by J. Kenner
I don't know when I got to my feet, but I'm standing awkwardly by the couch. "I figured it out," I say. "Why he's so familiar. Probably why seeing him spooked me." I'm stumbling a bit, wanting to share my good news, but also terribly afraid that the world is about to crash in around me. But I have to tell Damien, and so I draw in a breath, and then blurt it out. "Frank's my father."
I can tell immediately that he already knows this. So, for that matter, do Ryan and Dallas.
I glance over my shoulder toward Frank, and then back to Damien. "What's going on?"
"I searched Frank's room," Dallas says.
"You what?" Frank demands, rising to his feet. "What the hell--"
"You shut the fuck up," Ryan says, and I haven't seen that much fury in his face since the day he beat the shit out of a man who was blackmailing Jamie.
Suddenly, I have a very bad feeling.
"Damien?" I ask.
Damien nods to Dallas. "Show her."
Dallas passes me an envelope. I don't want to look--I really don't. But of course I do.
There are two photos inside. One is a still from a sex tape with Jamie and our former neighbor, Douglas, taken without Jamie's permission. The other is a grainy photo of Damien and supermodel Carmela D'Amato. They're both naked, and Damien's mouth is on her breast.
I've seen these photos before.
I'd hoped to never see them again.
Chapter 9
"No," I say, dropping the photos. "No, he can't have anything to do with that."
I've seen both these photos before, of course. Just over a year ago, actually, when they were used as part of a failed blackmail scheme. Damien called the blackmailer's bluff, and the photos never went public.
But what the hell are they doing in my father's hotel room?
"I don't understand," Frank says. He's hurried to my side, and now he bends to retrieve the photos. "These aren't mine. I don't know anything about these."
The disgust in his voice sounds genuine. I don't know what to think.
"They were in your hotel room," Dallas says. "In your suitcase, to be exact."
"You went through my--"
"You goddamn prick," Ryan snarls. I remember how Douglas looked after Ryan took a swing at him and step in front of my father.
"He says he didn't do it." Behind me, I can practically feel Frank's relief. In front of me, Damien tilts his head, clearly taking stock. "Please," I say to him. "He says he didn't do it."
"And you believe him?"
Honestly, I'm not sure what to believe. But I can't turn my father loose with either Ryan or Damien--not until I'm certain.
Damien takes a step toward me, and I realize he's seen my hesitation.
"Dammit, Damien, stop. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"
"That's a lot of proof you tossed onto the floor."
"Maybe," I admit. "But maybe there's another explanation. Please. Please be sure. Be absolutely sure."
I see the sadness--the compassion--in Damien's eyes. For just a few glorious moments, I had a father. Flawed, yes, but without an agenda. And I so desperately want to hang on to that.
Maybe those stupid photos will destroy everything. But maybe they won't. Maybe it's all a big mistake.
And maybe if I press, I can have just a few more hours of bliss, safe in a world where parents don't stab their kids in the back, and where people who leave you sometimes really do come home.
"All right," Damien says slowly, his eyes not on Frank, but on Ryan. I watch him, too, and hold my breath until he nods, quick, but firm.
Damien shifts his attention to Frank. "Do you understand the extent of my resources?"
"I think I have some idea."
Damien nods, as if satisfied. "Then you must realize that I can find you. You can run. You can try to hide. But it won't do you any good. Do you believe me?"
Frank nods. My stomach twists.
"Don't even think of leaving LA. I'll be in touch. If you have nothing to do with these photos, I'll owe you one hell of an apology. But if you're behind that blackmail attempt--if you were planning some brand-new scheme--then I promise that I will destroy you. And not just for the blackmail. But for what your betrayal will do to my wife. Are we clear?"
"We're clear," Frank says. And though my eyes are glued to his face, I can't tell if he's an innocent man caught up in a web, or if my father is actually the spider in the middle.
--
"He may be innocent," Damien says as he leads me back into the house. It's the first thing either of us has said since we left the studio. I'd needed to sink down into the silence. And, as always, Damien understood that.
Now, though, we're home. And this is the place where we face reality.
Wait. I rewind Damien's words in my head.
"Did you say he might be innocent?"
"It's possible," Damien says. He's left the car in the circular drive rather than the garage, and we came in through the front door, which we rarely do. Now we're standing in what is essentially a formal living area, rarely used except when we entertain.
I sit down on the overstuffed white sofa we bought a few months ago on a shopping spree. "He is," I say. "I'm sure of it."
I'm not sure of it, though. Not really. But I desperately want it to be true.
"I know," Damien says, and I understand that he means my wish, not my actual words. "But you need to be prepared that he might not be innocent."
I nod. "If that's the way it turns out, then I'll deal. But--"
He kneels in front of me. "What is it, baby?"
I don't answer him in words. Instead I take his arms and pull him up to me. I need his touch. His kiss. I need to feel now the strength that I may need later. Because if it turns out that my father really is a lying, blackmailing sack of shit, then the only way I'm going to get through that is tight in the circle of Damien's embrace.
"Please," I murmur. "Please, Damien. I need you."
"I'm right here," he promises. "For now and for always."
"I know." My fingers fumble at the buttons on his shirt. "Take this off," I demand, leaving him to deal with his own damn buttons as I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and peel it off, foregoing the pleasure of Damien undressing me in favor of the wilder, more urgent need to feel skin against skin.
I practically rip my bra off, then shove down my jeans. I wait on the underwear, because Damien is still mostly dressed, and that's just not good enough for me. I reach for the fly of his slacks, then slide my hand in to cup his erection.
Slowly, I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. I'm breathing hard, and so is he, and right then I want more than just him. I want to be the one in control. I want to be the one who takes him to the edge.
Gently, I ease his cock out from his briefs and pants. He's still essentially dressed, and I'm mostly naked, and I like the way that feels. A little decadent, a little submissive. I look up again. "Tell me to suck your cock."
I see the reaction to my words reflected on his face. A wild almost violent passion. "Suck my cock," he demands, grabbing my hair and urging me forward. "And don't stop. I want to come in your mouth. I want you to swallow."
His words, so raw, cut through me, making my sex clench with a longing that won't be satisfied until I do as he says. I take his cock into my mouth, and even though he's got a grip on my head, I'm the one in control. My tongue. My lips. I draw him in and out, sucking and teasing, my own pleasure growing as I feel his body tighten.
Then he turns the tables, wresting control away from me by tightening his grip on my hair and holding me in place as he fucks my mouth. It's not what I'd intended--I wanted to be the one in charge--but that doesn't matter. He's taking what he wants, and I fucking love it. Even the hardness. The rawness. The way I can barely breathe. The way that he's using me, taking what I've so willingly given and then--yes--exploding in my mouth, his back arching as he cries out and I suck every last drop out of him.
"Oh, baby," he says, sinking to his knees in front o
f me. "Holy fuck, Nikki." He pulls me close and kisses me hard, claiming my mouth once again in a kiss so deep and hot I feel the pull of it all the way between my legs.
I'm breathing hard when we break apart, my need wild and urgent. "My turn," I demand, my voice firm but breathy.
He nods, then reaches for my panties to tug them off.
"No," I insist. "Leave them on."
His brow rises with amusement, but he says nothing, and as I lean back and spread my legs, Damien starts to kiss his way up my inner thighs. His touch is soft. Sensual. And it sends electric shocks through me, so intense I'm surprised I'm not melting.
At first, his touch is gentle, but he becomes more heated--more demanding--as his lips and fingers move higher and higher. When he reaches my lace-covered sex, his fingers slip beneath the elastic and I groan with pleasure as his fingers stroke me--and then gasp in surprised delight when he violently shoves them aside and thrusts his fingers deep inside me, even as his mouth closes over my clit.
He finger-fucks me mercilessly as his tongue teases my clit. I squirm, the sensation almost too much to bear, but Damien takes no pity on me. He grabs my hips and holds me still so I have no choice but to take everything he has to offer because there is no way to escape even the smallest bit of this pleasure that is so acute it is as sharp as pain.
My muscles begin to tremble and electricity courses through me. I feel it in my inner thighs, in my belly. A vibrant, swirling current, like a storm that is building and building--and when my climax finally breaks, I throw my head back and scream, certain that the sensation cutting through me couldn't be any more potent than if a real storm had released lightning directly into my blood.
I gasp as the trembling subsides, sucking in air as I try to gather myself. I'm exhausted, completely sated, and Damien gently lays me out on the couch, and then joins me, his body pressed against mine as he holds me close.
I close my eyes and tuck my head against his shoulder, warm and satisfied, but still undeniably melancholy. "I don't want it to be true," I say, my thoughts returning to Frank.
"I know you don't. But one way or another, we need to know."
I nod, then move to sit up as he does the same. "We do," I agree, stressing the we. Because this isn't just about me. This is about both of us. "Is Ryan working on it right now?"
"He is. Dallas said he would help, too. He took it upon himself to go to Frank's hotel and sneak into his room. I think he feels responsible."
"Hardly," I say. "But I understand the sentiment. How'd he get in, anyway?"
"Seduced one of the maids, apparently."
I nod; I should have figured that out by myself.
"You should go help them," I say.
"I will. This isn't the kind of thing I'm going to leave to my staff. Or my friends. But I don't have to go now. I'll be just as useful tomorrow."
I shake my head. "No. You're holding back to take care of me, but what I need is answers. Go help them," I say more firmly. "Get me answers, Damien. And then come back and take me to bed. Either in celebration, or because I'll need you beside me to help me get through it."
"I'm always beside you," he says gently. "Even when I'm far away."
Chapter 10
I consider going into my office after Damien leaves, but instead I decide on a long, hot bubble bath.
That lasts an hour and isn't quite as satisfying as I'd hoped. Yes, I now feel completely relaxed, but at the same time, I spent the last hour with my mind running in worried, frustrated circles.
Twice I pick up my phone to call Sylvia--for years she had an incredibly strained relationship with her father, and I harbor the fantasy that she can offer me advice--but it seems horribly unfair to burden her with my problems when I know she must be going crazy with last-minute baby prep now that she's only about two weeks out from her due date.
I end up pulling on yoga pants and a threadbare University of Texas T-shirt, then head into the kitchen to get some microwave popcorn. As I'm waiting for the kernels to start doing their thing, my phone chimes, signaling a call forwarded from the property gate. I frown--Gregory screens visitors during the day--then remember that today's his day to run errands and he's undoubtedly at the market.
I take the call, anticipating FedEx or UPS requesting a signature, and then freeze when I hear Frank's voice. "Please let me come in. I really think we should talk."
My instinct is to do just that. But I steel myself against it, because I'm certain that if I let him in my house--if I talk to him and let him get under my skin any more than he already has--then it will be all the more devastating for me if Damien and the guys find out that the worst is true.
"Nikki? Are you still there?"
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I can't. Please, just go."
I end the call abruptly, grab my popcorn, and hurry back to the bedroom, forgoing the huge screen in the media center for the comfort of watching a movie in bed.
Unfortunately, I'm not able to concentrate on the movie at all. And when the end credits roll ninety minutes later, I'm lucky if I can even remember what flick I just watched.
I don't know what prompts me to do it, but I grab my phone once more and open the app that ties into our security system. I check the camera that focuses on the gate, and even though I blew him off almost two hours ago, Frank's car is still parked just off the driveway, close enough for him to hear me over the intercom if I change my mind.
I feel a little twinge in my gut. Would someone who's guilty try so damn hard to make a case for his innocence?
Or maybe he's too clever by half and trying to lull me in?
Or maybe I should never have opened the app in the first place, because now I have yet another scenario playing in my head. Well, damn.
I'm actually considering getting on the intercom and begging him to please drive away when my phone rings. This time, it's not a call forwarded from the gate, but from Jackson.
"Hey," I say, happy to have someone to talk to in order to drown out my own voice in my head. "What's up?"
"She went into early labor." His voice is rushed, hard with an edge of fear, and I immediately tense. "The baby's cord is around its neck, but she's too far along for a C-section."
"Oh, Jackson." I sit down, cold with fear. "I'll be right there."
"I can't get ahold of Damien." He sounds lost, and Jackson never sounds lost. Like Damien, he's a man who is always in control. My fear ratchets up a notch as I realize that he's afraid of losing the baby. Or, god forbid, of losing Sylvia.
"I'll tell him. Just go be with her. I'm on my way."
I hear a nurse approach, letting him know that Sylvia was calling for him, and then the click of the phone as he hangs up, obviously overwhelmed. I get that. I feel overwhelmed, too.
I bend over and take a deep breath to ward off rising fear, then hit the speed-dial for Damien. It rolls to voicemail, which means he must be somewhere without a signal, because I'm damn sure he'd take my calls today, even if he was negotiating a billion dollar contract.
I leave a message, then follow up with a text. I call Rachel, too, but she tells me that she's already spoken to Jackson and is trying to reach Damien, as well.
Since I can't do more on that front, I grab my purse and hurry down to the garage. I'd left Coop at Wyatt's studio and driven home with Damien, and I don't want to waste time calling Edward. I need to get to the hospital as fast as I can, and since the Bugatti has some serious speed, that's the car I choose from Damien's vehicular menagerie.
I'm in it and heading through the exit tunnel in less than three minutes. It opens on the road just past the driveway gate, and soon I'm racing toward the Pacific Coast Highway, a litany of faster, faster running through my head.
When the car suddenly shimmies and bounces and starts pulling to the right, I'm so focused on just getting to the hospital that it takes me a moment to realize that a tire has blown out and that I have no choice but to pull over.
Damn, shit, fuck.
I g
et out, stare at the tire, and then kick the damn thing out of pique. Theoretically, I know how to change a tire. In practice, though, it would take me the rest of the day.
I open my phone and pull up my Uber app, figuring I'll get a ride and then text Gregory and ask him to deal with the car, and then I'll try to get through to Damien again.
But just as I'm about to enter my request, a familiar blue Buick pulls up behind me. Familiar, because I was just looking at it on my security camera. The door opens, and Frank steps out.
"Need help changing the tire?"
I shake my head, then take the plunge. "No," I say. "But I need a ride to the hospital."
Frank doesn't ask questions and he drives fast. As far as I'm concerned, those are more points in his favor.
"My sister-in-law," I explain once I'm certain that he understands the urgency and is driving accordingly. "And my friend." I tell him what Jackson told me, and he nods grimly.
"Try not to worry. She's at a hospital in good hands." But I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel as he accelerates through traffic.
When we reach a red light, he drums his fingers on the wheel impatiently, and I'm so moved by his effort to get me there as fast as possible that I hear myself apologizing.
"I'm sorry about everything. I know you want to talk--to convince me that you didn't do anything. But I hope you understand that I need space."
"I do," he says as we finally start moving again. "But the truth is I wasn't going to try to convince you. Damien and Dallas and that other young man are going to do that part for me." He takes his eye off the road long enough to look at me. "Those photos aren't mine, which means that if your husband and the people who work for him are as thorough as his reputation suggests, he'll eventually realize that."
I bite my lower lip. "Then what did you want to talk about?"
"I wanted you to know I understand. I know you have to be careful. I know you're in a position now to attract a lot of fortune hunters. And I know that even outside of your life with Damien, you have reason to doubt the sincerity of parental motives. Neither your mother nor I left you in a very good position there, I'm afraid. So I get that. And when you know the truth and want to see me, well, my door will always be open."
"Oh." I can't deny that his words move me. More than that, I can't deny that I believe him. "Thank you," I say as he pulls into the hospital parking lot.