Damien: A Stark Novel (Stark Saga Book 6)

by J. Kenner

  He looked at his friends, nodding to himself as he re-ran that list in his head. “But all that’s for tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to go find Nikki. And this time,” he added with a look to Jamie, “none of you are going to stop me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said. “And for the record, it sounds like you’ve got a good plan.”

  Damn right he did.

  He left them to finish up and let themselves out, then headed back to his bedroom, expecting to find Nikki. But she wasn’t there.

  Frowning, he moved on to the girls’ room, then stopped in the doorway when he saw her. She was sitting on the window seat, backlit by the moonlight so that she glowed with an ethereal beauty. Anne was asleep in her lap, and his heart swelled at the image of the two of them together, kissed by the light of the rising moon.

  He started to step into the room, but then he heard it. A low, sad sob. She was crying. She was curled up in front of a window holding their baby and crying. Because of him. Because he’d fucked up.

  How could he have been so ridiculously naïve to think that she just needed time? How could time heal the kind of pain he’d caused? He was supposed to protect her, to keep her safe.

  She’d put her trust in him, and he’d failed completely.

  And, dammit, he didn’t know how he was supposed to live with that.

  * * * *

  For almost an hour, he’d been punching the bag, trying to pound out his frustration. His anger. His fear.

  Frustration that he’d walked away from Nikki instead of talking to her. Holding her.

  Anger at Sofia for tagging the office. Anger at himself for being so blind as to not even consider that she might have done the vandalism.

  And fear. He was so afraid that she wasn’t better. That this was the beginning of another long, slow spiral into the abyss.

  Again and again, his taped hands beat against the bag, his arms burning, his feet moving. Always keep moving, right? A lesson that worked equally well in fighting and in business.

  He thrust out again, a tight, pounding jab punctuated by an uppercut. Then another fast jab. Another, and another. And on and on, because how could he stop? He had a mission, after all. To get it all out. To leave himself an empty shell.

  To start fresh.

  Only then could he apologize to Nikki. And somehow, some way, make it up to her.

  It wasn’t working. The anger still swirled. Along with a wretched self-loathing that was driving him harder and faster and—

  “Hey.”

  He froze. Nikki.

  “Everyone’s gone or asleep.” Her gentle, soft voice touched him like a caress. “I was looking for you.”

  She was still behind him, talking to him from the doorway as he faced the bag.

  He didn’t turn around. “I would have thought that tonight you’d just as soon not find me.”

  He heard the soft pad of her feet on the mat, then saw her appear in the mirrors that lined the side walls. He watched, his already fast heartbeat picking up tempo as she approached, then pressed her hand lightly to his shoulder. “Is that how you feel about me?” she asked. “When I do something that pisses you off. You’d just as soon not find me?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Baby, how could you ever piss me off?”

  Her sweet laughter was a gift he didn’t deserve.

  “Liar,” she said. “And you don’t have to answer because I already know the truth. You’re always with me, Damien. Even when we irritate each other. Even when we think that we’ve destroyed everything.”

  He drew in a breath, amazed that she could find her way so easily through the noise and slide straight into his soul.

  She moved around to stand beside the bag, facing him. “Here,” she said, placing her hand over her heart. “That’s where you are. In my heart and right beside me. Always, Damien. Even when it’s dark and scary. Even when we fight, Damien. Even then, you’re always beside me. Don’t you dare believe it’s different with me.”

  He looked at her. Just looked, taking in everything about this woman who was his. Who belonged to him so completely. A woman he didn’t deserve, but knew he could never lose. The moment he lost Nikki was the moment he left this earth, because losing her would be to lose his heart.

  She’d washed her face, and there wasn’t a trace of makeup left. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore one of his old Wimbledon T-shirts, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She looked young and fresh and alive and earnest, and he wanted to pull her close and kiss her sweetly. He wanted, somehow, to make amends. But he didn’t know how.

  Despite her words, he didn’t know how.

  “I screwed up, Nikki.” He pounded one more time on the bag. “I missed it. Ignored it. Was fucking blindsided by it. I wanted so desperately for things to be okay between you and Sofia that I didn’t consider the possibility that even with the doctors giving her a gold star for mental health, that she was still a woman who would be jealous of my wife. Who might do something vindictive and stupid. I didn’t see it, baby, because I didn’t want to see it, and I’m so damn sorry.”

  “No.” She shook her head as tears flooded her eyes. “No, Damien, I’m the one who’s sorry. She’s your friend, and you have a lifetime of history with her. You love her. Not the way you love me, but she’s part of you, and I know how much having us at odds hurts you. And you thought she was better. Her doctors even told you she was better. Of course you trusted her.”

  She drew a breath and offered him a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry I said that you were wrong to trust her. That was wrong. Me lashing out in anger, and I’m sorry.”

  Her words, so sweet and heartfelt, moved him more he could ever express. But they were empty words, no matter how much she might believe them. The bitter truth was that her anger had been justified. He’d fucked up, and Sofia had hurt her.

  And how the hell could they ever get past that?

  She stepped closer, then wrapped her arms around him, her head to his chest. “Come to bed,” she whispered.

  He bent, then kissed the top of her head, breathing in the clean scent of her shampoo. “Soon,” he murmured. “I just want to get in a few more punches.”

  She stepped back, and the moment she was no longer touching him, he felt cold. Lost. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  For a moment she only looked at him, and he knew she could see right through him.

  But how the hell could he hold her close and take comfort in her body when he was the one who’d hurt her?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The irony, of course, was that back when Sofia told him about her recovery and her twelve-step program, he’d given her access to one of the suites at the Stark Century Hotel that he kept open for personal and corporate guests.

  Which meant that he was housing the woman who’d harassed his wife in one of the most luxurious hotels in the country.

  She opened her door the instant he knocked, looking fresh and happy. She’d changed her hair again. Now it hung in midnight black curls around her fine-boned face, each ringlet tipped with blue.

  “Damien!” She threw herself into his arms, silently demanding a hug. He gave her a gentle squeeze, then released her, gesturing for her to step back inside.

  “I’m ready to go,” she said, indicating the purse on her shoulder. “Is Alaine meeting us somewhere? Or is he cooking for us?”

  “Come on, Sofia. Back inside. We need to talk.”

  Her brow furrowed, and he knew her mind was churning as she wondered what had happened and what he knew.

  “What about brunch?”

  “Canceled. I called Alaine on the drive over. Inside, Sofia. Now.”

  For a moment, he thought she would argue. Then she lifted a shoulder as if it didn’t matter in the least. “Wanna order room service?”

  “Later.” He gestured for her to sit on the couch while he sat down on the chair opposite her. “Sofia, honey, why did you do it?
”

  “Do what?”

  He just looked at her. And while he looked, her tears started to flow. “I don’t know,” she said, wringing her hands in her lap. “I really, really don’t know. I was lost, you know? I’d had the miscarriage, and even though I’m not ready to be a mom, it felt like everything was all wrong. Like I’d never have that. And I thought about you. And about her. And about how you have a family now and those little girls, and I was just sinking under, because I know that I’ll never be to anyone what she is to you.”

  He remembered the violent anger sprayed across Nikki’s office walls. He recalled the way she’d come to him later, asking if she could take over as the girls’ nanny when Bree moved to New York.

  A slow rise of anger pushed him to his feet and he paced, feeling the weight of her eyes on him. “Why did you show up at Nikki’s office the other day?”

  “I—I wanted to make sure it was all gone. And I wanted to apologize.”

  “I don’t recall any apology.”

  “I couldn’t. I’m sorry.” She blinked, and more tears fell. “I’m a mess, Damien. The miscarriage—everything around it—I’m so sorry, but I’m a mess.”

  “And the father?”

  She shuddered. “No.”

  “No?”

  Her face went hard. “He’s—just, no.”

  He stepped to the window, then looked out at the city spreading out below them. “I need you to go.”

  “Go?”

  “Back to London.” He turned to face her and saw panic in her eyes. “I’ll arrange a flight and a flat,” he added gently.

  “That’s it?” She licked her lips. “You’re just sending me away? Like that’ll make it all better?”

  For a moment, he could only stand there, feeling so damned exhausted. Then he moved to the sofa and sat beside her, taking her hand.

  “Come on, Sofia. Can you honestly tell me this isn’t for the best? We’ll always be friends, but it’s not good for you and me to be this close together. You know that, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you really even want to stay?”

  She shook her head, then wiped her eyes with her free hand. “No.” Her voice was low. Thin. “I want to get away so badly. But I didn’t—I didn’t know how.”

  “Just ask me. When have I not helped you? Even in the worst of it—”

  “I know. You did.” She wiped away a tear. “I love you, you know.”

  A fist tightened around his heart. “Sofia, please…”

  “No, no, I don’t mean—it’s just that you’re my best friend. I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. And it’s not goodbye. It’s just distance.”

  She drew in a breath and gave him a shaky smile. “I know. Will you tell Nikki I’m really sorry? And I’ll pay her back. Whatever it cost to clean up her office, plus some. I will.”

  “I know. You’ll see your counselor when you’re back in the UK? Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Good.” He kissed her forehead, then stood up. “Order room service. Whatever you want. Then pack your things. I’ll arrange the jet and have Edward pick you up in a few hours. Okay?”

  “Can I leave in the morning? I’d like—I’d like to walk on the beach. And maybe say a few goodbyes?”

  He almost said no, but that was just because he wanted this chapter closed. Of course she should have the chance to say goodbye to the friends she’d made in the months she’d been in the States.

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “But I’m going to have Ryan assign one of his security team to say with you until you’re on the plane. Fair enough?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell. “You don’t trust me.”

  “Should I?”

  Her lips pressed together, and she studied her hands in her lap.

  “Call me when you’re settled.”

  “I will,” she promised. And then, just as he reached the door, she said, “Thank you.”

  * * * *

  Damien was relieved to have reached some sort of resolution with Sofia, but by the time he pulled up in front of the Malibu house, his friend was the last thing on his mind. Instead, his thoughts were on last night in the gym.

  He’d been such an ass. Too lost in his own pain to realize that she’d thrown him a rescue line and was offering to pull him out of the mire. To hold him close and make it better.

  All he’d done was push her away.

  He needed to make it up to her, but other than finding and destroying Anne’s kidnapper, he didn’t know what would be enough.

  So many fuck-ups on his shoulders, and he didn’t know how to make it all right. He felt lost, and he never felt lost. Unsure, and he never felt unsure.

  And he felt alone. Because even though he had the most incredible wife a man could hope for, he’d pushed her away. All because he was an arrogant fool.

  He parked the car in the drive, then killed the engine. But instead of getting out, he clutched the steering wheel, bent his head, and let himself drift away on an ocean of self-recrimination.

  He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. All he knew was that he was jolted from his roiling thoughts by the familiar chime of his phone—a chime that signaled a text from Nikki.

  The feathered edge of hope brushed lightly against him, and he checked his phone, smiling as he read the message.

  Good morning, Mr. Stark. There’s brunch waiting for you in the bungalow.

  The words, so simple, were like sunshine to his heart. More, they were like a mirror reflecting back a truth that he didn’t want to see—that as smart as he might be, sometimes he missed the mark by a mile.

  Did he really think that he was the one taking care of her? That was bullshit. Nikki was taking care of him.

  And how he’d ever survive a day without her, he really didn’t know. Frankly, he didn’t intend to find out.

  He walked down the unpaved drive that ran from the front of the house down to the beach and the bungalow, passing the main door to go around to the deck on the back, expecting he’d find his wife there. Instead, he found a house that appeared to be completely closed up. The blinds were down, the windows shuttered. As far as he could tell, the bungalow was quiet and empty.

  He checked the text again, but she’d definitely said the bungalow, and now he hurried to the door, not entirely sure if it was anticipation that was making him hurry or the fear that something was wrong.

  He punched in the code, pushed open the door, and knew immediately that there was nothing at all to fear.

  On the contrary, he’d just stepped into someplace magical.

  As far as he could tell, every surface in the kitchen and living area was covered in white candles. Every surface, that is, except the kitchen island. The only thing on the island was his wife, stretched out like an offering, and completely naked.

  “Nikki.”

  Her name was little more than a breath. A quiet prayer. A heartfelt thank you.

  She was beautiful. Her hair gleaming. Her skin glowing golden in the flickering light. Shadows dancing over her in a way that his fingers envied.

  “Baby, this is…”

  He trailed off. Rarely was he at a loss for words, but right now, his vocabulary had abandoned him.

  “I told you there was brunch,” she said, and spread her legs just a little, making his body ache with a sensual craving.

  He took a step toward her. “It looks absolutely delicious.” He put his hands on her ankles, then gently stroked his palms up to her thighs, spreading her legs as he did. He tugged her gently closer, watching the way her body slid toward him on the polished countertop.

  But then, as he started to bend, desperate to taste the feast between her thighs, she pulled her legs together, then propped herself up on her elbows, her expression managing to be both serious and teasing. “Don’t get too excited, Mr. Stark. Not a single taste for you until you stop shutting me out. And don’t even try to deny it.”

  “I would
n’t dream of it,” he said, amused. He trailed a finger up her leg and side, grazing her breast as he circled the island, then went to sit on the couch on the far side of the living area. “Come here.”

  She turned her head to the side, looking at him, and said nothing.

  “Nikki. Come here.”

  He saw the hint of a smile playing on her lips as she slowly sat up, then slid off the island. She’d tossed her white robe over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and now she reached for it.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “If I’m going to spill my soul, we’re doing this my way.”

  “Are we?” She tilted her head, studying him. “What’s your way?”

  “You straddling my lap so that I can see your face when we talk. And naked will work just fine.”

  “That’s it?”

  He matched her grin. “No, but it’s a start.”

  “Hmm.” She walked slowly toward him, then climbed onto his lap, her knees on the couch, tight against his hips, and her hands on his shoulders. “I think I’ve lost control of this intervention.”

  “Is that what this is?” he asked.

  She brushed a kiss over his lips. “It is. I’m worried about you.”

  “You’re worried about me,” he repeated, then cupped her face. “Baby, don’t you remember? You cut. For the first time since we’ve been together you took a blade to your skin.”

  “I did,” she said. “And the circumstances were horrible. I was afraid and off-balance and the world was spinning out from under me. But you got me through it, Damien.” She pressed her forehead against his. “And you can’t use my cutting as your excuse.”

  He felt himself tense, her words hitting a little too close to the truth. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s an intervention, remember? I’m talking about you. Tell me what’s in your head, Damien. Because our daughter was kidnapped and it turns out her kidnapper wasn’t acting alone.”