I thanked you enough for saving me from George Costanza?”
Damien tilted his head to the side, staring at her with confused eyes. It took him a second before he recognized the name, and then he said, “Uh, you mean George from Seinfeld?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, no. That doctor was wrong. You do have a concussion.” He walked closer, lifting his hand to check her forehead.
She laughed softly. “I mean, didn’t that actor play the creepy guy who tried to rape Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman?”
He lowered his hand. “Yeah, actually, I believe he did.”
“So, billionaire’s sleazy employee attacks the woman he’s involved with. We’re still playing out this movie, aren’t we? Only Richard Gere fired the guy. You actually traded Bruno Neeley, and beat the crap out of him.” She put her hand on his chest. “My hero.”
“If it was George, I wouldn’t have required Lex’s help to restrain him,” he said with a short laugh. “Nor would I have bruises all over my body.”
She sucked in a breath. She hadn’t seen him totally naked since the incident, and had no idea he’d been so badly hurt.
“I’m all right,” he said, reading her mind. “And beating the crap out of that guy was totally worth it.”
“Show me?” she whispered, still worried.
“Huh?”
“Show me,” she repeated. “Let me take care of you the way you took care of me.” She stepped away from him, reaching for the bottom of his T-shirt and pushing it up.
“I’m fine, honestly. Ice and aspirin, I’m all set. You don’t have to...”
“I want to,” she said, hoping he could read the honest desire in her eyes. But just in case he missed the message, she reached for the sash of her robe and untied it.
“Viv...”
“I’m fine, too,” she insisted as she shrugged the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall away. She wore nothing underneath. “Stop worrying about me.”
He remained still, staring over her body from head to toe, as if wanting to memorize her, or perhaps just make sure, again, that she truly was okay. He frowned at the sight of a few bruises, but his glower quickly faded as his gaze lingered on her breasts, the nipples dark and taut, and then down her stomach, to the apex of her thighs.
“Say you still want me,” she said, feeling exposed, vulnerable, standing here naked while he gazed at her.
He barked a harsh laugh. “Want you? I’m dying for you.”
He stepped closer, brushing against her, so she could judge the truth of that. He was rock-hard under his jeans, and Viv went soft and hot with desire.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted, not relaxing against her, even when she slid her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his.
“You won’t hurt me. You’ll help me—you’ll make me forget, and you’ll give me pleasure.” She leaned up to
press her lips against his throat, tasting warm, salty skin. “I need you, Damien. And I want you.”
He slipped his hands around her waist, his resistance melting. His fingertips were warm against her naked skin. With a helpless shrug, he admitted, “I can’t stop worrying. Can’t stop picturing him dragging you toward that closet.”
“Let’s both forget together, all right? We’ll put all of it behind us and move forward. Help me get over it, won’t you?”
She rose on tiptoe and brushed her mouth against his. Damien held himself from her for perhaps the space of a heartbeat. Then, on a deep, hungry groan, he drew her into his arms, pulling her up so their lips could meet for a deep kiss.
Viv sighed happily as their tongues twirled together, hungry and lazy both. There was no fear, no wispy remnant of ugly memories of the other night to interfere with her reaction. There was only Damien—sexy, powerful, tender Damien—wanting her, arousing her, fulfilling her.
The kiss went on and on. He tasted like the morning, delicious and warm. She could breathe nothing but air from his mouth for the rest of her life and be a happy woman.
“Say something to me if I hurt you,” he pulled away long enough to say.
“You won’t.”
She trusted him completely, and went back to pushing his shirt up and out of the way. Hearing his ragged breathing, she knew he was losing any inner battle to stay in control. He was on fire for her; his hands shook as he undid his jeans and shoved them down and off.
She spied a bruise on his chest, and another on his ribs. Saying nothing, she bent to kiss them, treating him with all the tenderness he’d offered her. How could she not? He’d earned these wounds saving her.
He reached down, cupped her chin in his hands and pulled her up until they stood face-to-face. “Don’t worry about me,” he ordered. “I’d give my right arm for none of that to have happened to you.”
She heard the conviction, and believed he was serious. Viv threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again, overwhelmed by the depths and facets of this man.
He didn’t have to carry her to the bed. Instead, she pushed him until his legs hit the edge. He collapsed onto his back, bringing her with him. They rolled around in the sheets, kissing, their bare limbs entwining, hands caressing, bodies pressing together in pure, helpless longing.
“You are the most beautiful thing God ever put on this earth,” Damien said as he rolled over her and gazed down at her. He bent to kiss her jaw, tasting his way down her throat, pressing his lips in the hollow. His hands were magical, gliding up her sides, and then down her hip.
She moaned when he moved his fingers to one thigh, lifting her leg so he could play with the back of her knee. It was an erogenous spot she’d never even recognized in herself, and Viv whimpered as he slowly—ever so slowly—traced a path up her thigh toward her sex. But he didn’t give her the deeper caress she wanted, instead moving right by her damp curls so he could stroke her soft belly.
“Damien, please,” she begged.
“Shh,” he ordered. “Trust me.”
She did, of course, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want... “Oh, God, yes,” she cried as he moved his mouth to her breast. He flicked his tongue against her nipple, wetting it, and then drew the taut peak between his lips to suckle her with exquisitely tender passion. Viv twined her hands in his hair, arching up toward him, loving the sensations he brought forth.
He continued down her body, worshipping her with his mouth and his tongue. She was a live wire of energy, trembling beneath his expert touch. When he reached her sex and his warm lips stroked her clit, she cried out and lost herself to a long, low orgasm. He was kissing her mouth again before the final pulses of it had left her.
He settled between her parted thighs and gazed into her face. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”
“I know,” she said, arching toward him in silent invitation.
He sank into her—hot, hard man melting into soft, willing woman. Viv wanted to cry at the perfection of it. He filled her in every possible way, not just the physical. Though, the physical was absolutely fabulous, too.
Damien seemed to catch her building excitement. While he was no less careful with her, he was unable to stop himself from pulling out and thrusting into her, hard, burying himself to the hilt.
“God, yes,” she cried, wrapping her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders. She kissed him, her tongue thrusting into his mouth as he thrust his cock into her body. She was wrapped around him, joined with him, as much a part of him as she was of herself.
It was magical, utter bliss. And this time when she cried out her ultimate pleasure—a powerful, shattering climax that broke her apart—he came with her, plunging deep once more and filling her with every part of himself.
* * *
COLLAPSING TOGETHER IN a heap, they slept for a while. Damien hadn’t gotten much rest in the past two nights. He’d been too focused on watching her, making sure she was all right. Now, though, it seemed certain that she was fine and getting better by the moment, he relaxed. He kept her in his arms, not wanting her more than a few inches away, and fell asleep smelling her hair and hearing her soft breaths.
Unfortunately, he didn’t awaken the same way.
“Who... Viv?” he mumbled, waking up to the sound of voices. Several voices. Women’s voices.
He glanced to the other side of the bed. It was empty. She’d gotten up from their brief nap without waking him.
“Are you trying to say you won’t allow me to visit my son? Who do you think you are?”
Damien’s eyes saucered as that voice hit his eardrums and scratched into his brain. Maybe he was hearing a TV. He prayed he was hearing a TV.
“Damien!”
That was no television.
He launched out of bed, wondering who he had wronged in another life to bring his mother here, and to put her in the same room with Viv. If she didn’t scare off Viv unintentionally, she’d probably do it just for spite.
“I’ll be right out,” he called, yanking his jeans off the floor and pulling them on. He scooped his shirt into his fingers and stalked out of the bedroom, his eyes immediately searching for Viv.
He didn’t find her right away, because she was surrounded. Literally. Appearing stunned, she was encircled by three women, all of whom he recognized. One was, as he’d feared, his mother. The young redhead on the left was his sister Johanna and on his mother’s right was Morgan Duffy, the daughter of his mother’s oldest friend. She’d been shoved in his face since he was old enough to understand the words arranged marriage.
Christ, this just got better and better.
“What in the hell is going on?” he snapped, pushing between his mother and Johanna, who at least offered him a sheepish wave. “Have you people ever heard of calling?”
“Since when do I have to call to visit the penthouse in one of my own hotels?” his mother snapped.
He bit his tongue, not pointing out that the amount of stock his father had left her didn’t come anywhere close to meaning they were “her” hotels.
Damien went to Viv and put his arm around her waist. She was wearing just a robe, her hair a loose, tangled curtain around her shoulders, and her face was pale and strained. If his family had upset her, set back her recovery, he’d pitch them all down the elevator shaft.
“What happened? Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked, his voice low, meant only for her.
“I came to check out the flowers,” she mumbled. “They smelled so nice, all the roses. There was a knock at the door.”
Huh. He supposed he should be grateful his family hadn’t just gotten a manager to let them in to “surprise” him.
“Did you invest in a florist as well as a team of ice-skating hooligans?” his mother asked, her cold expression matched by the icy ton
e.
Okay, so apparently the news media was all over the story, and had revealed that he was a majority shareholder in the Vanguard. He didn’t care that his mother knew, though he hadn’t gone out of his way to inform her. Perhaps it had been too much to ask that he have one thing—just one thing—that wasn’t subject to the constant meddling, opinions and demands of his family.
He considered it for a moment, and realized he was no longer that guy who only had one thing.
Now he had two.
Because he had Viv. And she was the one thing he couldn’t bear to lose.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” His mother gave Viv another of those glances that both assessed and dismissed. “Although I recognize your little friend from all the media coverage, we hadn’t gotten around to introductions.”
Viv winced; he could sense the quiver in her body. Jesus, how on earth had his father ever stayed married to his mother? He’d never met a harder person. He’d been aware she had ice in her veins, of course, never having remembered a single moment in his childhood when she’d wiped his tears or tucked him into bed. But she’d gotten worse as she aged, when she’d begun to go through husbands like tissues, all of them breaking her heart. Or whatever she had that masqueraded as a heart.
He’d realized long ago that his mother didn’t love him. She might care a bit about his sisters, but definitely not her only son. He’d long suspected it was because his father had loved him so much, and had never tried to hide it. She hadn’t been able to stand not being the center of her husband’s world.
“Viv, this is my mother, Sylvia Tyson, my sister Johanna Black, and...” He waved toward the woman his mother had been trying to fix him up with for years. “That’s Morgan, a friend of my mother’s.”
Morgan, a tall, willowy brunette whose beauty was matched only by her arrogance, had the audacity to appear betrayed, though he’d never so much as held her hand.
“This is Vivienne Callahan,” he announced.
“We know who she is,” his mother said. “She’s the little tart who has you so tied up in knots you ignore your business and get into public brawls that make you national news.”