Claim Me: A Novel (33 page)

I slide out of bed, find a shirt in the closet, and follow the scent to the huge black-and-steel kitchen. An electric skillet sizzles on the granite island, while Damien stands at the stove holding an omelette pan. Diced avocado, cubed cream cheese, and something else I don’t recognize neatly cover a small cutting board off to one side.

Two flutes of champagne are half-filled, and beside them sits a carafe of orange juice.

“Are we celebrating?” I ask, coming up behind him and peering into the omelette pan.

“We are,” he says. “After the day we had yesterday, I thought we should celebrate the important things.”

“The day?” I repeat. My body is still deliciously sore and aching. I stretch and smile slowly. “What about the night?”

“That was a celebration in and of itself,” he says. His eyes skim over me. I am wearing one of his button-down shirts, and
it hangs to mid-thigh. The sleeves are rolled up, and the unfastened buttons reveal more than a little cleavage. The desire in his eyes is as unmistakable as his slow, sexy Damien smile. I’m pretty sure I melt a little.

He traces his finger down the open neck of the shirt. “I like you in my clothes.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“I like you out of them as well.”

I laugh, and dance back out of reach of his fingers. “Don’t even get ideas,” I say. “I’m starving.”

He laughs.

“So what exactly are we celebrating?”

He brushes a quick kiss over my lips. “Us.”

That single word sends a thrill running through me. “I’ll drink to that,” I say.

“Good. You can pour the OJ into our glasses. Then go sit.”

He points to one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “If you stay back here you’ll only distract me, and while that might lead to very interesting kitchen sex, it would also undoubtedly burn the omelettes.”

“I am hungry,” I concede as I pour the OJ and hand him a glass. I take my own with me and go sit at the bar that is attached to the island. It gives me a nice view of Damien looking deliciously domestic. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I’m a man of many mysteries,” he says.

“I’m a terrible cook,” I admit. “There’s not much point in learning when your mother is convinced that all you really need to eat are carrots and iceberg lettuce.”

“After my mother died, my father would drag us out to restaurants for every meal,” Damien says. “I couldn’t stand being that close to the man for that long, so I told him that if he expected me to be more competitive, I needed to eat better. I
cooked, then took my plate to my room and he took his to the television. Worked out great.”

“And you learned a valuable skill.” I’m smiling, but my heart is breaking. My childhood had been seriously less than stellar, but at least I’d had Ashley during the years when my mother doled out calories as stingily as free time. Damien had no one except a vile father and an abusive coach. “Did you have friends?” I ask. “When you were competing, I mean. Did you make friends with the other players?”

“Other than Alaine and Sofia? Not really.” He spoons the cheese, avocado, and mystery food into the omelette, then expertly folds it onto a plate.

“Tell me about Sofia.”

His smile is sad. “We had a lot in common. Both our fathers were assholes.”

“Are we talking friend or girlfriend?”

“Friend, then girlfriend, then friend again.”

I nod, greedily soaking up these bits of Damien’s past.

“Was she your first?” I ask.

His face darkens. “Yes. But it wasn’t a moment of joy and bliss for either one of us. We were young, and we definitely weren’t ready.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a difficult subject.”

“It’s okay,” he says with a flicker of a smile that takes the edge off the flatness of his words. “Really.” He takes a sip of champagne, adds some bacon to the plate, then slides it in front of me. “Well?”

I take the fork he offers, sample a small bite, and moan with pleasure. “This is amazing. What’s in it?”

“Lobster.”

“You just happen to have lobster in your fridge?”

“Sure,” he says, deadpan. “Don’t you?”

“Not hardly. Apparently the cars, hotels, jets, and chocolate factories aren’t the only perks of being filthy rich.”

He laughs and I dig into my breakfast while Damien stands at the stove keeping a close eye on his own meal. I’m surprised when my cell phone rings until I see that Damien has plugged it into a charger and left it on the breakfast bar. I consider letting it roll to voice mail, because I am not interested in having the real world intrude. But it’s Jamie, so I answer.

“Holy fucking crap,” she says, not bothering with the traditional “hello.” “Douglas just came over to tell me that you’re all over the Internet,” she says. “Like I didn’t already know.
Douglas!
” she adds, as if that is the worst affront of all.

I want to tell Jamie that if she’s so irritated by our one-night stand of a next-door neighbor, then she shouldn’t have slept with Douglas in the first place. But I stay silent. We’ve been over all that before.

“So it’s really everywhere?” I ask. “I haven’t wanted to look.”

“Sorry,” she says, her voice thick with sympathy. “Your mom even called me.”

“You?”

“Lucky me, huh? She said she was too upset to talk with you yet, but that she—oh, fuck, Nikki. What the hell do you care what she thinks?”

“I know what she thinks,” I say. “That I’m a disappointment. That I’ve ruined the family name. That she didn’t raise a whore.”

I can tell from Jamie’s silence that I’m right. Damien is watching me carefully. He doesn’t come to my side, though. I have a feeling he’s afraid I’ll shatter.

I won’t. Just thinking about my mother—about the fact that she cares more about what the tabloid press says than about what really happened—pisses me off and makes me strong. Well,
stronger
, anyway.

“So it’s all over everywhere?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says. “They don’t waste any time. The tabloids, social media, even the legitimate news, too. You get a million dollars from a guy like Damien for posing nude and even CNN is going to be reporting it. I mean, talk about the ratings.”

“Jamie.”

“Sorry! Sorry! So, are you okay? I mean, what are you going to do?”

“I’m okay,” I say. My cheeks heat as I glance at Damien and think about exactly how I went from being a complete wreck to feeling relatively normal. “For now, anyway.” I haven’t turned on the television. I haven’t even checked my email. Considering what might be in my inbox from my mother, I’m certain I don’t want to.

I catch Damien’s eye and I know he’s wondering the same thing that I am—will I still be fine once I step back into the world?

“You’re staying in today, right?” she asks.

“I can’t. I have to go to work.”

Damien shakes his head. “Take the day off. Bruce will understand.”

“I heard that,” Jamie says. “Listen to Damien. He’s smart. And you need to call Bruce before you go to the office, anyway. He called here looking for you.”

“I’ll call him, but I’m going in.”

Except, apparently, I’m not. Because when I call Bruce, he tells me that he thinks it would be in the best interest of the company if I took a leave of absence. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but this is more than a few photographers looking for a photo of Damien Stark’s girlfriend. They’re swarming around this story. And I can’t have the press hanging around the building trying to get a shot of you. Not now.”

“Now?” I repeat. “What’s special about now?”

I hear him exhale loudly into the phone. “Giselle and I are getting a divorce. I haven’t wanted to mention it before, but the point is that I need to be squeaky clean, and my lawyer thinks that—”

“I get it,” I say. “I’m fired.”

“Leave of absence,” he says. “Please.”

“It’s shaping up to be a crappy day, Bruce. Can we at least call it what it is?”

There’s a pause, and then, “I really am sorry, Nikki. It’s a lovely portrait and it’s unfair you’re getting this kind of blow-back. And I really could use a talent like yours here at Innovative. But you’re going to land on your feet.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking at Damien. “I know.”

“I think I’m going to take the day off today,” Damien says when I put my phone down.

“You don’t need to coddle me.” I point to the back of the apartment where there is a private door to his office suite. “Go. Earn money.”

“I’m in the fortunate position of having made enough excellent investment choices that I don’t have to actually do anything in order to make money.” He cocks his head to the side as if listening. “There. Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“The clink of coins as I just earned a few thousand more.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. If you take the day off, I’ll just feel like a burden.”

“Maybe Switzerland. Or Greece.”

“Damien.”

“Hawaii’s nice, too, and I actually have a house there. We talked about getting sushi the other night. We could go to Japan.”

I’m laughing now. “I think if I want sushi we can just go to that little place on Sunset that we like.”

“Fair enough. But I’m serious about the vacation. Reporters
are like sharks. Once the chum is out of the water, they go away. There will be a new scandal by Monday, and you can come back to a much calmer Los Angeles.”

I can’t deny that it’s tempting. But no. I don’t want to be the girl who runs. “I ran from Texas to get away from my mother,” I say. “I ran to LA because this was the place I wanted to start a new life. I picked it. I’m here. I’m staying.” I shrug. “Like you said, it’ll blow over. I’ll keep a low profile.”

Damien is looking at me with an odd expression.

“What?”

“You’ve been tossed in with the sharks, and yet you’re digging in your heels and facing them. If you ever tell me again that you’re not strong, I’m going to turn you over my knee and spank you.”

“Promises, promises,” I trill, then slide off the barstool. “If you’re determined to take time off, too, then I thought of something we can do today.”

There is undeniable hunger in his eyes. “I can think of all sorts of things we can do today,” he says.

“Not that,” I say. “Although I have a feeling what I have in mind gets you hard, too.”

“How you tease,” he says. “So tell me, how are we spending our day?”

“Well,” I say, “I was hoping we could talk about money.”

“It really depends on your goals,” Damien says to me, tapping the end of his pencil against the figure-covered sheet of paper.

I nod, wanting to learn as much as he can teach me. As it stands, I’m currently without income, but Jamie’s right. I do have a million dollars. And if I’m going to be gawked at and gossiped about because of it, I’m going to damn well use some of it.

“The million is for my business,” I say. “You already know that, but I want to make sure we’re clear. I don’t want the million to go away.”

“The principal,” he says.

“Yes. The principal needs to be there—and liquid—when I need it. But if I’m going to be out of a job, then I want to be able to live on the interest and dividends. I’ve got a little bit of money coming in every month from my smartphone apps, and I’ve got a couple more that are almost ready to go.” I grimace. “I haven’t launched them because I haven’t had time, but I guess that’s not an excuse anymore.”

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I am,” I say firmly. I’ve decided that the only way to deal with this is one step at a time. I’m not entirely sure what the step is that will get me past the mortification of being front and center in the tabloids, but at least I can take care of the rest. And if I’m going to be vilified for making a million, then I’m damn sure going to protect that million.

“So you can help me set this up? I want to know what percentage of the money I should put in stocks or bonds and all that kind of stuff.”

“I’ll teach you whatever you want to know,” he says.

I nod slowly, hesitatingly, and Damien eyes me warily.

“Brokers get paid with the trades, right?” I may be brilliant at math, but I’ve never wrapped my head around investment strategies. I’ve never tried, honestly. I’ve always been afraid that I’d do the same crap job as my mother, and the idea of being like my mother is far too disturbing.

“Right,” he said. “We could also interview financial managers. They take a percentage, but if they know their stuff, the money grows enough to cover the cost.”

“That’s where my mother screwed up,” I say. I don’t mean to speak aloud, and when I look at Damien’s face, I see soft understanding in his eyes.

“She made bad choices,” he says. “You won’t.”

“I’m not so sure. I’ve made plenty of bad choices in the past.”

I don’t do it intentionally, but I realize that my thumb is idly stroking the scar on my inner thigh.

“Just the fact that you’re being so careful and asking so many questions proves to me that you’re going to be fine. And so is your money. I work with several brokers and managers. If you like, I can have Sylvia set up some meetings, get them into the office today if you want.”

“That would be great,” I say, then immediately take it back. “No. No, never mind.”

“All right,” he says slowly, but I can see the hurt in his eyes. “Whatever you want.”

“That’s the thing,” I say. “I already know who I want.” I take a deep breath. “Will you manage it for me? I can’t imagine there’s anyone I would trust more than you.”

There is no trace of the hurt left on his face. Instead, there is only something soft and tender. His smile is slow, and the shake of his head is even slower. “No,” he says, and I gasp in surprise. “That’s not what I do. But I do oversee my own managers with such microscopic interest that I imagine they consider me among their most irritating clients. Fortunately, the percentage they earn off the growth is sufficient to quell that irritation. I won’t manage your money, but I will babysit it. I’ll introduce you to my manager, we’ll get you set up, explain your goals, and then I’ll watch over your nest egg. Sound good?”

“Will you explain the investment choices to me?”

“I’ll explain anything you want. We’ll do this together, okay? And who knows. Maybe next you’ll be asking me to help with your start-up.”