Deepest Kiss

by J. Kenner

  At that, Damien raises his brows; I very rarely use our gym.

  I shrug. "I feel the need to burn off some steam, and," I add as I see him about to suggest a way to do that without a treadmill or punching bag, "I know that you have a meeting this morning with those guys from Korea. Go," I insist. "I'll be fine."

  He studies my face, clearly debating whether or not to argue. I make an effort to look calm and collected. After a moment, he laughs. "Quit trying so hard," he says.

  "Quit thinking you have to put your work aside to babysit me."

  "I'll always put my work aside if you need me." His voice is so intense--so full of love--that I almost melt on the spot.

  "I know." I lean closer, sighing as he enfolds me in his arms. "And I love you for it. But I promise you that right now, I'm okay. It was just a dream. And, yes, I'm still a little freaked by this thing with Frank. But I'm okay with waiting until you and Ryan learn more about who he is."

  Damien still doesn't look entirely convinced.

  "Go." I give him a little shove toward the side of the bed. "Go off and earn a living before we have to downsize."

  That earns a laugh. As Damien has explained to me several times--including once with graphs and a chart--he's now in a position where he actually makes money simply by doing nothing. Apparently, his dollars have started to breed.

  "Well, I would hate to have to give up the apartment in Manhattan," he quips.

  "I'd hate for you to have to give up the chocolate company in Switzerland." I point toward the door. "I love you. Go."

  He nods, then gets off the bed, but not before kissing me so deeply I feel it all the way down to my toes, not to mention other more sensitive parts of my body.

  I take his hand and tug him back.

  "Oh, no," he says. "You told me to go."

  "Maybe I changed my mind."

  "Did you? So now you're telling me you want my lips on yours? My tongue tasting your ear, your neck? Are you saying that you want my mouth on your breast, sucking hard and making your nipple so tight you feel the ache all the way down to your cunt?"

  I whimper. I'd only been teasing, but he's making the idea of him staying with me very, very appealing.

  "Tell me, baby," he continues, his voice as sensual as his words. "Are you saying you want me to thrust my fingers deep inside you before I slide them between your lips so you can taste how fucking wet you are? Do you want my mouth on your cunt? My tongue working your clit while I tease your ass with my finger? I want to know, Nikki: do you want me to make you come before I grab your hips and fuck you so hard you come again and again until you're sore and sated and begging for me to never, ever stop?"

  He brushes a soft kiss over my lips, teasing at the end by nipping my lower lip with his teeth before he leans back to look in my eyes. "Come on, baby, say it. Is that what you want?"

  "Yes." I can barely form the word, I'm so limp with desire. "God, yes."

  "Me, too." He releases my hand, then bends over to chastely kiss my forehead. "Anticipation, baby. I'll be home by seven."

  "Bastard," I say with a laugh, then throw a pillow at him as he backs away.

  He dodges the pillow, then tosses his hands up in the air. "Hey, I'm only following your orders. Korean executives, remember? Off to earn a living."

  "Following orders, Mr. Stark? And all this time, I thought you were the man who gave the orders."

  "Careful," he says. "I might have to punish you."

  "Really?" I roll over, letting the sheet fall away as I get up on my hands and knees and give him a very nice view of my bare ass.

  I turn my head to the side so that I can see his face--and so that I can also see his erection straining against the trousers of his three-thousand-dollar suit.

  "You're going to pay, baby," he promises.

  "I certainly hope so." I bite my lower lip and wiggle my ass just a little.

  I watch as he slides his hand down to cup his erection, and for a moment I think I may have actually won.

  Then the corner of his mouth curves up into a smile. "I'll see you tonight, Mrs. Stark," he says. And with a wink, he turns and walks out of the room.

  Well, damn.

  Chapter 7

  Once Damien's gone, I park myself at the breakfast table and sip on the elixir of life, otherwise known as coffee. I really am less disturbed by the dream now--like all dreams, it's losing its punch as time goes by. But it's still lingering in my mind. Not the full dream, but that last pronouncement by Ashley that she would remember it for me.

  But what is she remembering?

  For that matter, why is my mom thinking about Ashley all of a sudden? Even more, why is she thinking of my dad? As far as I know, until she called me, my mom hadn't thought of Leonard Fairchild since the day the court granted her divorce after he up and left us one December afternoon.

  Not that I remember any of that. I know what Ashley told me, and what little my grandfather said before he passed away. Once or twice I asked my mom about him, but she'd offered only monosyllabic answers to my queries, and after one or two attempts to coax more information, I'd finally given up.

  But it's not just my strange dream and the baffling call from my mother that has me all twisted up. No, on top of that I get to add the mystery of Frank. Maybe he's simply a client who decided not to intrude on my personal time by introducing himself on the island. Or, alternatively, he could be a raging psychopath out to either destroy me or latch his claws into some of Damien's money.

  I'm hoping for the first. But considering all the past bullshit Damien and I have put up with, I can't deny that the second is probably a more likely possibility.

  What I need is for Ashley to appear in a dream and not spout cryptic clues about who-knows-what, but instead to offer some real insight into all this stuff that's banging around in my head. After all, the dream-Ashley's just a manifestation of my subconscious, right? Which means that she knows what I know, and that--

  Remember.

  I push back from the table, rising so quickly I bang my leg and knock over my mug. Coffee pools on the tabletop, then starts to drip on the floor. But I don't care.

  Remember, she'd said.

  And holy crap, I think that I do.

  But I can't be right--can I?

  With my heart pounding painfully against my rib cage in a mixture of both excitement and dread, I stumble from the kitchen into the bedroom and finally into my closet. It's a huge space. So massive that it even has library-style ladders so that I can reach the boxes on the top shelves that hold out-of-season clothes and memorabilia I want to keep, but don't need to have out.

  I tug down a battered pink hatbox and take it to the granite-topped island in the center of the closet. For a moment, I do nothing. Part of me is afraid that I'm right, and part of me is afraid that I'm crazy.

  And I'm not entirely sure that I want either of those scenarios to be true.

  I consider calling Damien, but that's just silly. There's nothing to call him for yet. This is a hunch, nothing more. And now it's time to see if my hunch has panned out.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the hatbox, then plow through the photos. Images of Ashley flash before my eyes, but I don't pause. I'm looking for one photo in particular, and when I finally find it, I clutch it tight, then back away from the island, my knees so weak I have to sit on the floor.

  It's him.

  It's Frank.

  The photo is of me and Ashley. I'm not even a year old; she's about six. There's a man holding me cradled on his lap as Ashley snuggles against him. He's looking down at me with an expression of such love and devotion that it's hard to believe this is the man who walked out on his family and never looked back.

  It's even harder to believe that he's the man who was watching me on the island. Who came to my office and praised my life, my talent, my marriage.

  But I'm certain of it. He's aged, yes. But the face is the same. The shape and color of his eyes. The wide mouth. And though I didn't se
e it in the man, in the photo I can even see that I have his forehead and his ears.

  There's not a doubt in my mind. Frank is my father.

  I've met my dad. I've spoken with him. I had drinks with him. He's right here in my life, and the enormity of that keeps me there on the floor, because if I stand up, I'm afraid I'm going to have to sit down all over again.

  Without thinking, I brush my cheeks, and it's only when my hand comes away damp that I realize I've been crying. Sad tears, yes, but also happy ones.

  My father.

  But even as the word rattles through my mind, the sharp blade of fear sets in. Because my father's name was Leonard Fairchild, and when I turn the photo over, I see that penciled on the back in my mother's neat handwriting are the words, Nichole, Leonard, Ashley.

  But the man who walked into my office calls himself Frank Dunlop.

  And Frank Dunlop didn't say one word about being related to me. Why?

  If he's my dad--if he came to meet me, as I suspect he did--then why not say something?

  Fear twists in my stomach, and a bitter nausea begins to build, growing more noxious as I put even more of the pieces together.

  I stumble to my feet and hurry back to the kitchen with the photograph still clutched in my hand. I find my phone where I'd left it by the coffeemaker, and then I do the one thing that I could never have imagined doing five minutes ago.

  I phone my mother.

  "Nichole," she says when she answers. "What are--is something wrong?"

  "The other day," I say, jumping straight to the chase, "you called me. Why did you call me? Why were you thinking about my dad?"

  "Oh. Oh, dear. Is he bothering you? What has he done?"

  "Done?" The dread in my gut begins to calcify into a giant boulder. "What do you mean?"

  "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I should have told you everything when I called the other day, but I'd hoped..."

  "What?" I demand.

  "It's just that he called me after all this time. And he wanted to know where you lived and if it was true that you'd married Damien Stark. And then he said he was going to LA. And..." She trails off into silence.

  "Dammit, Mother, what?"

  "And the last thing he wanted to know was just how much Damien is worth."

  Chapter 8

  How much Damien is worth?

  He wanted to know how much my husband is worth?

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  With a wild sweep of my arm, I send the toppled coffee cup flying off the table to crash on the floor. Then I curse aloud, because that accomplished exactly nothing except to make the mess in the kitchen even bigger.

  I mutter another curse, then squat on the floor to start collecting the ragged pieces of ceramic, and as I do, I accidentally slice the edge of my thumb, raising a thin line of blood.

  I stay there, perched on my heels, staring at the small red beads as they rise against my pale skin. My breath slows, and I feel a low, familiar craving.

  I can quell this rawness inside me. I can control it with pain. I can harness it with blood.

  If I just cut--just a little--I can pull myself back to center so that I'm not freaking out about all this bullshit.

  I can handle it. I can do it.

  I can cut--and then I can move on.

  Biting my lip, I hold the biggest piece of the mug, imagining that it's a blade. A perfectly honed razor. I can almost feel the pressure of it against my thigh. The intensity. The release.

  Just this once, and I'll be okay.

  Just one time, and Damien doesn't even need to know.

  Oh, god, what am I saying?

  I look down at the shard in my hand, and then hurl it violently across the room.

  No. No, no, no, no.

  That's not who I am anymore. That's not how I see myself.

  And it sure as hell isn't how Damien sees me.

  Breathing hard, I stand up, then look around for my phone. My first instinct is to call Damien, but once the phone is in my hand, I hesitate. I won't keep this secret--none of it. And I do need him, always and completely.

  But right now, I need to know that I can handle this. Me.

  I already know without a shadow of a doubt that I can rely on Damien when the urge to cut overwhelms me. Now I need to be just as certain that I can rely on myself.

  And that means I need to do this on my own.

  I need to go see Frank.

  I leave the mess in the kitchen, both because I'm in a hurry and because those crisp white shards are just too damn tempting. I hurry to pull on jeans and a T-shirt. Wyatt invited Frank over at ten-thirty, and it's already ten-fifteen. I need to get out the door and to Santa Monica quickly if I'm going to catch Frank while he's still there.

  Fortunately, luck is with me, and I make the trek in just under half an hour. I park Coop in front of Wyatt's studio, burst through the door, and find the two of them standing there chatting like old friends.

  "I need to talk to Frank," I announce. "Alone."

  Wyatt frowns, obviously confused by my tone and demeanor, but he doesn't press. "No problem. I need to go get the sublease ready anyway," he says to Frank. "I'll just be in my office when you guys are done."

  He hurries off, leaving Frank--Dad?--looking at me with curiosity. And, possibly, with dread.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "Your name isn't Frank Dunlop," I say without preamble.

  His brows rise up almost to his hairline. "It is," he says. "It hasn't always been."

  I lick my lips. "What did it used to be?"

  He sighs deeply. "If you're asking me that, I think you know."

  "Tell me."

  "Leonard," he says. "Leonard Fairchild. I'm your father, Nikki. And I've been trying to find the best way to tell you. Please believe me when I say that this isn't what I had in mind."

  He moves to sit on the sofa that Wyatt has in the gallery area, then pats the other cushion. I shake my head. Sitting is the last thing I want to do.

  "Why 'Frank'?"

  "It's my middle name. And since you'll ask, Dunlop is my mother's maiden name. I started using it right after I left. I wanted distance."

  "From us," I say, hating that the hurt is so evident in my voice.

  "From your mother. Only from your mother."

  "You never came back."

  He sighs, then shakes his head. "No, and I regret every day I stayed away. At first I was waiting for the divorce to be final. Then I was waiting to figure out what to say. Then so much time had passed that I was afraid it would be confusing for you and Ashley. And then it just seemed too damn late."

  "But you came now."

  He nods slowly. "I did. It took me more than twenty-five years, but I finally worked up the courage to come see my daughter." A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Of course, at first, seeing was all I could manage. I was on the island this past weekend. I saw you. Watched you more than I probably should have. I think I scared you that night in the rain. I'm sorry."

  "Why didn't you talk to me?"

  He chuckles. "I'm a sixty-year-old man," he says. "That means I've clocked a lot of time. It doesn't mean I've learned to control my nerves. Honest answer? I was scared to death."

  "Of what?" My tone is gentle, and I immediately regret it. I want to stay harsh. Businesslike. I want to get to the root of this, not lose myself in sentimentality for a lost father, or affection for a man I've taken a liking to.

  "Of you. Telling me to leave. Telling me it's too late. Of you doing to me what you have every right to do and telling me to go to hell. Telling me to walk away now just like I did when you were a baby."

  "If you're so scared of that, then why come at all?"

  "I've seen your face a lot over the last few years--hard to avoid, I suppose, since you're married to a man like Stark. And after a while I knew I had to come. You might send me away, but I had to at least try. I wanted--I wanted to see if you would forgive me. And I wanted to get to know you."

 
"And that's all? Just get to know me?"

  "That's a start."

  "And the finish?" I ask coldly.

  He tilts his head to the side, and he's either a very good actor, or he truly doesn't understand what I mean.

  I decide to just lay it out there. "Mother says you called her."

  "I did. She gave me your cellphone number. I was going to call if you didn't answer my email requesting an appointment. But you did." He smiles, but it fades quickly.

  "Why did you follow me to the island?"

  "No, no." He shakes his head. "I didn't follow you, I swear. I'd read about it and wanted to see it. I had no idea you'd be there."

  I force myself to stay on topic. "Why did you ask Mother how much Damien is worth?"

  His forehead creases as he shakes his head once more, more slowly this time. "I didn't."

  "Don't lie to me again."

  "Nikki, I swear--why would I? All I have to do is pick up a copy of Forbes or get on the Internet."

  I say nothing; he has a point.

  "If I were planning to ask you for money, do you really think I would clue your mother in to that fact? That woman is the last person I want in my business."

  "If you don't want anything, then why did you come?"

  His eyes go soft. "I told you. I'm moving to Los Angeles. I want to open a studio here. I want to settle down."

  I lick my lips. "Why here?"

  "Because--because I have this crazy idea that maybe I can get to know my daughter. Assuming that she wants to get to know me."

  Tears lump in my throat, and I swallow, trying to hold it together.

  "Do you believe me?" he asks. "Please say yes. I've done so many things wrong that I'll own up to. But I don't want you thinking ill of me for things I didn't actually do."

  "I believe you," I say, surprising myself as much as him. But the moment the words are out, I know they're true. Maybe I shouldn't, but I really do believe him.

  I take a deep breath, then realize I'm feeling a little shaky. He pats the cushion beside him again, and this time I do sit down. Right next to my father.

  I grin. Because at least in my memory, this is a first.

  I'm about to tell him as much when the studio door bursts open.

  "Frank Dunlop, you goddamn--"

  I hear Damien's voice before I see him, and the moment he rounds the corner and we're in each other's line of sight, he clamps his mouth closed.

  "Nikki," he says as Ryan and Dallas hurry to stand on either side of him. "Why are you here?"