Claim Me: A Novel (31 page)

“I promise you he thinks much more highly of me than that.”

“Dammit, Nikki, I’m trying to apologize here.”

“Is that what this is about?” I’m genuinely surprised.

“I fucked up, okay? I was stupid and I blew the whole thing out of proportion.” He runs his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end and giving him an even more harried appearance. “I acted rashly, and I’m sorry.”

I cock my head, trying to hear the part that he’s not saying. “We’re talking about more than firing me, aren’t we?” My skin prickles with worry. “What did you do, Carl?”

“Oh, hell. Other shit. You know.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “All you said was that you were going to fuck Damien over. So what did you do?” My left hand is closed into a tight fist, my nails biting into my palm. It is only through a supreme force of will that I am remaining calm. “Dammit, Carl. What other shit are you talking about?”

He stays silent, his expression unreadable.

“For Christ’s sake, Carl, why did you come here in the first place?”

He sucks in a gulp of air. “You know how Stark paid Padgett off, right? And now Padgett has to keep his mouth shut.”

“How do you know that?” Eric Padgett was threatening to go public with his theory that Damien had something to do with his sister’s death, and Damien actually wrote a check to shut the worm up. It’s not something I like to think about. More than that, the terms of the settlement were supposed to be confidential.

“I know a lot of things. Padgett did a lot of talking before he got Stark’s money. And most of his talking was to other people with an ax to grind against Stark. Trust me when I say that I realized pretty fast that Padgett was the least of Stark’s worries. There are a lot of people who want to see the shit fly.”

“You included,” I snap.

“Not me. Not anymore. That’s why I’m here. I get it. I got the
whole thing wrong and I screwed Damien and I screwed you. I’m saying I’m not the only one.”

“Who, then? And what shit?”

He shakes his head. “Just tell Stark that he may not see this one coming.” He makes a rough noise in his throat. “I was blown away when I learned who Padgett had lined up with an ax to grind against your boyfriend.”

I stand very still. He’s scaring me more than he probably knows. “You won’t tell me who?”

“I’ve said everything I’m going to. I’ve played my part, and now I’m getting out of this mess. Whatever happens isn’t coming from me, I can promise you that.”

“Then why did you come here at all?”

“Because telling you is like telling Stark. It’s a small world, and I burned a bridge I shouldn’t have.”

“And you think this is going to fix it?”

“No, but I think it’s a start.” He meets my eyes. “Tell Stark to watch his back.”

“I’ll tell him,” I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice from shaking. “But he always does.”

I am actually wishing for the paparazzi as I walk toward my car. At least then I could be pissed off at them instead of worried for Damien.

The second I get in my car, I reach into my glove compartment for my phone charger so that I can call Damien, but the damn thing isn’t there. I forgot to put one in my briefcase, so my phone hasn’t charged at all today, and it’s almost dead. I dial anyway, figuring I can talk fast, and am relieved when Damien picks up immediately.

“I ran into Carl,” I say without preamble.

“Ran into him?” His voice is low and measured and very, very ominous.

“As in he came to Innovative and waited for me in the lobby.”

“Are you okay? What did he do?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, because I can hear both the worry and the temper. “He wanted me to tell you to watch your back.”

“Did he? Tell me everything he said, exactly how he said it.”

I comply, relating the conversation in as much detail as I can manage.

“And he wouldn’t tell you any more?”

“No,” I say. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

I hold my breath, wondering if Damien will cite the thing going on in Germany. Or the tennis center. Or even the Eric Padgett settlement. There are so many things that this could be about, and though I haven’t got a clue, I am certain that Damien does.

But when he speaks, he tells me nothing. “I think this is Carl’s way of blowing smoke.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask.

“You said he wants to rebuild burned bridges. What better way to do that than to warn me about some upcoming danger?”

“Because there’s always some sort of danger for a man like you,” I say, picking up the direction of his thoughts.

“An angry competitor. A fired employee. A stolen patent. And then Carl comes along and tells me to be on guard, and when I next notice some nefarious deed, I will think, oh, isn’t it lucky that Carl warned me. I guess the little prick isn’t so bad after all.”

I laugh, because Carl is a little prick and nothing is going to change that. But the laughter doesn’t erase my worry. “So you’re really not worried?”

“I make it a point not to worry,” Damien says. “There’s no profit in it.”

“Damien—”

“Stop,” he says gently.

“Stop what?”

“Stop worrying about me. You’re wasting precious energy.”

“What else am I going to do with it?” I ask airily. “It’s not as if you’re here beside me.”

He laughs. “Good girl,” he says. “Where are you?”

“The parking lot. I’m going to hit the grocery store and go home.”

“Good. Can you do me a favor and pick up some—”

And that is when my phone decides to die. I curse it, but at least I got to talk to him about Carl.

Even though Damien isn’t troubled, I am, and it stays on my mind as I poke through Ralph’s, grabbing coffee and ice cream and other staples of living. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but as my list is on my dead phone, I’ll just have to wing it.

I end up with two plastic bags full of various essentials, and after I park my car at the condo, I leave the parking area and follow the sidewalk around to the front stairs. There’s a crowd gathered there, and it takes me a second to realize that they are waiting for me.

Shit
.

I may have been in the mood to confront them earlier, but that has passed. All I want now is to get inside, eat ice cream, and wait for Damien.

I square my shoulders, make sure every trace of emotion is wiped off my face, and soldier on.

Immediately, they swarm me.

“Nikki! Nikki, look over here!”

“Was the portrait completely nude?”

“Does it have the usual Blaine elements like bondage?”

I’m breathing hard, and my body feels suddenly cold and clammy. I don’t understand where these questions are coming from, and I’m afraid—so very afraid—to think too hard about it.

“Why did you do it, Nikki? Was it for the money or the thrill?”

“Nikki! Can you confirm that you accepted a million dollars from Damien Stark to pose nude for an erotic painting?”

I freeze, too horrified to take another step, as camera flashes burst around me. I feel sick, and I am certain that any moment now I’m going to throw up.

“Have you ever posed nude before?”

“Is the painting a reflection of your sex life with Damien Stark?”

“Why did you agree to be tied up?”

They’re all around me, circling me, and I reach out for Damien’s hand, but of course he’s not there. My knees feel weak, and I have to force myself to stay upright. I will not fall, I will not react, I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve gotten to me.

But they have. And as variations of the same questions are thrown at me—as I try to get to the stairs but can barely move even an inch—I know that I’m going to scream soon, just for the shock of it. Just so I can get away.

A loud squeal cuts above the din, and for a moment I think that I
have
screamed, because suddenly the crowd is parting, and I look up and gasp.

Damien
. He’s running toward me from the street, his black Ferrari left idling in the road. And if I have ever been uncertain about Damien’s capacity for murder, I no longer am. I see it in his eyes. In the line of his jaw. In the tenseness that fills every muscle of his body. Right then, in that moment, he would kill to protect me.

He reaches out and grabs my arm, and I’m so relieved he’s here I almost cry. He pulls me roughly to him, and hooks his arm around my shoulder, holding me close as he shoves us through the crowd toward the car.

He tosses the groceries onto the floorboard, then gets me settled in the passenger seat. As he straps me in I see something break inside him. “Baby,” he says, and though the word is barely loud enough for my ears, I hear the apology and the bone-deep regret.

“Please,” I whisper. “Let’s get out of here.”

He’s in the car and accelerating toward Ventura Boulevard before my mind even catches up. His right hand is on the stick,
but once we’re on the freeway, he reaches for me. “I’m so sorry. The painting. The money. I never thought—”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “Later. Right now, I want to pretend that it didn’t happen.”

The look he gives me is heartbreakingly sad. For a moment, we are silent. But the stillness is broken by Damien’s single hard smack of his hand against the steering wheel.

“Who did this?” he asks. “Who the fuck leaked this?”

I shake my head. It still feels like cotton. I realize from somewhere outside of myself that I am not coping well.

I slide my right hand down so that it is between my body and the door, and then I clench it tight into a fist, letting my manicured nails dig deep as I squeeze and squeeze.

I bite my tongue, drawing blood.

And I wish—oh, how I wish—that I still had that tiny knife I used to keep on my keychain.

“Look at me,” Damien snaps.

I comply. I even smile. I’m starting to get some control back.

I take a deep breath, relieved that I’m functioning. But oh god, oh god, this isn’t going to stop. It’s out there, and they’re going to keep coming, and it isn’t going to stop.

“Carl,” I whisper. “This is what he was warning me about.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”

“Who then?”

“Does Ollie know about the painting?”

“No!” The word comes fast and hard, but then I immediately falter. Could he have found out somehow? “No,” I say again. “And even if he did, he’d keep quiet. I’m not the one he wants to hurt.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Damien says darkly.

I swallow, because Damien has to be wrong. Even if he’s right about Ollie being in love with me, surely Ollie wouldn’t do this just to get back at me for being with Damien. Would he?

I close my eyes because I can’t stand to think about it. “Who doesn’t matter,” I say, tightening my fist again. “It’s out there.”

Damien doesn’t answer, and we drive toward downtown in silence, Damien’s anger so thick it fills the car.

“How did you know?” I finally ask.

“Jamie. She’s home. Apparently she had to push through them, too, and they were asking her about the painting. She pretended not to have a clue, then called you.”

“My phone’s dead,” I say numbly.

“I know. She called me when she couldn’t reach you, and I tried you, too. When I couldn’t get you on the phone to tell you to stay away—”

“You came to rescue me yourself.”

“Fortunately I was in Beverly Hills and you made a stop before going home.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He turns just long enough to glance at me, and his smile is sad. “I will always protect you,” he says. “But this—”

He cuts himself off sharply and I see his knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. I understand. He can’t protect me from this, and he hates that.

Frankly, I’m not crazy about it, either.

Damien stays quiet until we enter the apartment. But the moment we do, he lashes out. In one fluid motion he grabs and hurls the ornamental vase that holds the floral arrangement that is the focal point of the foyer.

“Goddammit!” he shouts, the crescendo of his voice underscored by the tinkle of shattering glass hitting the floor and the splash as water flies everywhere.

I do nothing but stand there. I know how he feels. I want to lash out and break something, too.

No, that’s not true. I don’t want to lash out, but I desperately
wish that I did. I wish that I could grab a glass trinket and throw it hard against the floor and take comfort in the fact that it is my hands and my power that have caused it to shatter.

But that is not what will satisfy me. Those shards of glass would not be an end for me, but a means to an end. And I would not be comforted until the glass is cutting a line in my flesh, and I have latched on so tight to the pain that it erases all the other horrors around me. Those horrible camera flashes. The jeers from the reporters. The embarrassment, the humiliation, and the knowledge that no matter what, for the rest of my life, this is never going to go away.

I shiver, feeling so very fragile, and I imagine the weight of a knife in my hand.

No
.

With effort, I force myself not to cross the room and pick up a piece of the broken vase. Instead, I look at Damien, who stands with clenched fists and real anguish on his face. “It will be okay,” I say, because that is the kind of platitude that people say, even if they don’t really believe it.

“Screw okay,” he snaps. This is the temper that was so famous in his tennis days, and that has fueled his reputation for being dangerous. A sharp brittle breaking point that got him in too many fights and left too many scars, including the dark eye that is now looking at me with a bitter, resolute anger.

“None of this should be happening,” he says. “I should be able to protect you. I should be able to keep my bastard of a father out of my life and out of my car. I don’t want him or his shit near me, and I sure as hell don’t want it near you. And as for the rest of it all over the goddamn globe—”

He cuts himself off, and for a moment I think that it is out of his system.

It isn’t. “I should be able to keep your secrets as well as my own. But then again,” he adds with a mirthless laugh, “that’s
crashing down, too. God
dammit
.” He lashes out so fast and hard that he puts his fist through the drywall.