by J. Kenner
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess it does.”
“Mommy! Daddy! Look!”
He grinned at her and took her hand as they caught up to their daughters. And for the next hour, Damien was no one other than a husband and a father. It felt good. It felt freeing.
And when his phone chimed with a text message — Come back to the house. We have a lead — it felt like maybe, maybe, they were finally reaching the end.
Chapter Twenty-three
They were ridiculously overdressed for the jail, but the plan was to go straight from the Men’s Central Jail near downtown LA to dinner at Cut 360, a five-star restaurant located just down the street from Stark Tower. After that, they’d either crash at the Tower Apartment or head back to Malibu.
Considering the girls would both be fast asleep by the end of the evening, Damien was thinking that a night alone with his wife in the apartment sounded like an exceptionally fine idea. One night away from the chaos. A morning with coffee and quiet. Just the two of them and a few exquisite minutes where they could forget the drama that was swirling around them.
“Damien?” He looked up, startled to find Nikki looking at him. “Where were you?”
He cupped her cheek. “With you, baby. Always.”
Her eyes warmed, and he knew she understood when she responded with a small, almost secret smile.
“They’re late,” Charles said, glancing at his Rolex. “You’d think a prison would be more prompt. They operate on schedules, after all.”
“Hot date?” Nikki teased.
“As a matter of fact … no.”
Beside him, Nikki burst out laughing. Charles rarely joked. And Damien wasn’t sure if his levity was a good sign, or an indication that they were so far through the looking glass that the normal rules didn’t apply any more.
Damien had wanted to bring Ryan or Quincy, but the lead they were following was the statement of Rory’s cellmate, who’d faked a hot appendix in order to get sent to the infirmary so that he could get a message to the prison investigators without any of the other inmates knowing. He’d insisted that he’d talk only to Damien, his wife, and his lawyer.
And that talk was supposed to have started fifteen minutes ago.
“You don’t think…” Nikki trailed off. “I just mean, when we ended up waiting for Rory…”
“No,” Charles said firmly, and Damien seconded the thought. The possibility that this informant had also been shivved before he could tell them anything was too horrible to entertain.
“He’s probably just—”
The rattle of a heavy door being opened on the hall interrupted Damien. A moment later, they heard footsteps, then the key in the lock of the interview room door. A few seconds later, the familiar investigators stepped inside, a balding middle aged man with a pallid face stumbling between them, his hands cuffed together.
“You Stark?”
Damien nodded. “And you are?”
“Tim Blankenship. Used to own a garage. Now I’m working in the fucking laundry.”
“I’m sorry if your skills aren’t being well utilized,” Damien said evenly. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“Not a goddamn thing,” Tim said. He looked over his shoulder. “Just thought Heckle and Jeckle there could maybe find me a sweeter gig.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll think about putting in a good word.”
“Sure, man. Sure. I can do that.”
He fumbled to pull out a chair, then sat. Charles and Damien sat across from him, and though Damien indicated the seat next to him for Nikki, she shook her head and moved across the room, standing and watching Tim from a distance.
“Right. So I bunked with him. Not long. He wasn’t here but, what? Just shy of a week? But he was a quiet guy. Leastways at first. After a couple of days he started talking more.”
“What did he talk about?” Charles asked.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Charles Maynard. I’m Mr. Stark’s attorney.”
“Right.” Tim’s head bobbed. “That’s cool. And the piece?” He nodded toward Nikki.
“That’s my wife, and I suggest you show a little respect.”
“Hey, I’m the one’s got the information.”
“And I’m the one with the money and the power to make your life miserable if I don’t like the tone you take with my wife. Are we clear?”
“Fuck you. Whatever.”
“Tell me what you know and, as I said, I may be able to make your stay more hospitable. Turn into a pain in my ass, and I assure you that working in the laundry will be the least of your problems.”
“Yeah, right. Whatever. Anyway, he started making noises about someone on the outside. Worried about them.”
“Someone who meant him harm?” Damien asked.
“No, no, it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t making a lot of sense, honestly. Not even really talking to me. More like he was working something out in his own head, you know?”
“Did he say anything specific?” Charles asked. “Names, places? Anything at all?”
“Not so much. Said he had to keep his head down and his mouth closed to make sure she was okay. That she was taken care of and no one dropped the ball.”
Damien caught Charles’s eye. That was an interesting tidbit.
“She?” Damien repeated. “Did he tell you anything about this woman?”
“Not a thing. He just kept saying he had to keep his head down. He owed it to her. That she deserved better. Shit like that. Guy was quiet at first, but then honest to God, he was bugging in here. I mean, like the guy was not liking the bars for walls thing, you know? And I was seriously worried about his kidneys and his bowels, ’cause, man, that dude couldn’t handle flashing his junk in public, you know what I mean?”
“I think I get the idea,” Damien said dryly.
“He said that Stark would fix it.”
“He said that?” Charles asked. “What were his exact words?”
“What? Like I’m a walking tape recorder? I just remember that he said that Stark would fix it. That’s it. That’s all she wrote.”
“And you have no idea what that means.”
“Not a fucking clue. You’re Stark, right?” He aimed his bloodshot eyes at Damien. “What’s it mean to you?”
“Unfortunately, nothing,” Damien admitted.
“But that’s not my problem, right?” Tim asked. “I mean, I’m relaying valuable information. Ain’t my problem if you don’t know how to dis-interpret it. Am I right?”
“You’re as eloquent as you are smart,” Damien said. “And I’ll see if there’s anything I can do to improve your situation. We really do appreciate the help, however cryptic it might be.”
“Man, whatever.”
The officers led him back to his cell while a prison liaison escorted Damien, Charles, and Nikki back to the main reception area.
“There’s some woman he’s been taking care of,” Nikki said slowly. “And someone else was looking after her when Rory was in prison.”
“Makes sense,” Charles said. “Said he had to keep his head down. That he didn’t want anyone dropping the ball.”
Damien nodded thoughtfully. “But there’s no reason I would care—no incentive for me to step in and fix it—unless this woman and her caretaker were somehow related to Anne’s kidnapping.”
“He took the fall in exchange for someone promising to watch after his wife?” Charles suggested. “Girlfriend? Then he changed his mind and decided to get help. From you.”
“Not a wife. A foster sister,” Damien said, remembering what Bree had told them over the weekend.
“We know he was giving money to a foster sister,” Nikki explained to Charles. “We just don’t know who or why.”
“Well,” Charles said pragmatically. “I think we need to find out.”
* * * *
The waiter finished clearing the dessert dishes, then topped off Damien’s coffee, his expert gaze surv
eying the other five people at the table. “Will there be anything else?”
“I think that will do it,” Damien said as Bijan raised his hand, signaling for the waiter to bring him the check.
“Absolutely not,” Nikki said. “Everyone knows the client doesn’t pay. That’s what billable hours are for,” she added, with the perfect combination of humor and firmness.
Damien rested his hand on her thigh, his smile full of pride. She’d attended many business functions with him, but this was one of the few at which he was the extraneous party. And it had been absolutely delicious to sit back and watch his wife so competently handle the table. And so elegantly share the spotlight with Abby and Travis, making sure that Bijan and his husband, Laurence, knew that Abby was a partner in more than name only. And that Travis’s tech skills brought significant value to their products.
“You’re amazing,” he whispered, sliding his fingertip along the hem of her skirt as he leaned over for the small pitcher of cream.
“I had a good teacher,” she replied, making him grin.
“I’m so glad you were available this evening,” Bijan said. “It was a whirlwind trip for Laurence and me, but I wanted to take the time to tell you how pleased everyone at Greystone-Branch is with your work.”
“I’m always happy to make time for you. Especially when such lovely compliments are involved.”
“We know we put you through the wringer a few times with last-minute software tweaks, and you never failed to step up to the plate.”
“Travis took point for most of that,” Abby said, and Damien noticed that she rested her hand lightly on his. “He’s an incredible programmer.”
“Abby’s too kind,” Travis said, pulling his hand free and reaching for his coffee.
Laurence cleared his throat, and for a moment, Damien wondered if he was going to comment on the tension between Abby and Travis. Damien had noticed it several times that night and in the office as well. Sooner or later, whatever was bubbling under the surface would explode, and that wasn’t the kind of drama Nikki needed. Not on top of everything else.
As it turned out, though, that wasn’t the drama that Laurence wanted to raise. Instead, he apologized for the timing of the dinner.
“I don’t know how we missed the news,” he said, his voice deep with compassion, “but we only recently learned what you went through with your little girl.”
Beside him, Nikki stiffened, though this time, Damien was sure the tension was noticeable only to him. “Please don’t worry,” she said. “Anne is doing wonderfully. The house is a fortress, and she’s home safe with her nanny and our best friends.”
“We’re both very glad to hear that,” Bijan said as the waiter returned to hand Nikki the check.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Travis pushed back from the table, then started to thread his way to the men’s room. Damien stood, excused himself, then followed. He waited outside the door, then pushed Travis back in as the younger man started to exit.
“I think we need to talk.”
“Mr. Stark! What are you—”
“Are you fucking Abby?”
“Excuse me?”
“I think the question was clear, Travis. Are you fucking my wife’s business partner? Because I’m a protective man, Travis, and the people who are important to my wife are important to me. That includes Abby. Frankly, that includes you, too. So I want to know what is going on between the two of you that might impact my wife’s business.”
“Nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Travis. Have I not been making myself clear?”
“Nothing anymore,” Travis amended, then sighed. “There’s nothing. And there won’t ever be.”
Damien studied him. “Nothing or something, it’s not my business unless it affects my wife’s business. You two draw a line in the sand, you understand? And then you stay on one side or the other. Because if you don’t, there’s going to be trouble. And not just with me. You’ll end up hurting her or she’ll end up hurting you.”
“I know. Christ, you don’t think I know that?”
Damien backed off, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “You want to talk about it?”
“No. Maybe. Not now.” He scrubbed his palms over his face. “Did Bijan and Laurence notice? Did Nikki?”
“Nikki, probably.” He grinned. “She doesn’t miss much. But I don’t think the Greystone guys did.”
“Well,” Travis said on a laugh as they headed back toward the table. “That’s something.”
What? Nikki mouthed.
“Later,” he whispered as he pulled her chair out for her, then pressed a hand to her back as they headed toward the door.
Damien sent Edward a text, and as they waited for the limo, he and Nikki stood with the others at the valet stand. Travis left first, followed by Abby in an Uber. The valet was just pulling up with Bijan’s rental car when a news van squealed to a halt and a cameraman and a reporter leapt out, the camera’s light blinding.
“Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark! Is it true that you cancelled Rory Claymore’s fellowship when he was in your program because of his relationship to Louisa Crenshaw?”
Damien hooked his arm protectively around Nikki, his first thought of who the hell is Louisa Crenshaw quickly replaced by the answer. Rory’s foster sister.
“Damien? Nikki?” Bijan gestured toward his car, now ready to pull away from the curb. Damien shook his head. A nice gesture, but he wasn’t going to bolt. Not like that.
“I suggest you check your facts,” he said to the camera. “Mr. Claymore was a full fellowship recipient. He was never pulled from the program. Sadly, I don’t count him among our successful alumni since he obviously considered kidnapping as a viable alternative to hard work.”
“What do you say to the allegations that you’re responsible for Rory’s death in prison?”
“I’d say that as far as I know, you’re the first one to make that allegation, presumably for ratings. But for the record, I’ll add this—it’s unfortunate that my daughter’s confessed kidnapper was killed in custody. I would have liked the opportunity to better understand why he committed such a heinous crime. This, however, isn’t the venue for speculation about his motives or his murder.”
“Mr. Stark! Nikki!”
“We’re done here,” he said as Edward—timely as always—pulled to a stop in the middle of the street.
He got out, opened the door, then used an umbrella—on a decidedly clear night—to beat a path through the gathered crowd so that Nikki and Damien could slide inside, safe from the insanity.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said.
“Don’t be,” she said, kicking her shoes off and putting her feet in his lap. “It wouldn’t be a night out without cameras and obnoxious reporters. But if you want to make it better, Mr. Stark,” she added, rubbing her bare foot over his crotch, “you just go right ahead.”
Chapter Twenty-four
“Make it better,” Damien repeated, cupping his hand over her bare foot, then sliding it up her calf, her thigh. “I might be able to manage that.”
“Believe me, Mr. Stark,” she said, “you already are.” She leaned against the side of the limo, her arms above her head as she stretched, her lengthening body adding to the pressure against his cock.
“In light of Louisa Crenshaw, we need to get back home to the others.” He reached the band of her panties, then traced his fingertip along it.
She made small circles with the ball of her foot, making his mouth go dry. “Not a problem. Malibu’s a good forty-five minutes away. That sounds just about right.”
“For what, Mrs. Stark?”
“For whatever you want. For however you’re going to make the world outside this limo fall away.” She met his eyes, hers so heavy with desire, he wanted to pull her into his lap and have her ride his cock all the way back. A hard, wild ride that left them both sweaty and sated.
Tempting...
But she presented so many temptations. And while forty
-five minutes wasn’t an eternity, it was time enough for more than a fast fuck. For that matter, it was time enough to play.
Gently, he slid her foot out of his lap. Then he lifted his hand up to the control panel and pushed the button to raise one of the jump seats, a set of recessed single seats that were available on demand for situations when the limo had more occupants than the bench seats along the sides and back could handle.
Not a feature he used often, but he had plans for it now, and as the chair rose mechanically from the floor, he slipped off the bench seat and moved to the single seat.
She frowned, then sat up. “Leaving me alone? Not exactly what I had in mind.”
“No? You’ve been by yourself in a limo before. From what I understand, you enjoyed it very much.”
He saw the spark light her eyes. “That was before I knew how much better it could be not being alone in the limo.”
“Arguing?”
“Never. Sir.”
He took off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the seat beside her. She glanced at it, then back at him in question.
“Fix me a drink, baby.”
She took another quick, curious glance at his jacket, then moved the short distance to the wet bar, giving him a nice view of her ass as she bent to pour him a shot of Macallan, neat.
“Sir,” she said, handing him the glass.
He downed the drink in one swallow, then put the glass down. “Make one for yourself if you want,” he said. “Or sit back down.”
She sat.
“Eager?”
She lifted a shoulder. “For what?”
He chuckled, letting his gaze roam over her, enjoying the view.
She’d worn a silk button-down blouse paired with a black pencil skirt and high-heeled pumps. She’d had a jacket at dinner, but she’d slipped it off the moment they’d entered the limo.
“Do you have any idea how perfect you were tonight? How much you impressed your clients?”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” he assured her. “You were amazing. And very, very sexy.”
She laughed. “Not what I was going for.” She met his eyes. “Except for you. Always for you.”