Claim Me: A Novel (41 page)

I am silent. I can’t argue, because what he says is true. I can only say simply, “But I didn’t go there.”

“It will get worse. It already has.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“The press, Nikki. They’re not focusing on me. Damien Stark indicted for murder. You’d think that would be interesting, right? Apparently not as interesting as his girlfriend. Who, according to those assholes, isn’t really his girlfriend at all. Just an opportunistic little whore who’ll sleep with anyone who can help her get ahead, murderers included.”

My stomach twists violently, and I’m grateful I only had coffee this morning. “I don’t care,” I lie. “I can deal.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Dammit, Damien, I’m not a mom-and-pop food company. Pulling out isn’t going to save me. You’re going to destroy me. I need you.
You
. Don’t you get that?”

“I can’t bear to see you broken. Not when I’m the one who is breaking you.”

“You
are
breaking me!” I shout. “If you walk away from me, you’re going to snap me in two.”

“No,” he says simply.

I only realize I am crying when I taste the salt of my tears. “I thought you said I was strong. Or was that just bullshit?”

“You are,” he says, his voice maddeningly calm. “Strong enough to stay despite me dragging you into hell. I’m the one who’s weak, Nikki, because I kept you in the spotlight for too
damn long. I couldn’t leave you, and that hurt you. But I’m fixing it now.”

He zips up the suitcase and hefts it off the bed. For a moment, he stands there, just looking at me. I am scrambling for words, trying to figure out the magic formula to make him take it all back—but this is not a fairy tale and I am learning the hard way that there is no happily ever after. Then he walks to the door.

He is leaving me. Damien Stark. The man I trusted above all others to never hurt me. He is walking away from me, and he’s ripping my heart out as he goes.

Cold fury whips through me, laced with desolation. Tears trail down my cheeks as I bend and unfasten the emerald ankle bracelet. I take a breath and hurl it at him. “Damn you, Damien Stark,” I whisper. “Damn you for giving up on us.”

He pauses and I see the pain on his face. He glances down at where the bracelet has landed on his feet. He starts to reach for it, then stops. I watch his face, expecting words of comfort. But they don’t come. Instead, I hear only the two words I wish were silenced: “Goodbye, Nikki.”

And then he is gone.

I am not sure how I manage the drive to Malibu, but I do. And when I pull into Evelyn’s drive, I can barely see, what with the tears swimming in my eyes.

“Good God, Texas,” she says as she pulls open the door. “What happened to you?”

“He left me,” I say, choking the words out between sobs. “He thinks he’s protecting me, and so he dumped me.”

She sucks in air. “Damn fool of a boy,” she says. “I don’t care what everyone says about him being a goddamned genius, he fucked this one up, Texas. He damn sure did.”

Her words only make me cry harder.

“Aw, hell, girl, get inside.”

“Is Blaine here?”

“He’s in the studio,” she says, referring to a separate building on the property. “It’s okay. Cry all you want.”

“I don’t want to cry,” I say. “I want him back. But he’s so damned convinced he’s doing the right thing.”

“What the hell does he think he’s protecting you from?” she asks as she leads me to the kitchen and sits me down at the table.

“The paparazzi.”

“Phhht,” she says. “Fuck ’em.”

“I wish they were that easy to blow off.” I eye her critically. “Blaine didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

I don’t want to go into this, but I need help. And she needs to understand why Damien left. Why he thinks that he has to leave.

“I have scars,” I finally say.

She nods slowly. “There’s one on the painting. On your hip. Looks to be some on your thighs, too, but the shadows make it hard to tell. So what happened to you, Texas?”

I swallow. “I happened to me.”

The words hang there, and I wait for my tears, but they do not come. I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s Evelyn, but it’s easier to talk about now. No, that’s not true. I do know.
It’s me
. Damien has helped me change the way I look at my flaws.

I grimace.
Goddamn him for leaving me
.

“You’re saying that Damien thinks you’re going to start up with the cutting again?”

I could kiss her for being so focused, so direct. “Yes,” I say. “I haven’t—not since I’ve been in LA. But I’ve come close.”

“The paparazzi?” She puts a glass of water in front of me, and I sip from it gratefully.

“And all this craziness about the painting. It—well, it got to me.”

“Hell, that kind of crap would get to anyone.”

“Now the press is saying all sorts of shit about me sleeping with a murderer, and Damien thinks—”

“That he’s got to be the hero and walk away. Goddamn the boy, you two aren’t supposed to be a tragedy.”

“Trust me,” I say wryly. “I’m not crazy about the last-minute script change, either. So what can I do?”

“You can haul your ass to Germany and get the boy back.”

“But he’ll just send me home again. He thinks he’s being chivalrous, remember? I have to prove to him I can handle it, but how? It’s not like I can go a year without cutting, and then say ‘I told you so.’ So what can I do to prove to him right now that I’ll be okay?”

“Ah, now here’s why you came to the right place. Because this is exactly the kind of sneaky shit you pick up after a lifetime in Hollywood. You just need to give the press nowhere else to go.”

“I’m not following.”

“They’re interested in you as a story. So make the story go away.”

I blink, trying to process what she’s saying. And then it all clicks into place. I leap out of my chair and throw my arms around Evelyn. “You’re brilliant.”

“Damn right, I am. Why do you think I’m a legend in this town?”

“Do you know someone who can handle the press side of things?”

Evelyn’s smile is as wide as I’ve ever seen it. “Just leave it to me.”

I do, and I watch in wonder as the pieces come together. Not
two hours later, everything is on track for the first press conference of my life.

“And what makes it really unique,” Evelyn says with a guffaw, “is that everything you’re going to say is one hundred percent true.”

I spend the next hour organizing my thoughts. I’m not shy about speaking in front of a camera—I have my mother’s pageant obsession to thank for that—but I am nervous about making sure I’m clear and quotable. With lots of juicy sound bites.

When the knock at the door finally comes, and Evelyn opens it to the camera crew, I am ready. “You sure about this, Texas?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of to get him back,” I say. “And more important, I need to do it for me.”

She nods. “Okay, then. Let’s make you even more famous.”

I laugh, but have to acknowledge that she’s probably right. I also have to admit that this may not work, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that the princess is going out to kill the dragon instead of hiding in the tower.

The crew consists of a cameraman, a reporter, and a producer. I’m not interested in being interviewed, so the reporter says she’ll tape the intro later at the studio. This is just me, and I should take my time. I stand in the spot they’ve lit, wait for the cameraman to signal me, and start talking.

“My name is Nikki Fairchild, and I recently accepted one million dollars as a modeling fee for a nude Blaine original. The completed portrait now hangs in Mr. Damien Stark’s Malibu home, and it is an exceptional piece of art. It is both tasteful and erotic. And it does not show my face.”

I pause to collect my thoughts. The reporter nods encouragement, and I smile. We’ve only spoken a few words, but I like her.

“I agreed to the painting, and to the million, because I needed the money. It has not been spent, nor will it be until I am ready. But I also insisted that the arrangement be confidential and that
no one except Mr. Stark and the artist know that it was me in the portrait. Somehow, though, my identity has been revealed, and Mr. Stark and I have been harassed nonstop by reporters and photographers who apparently have nothing better to do with their time. And the truth is, now I have regrets.”

I wonder, as I say that, if Damien will see this tape.

I soldier on. “Not about the painting. Not about the money. No, my regret is that I asked Blaine and Mr. Stark to keep my identity confidential in the first place. I will admit that there was a time when I was ashamed of my body, but that time has passed. I think the portrait is outstanding. And I think the modeling fee was fair. Then again, what is a fair price to paint a woman’s body? If Mr. Stark had paid me ten dollars, would the press now be calling me a cheap harlot?”

I glance at Evelyn, who is grinning. “To be honest, I think Mr. Stark got off easy. If he wants a second nude portrait, he’ll have to pay me two million dollars. At least.”

Near me, the reporter nods encouragingly. “As of this morning, the gossip about me has shifted. Apparently now I’m a woman who would sleep with a murderer to get ahead. Let’s think about that. Do I sleep with Damien Stark? I do, and gladly, but not to get ahead. Instead, I am honored and humbled that he wants me in his life and in his bed.”

I realize suddenly that I am not nervous at all. I feel strong. This—these words—feel right. “As for the allegation that Damien Stark is a murderer, I can only say that I do not believe it. The evidence will acquit him. But if by some horrific fault in the universe he is convicted, then that will change nothing. I will not and would not leave his side.”

I draw a breath and move on to my wrap-up. “I do not intend to make any more statements to the press, so I will add one final thing for the record. I am in love with Damien Stark, and I am leaving for Germany in an hour to support him through his
trial. He is an innocent man, and he has been wrongly accused. Thank you.”

I stand in front of the presidential suite at the scarily luxurious Kempinski hotel in Munich and draw in a breath. I owe a huge debt to Sylvia, who could lose her job if Damien decides to be angry that his assistant told me where he was staying.

I’m not sure how he’s going to react to seeing me here, and I have no way of knowing if he saw my interview. And even if he did, I have no way of knowing if it moved him.

As for that interview, when I was in the taxi from the airport to my hotel, I read through Jamie’s half-dozen emails describing how the press was going wild. Apparently I am no longer a harlot and Damien is no longer a murderer. Now we are star-crossed lovers.

The press is nothing if not fickle. This time, at least, we’re on the warm, fuzzy side of the press.

More important, phase one of my plan worked. And knowing that gives me courage. Surely the next part will work, too. Because I really don’t want to have to call Sylvia and ask her to book me into the Munich equivalent of a Motel 6.

Enough stalling
.

I draw a deep breath, knock firmly on the door, and wait.

A moment later, I hear Damien’s voice. “One minute!” And then I hear the lock turning and I’m holding my breath as the door is pulled inward.

And there he is. He’s wearing black trousers and his shirt hangs open. He looks both dashing and distracted. He’s got his arm up as he attempts to fasten the cuff, and when he sees me, he freezes.

“Nikki.”

“Do you want me to get that for you?” I ask.

Wordlessly, he holds out his arm. I button the cuff from my
position in the hallway, then step inside and do the other one. Then, without speaking, I start to work on the line of buttons on the shirt.

His body is tense and wary, and I can’t tell if he’s happy to see me, angry, or uncertain that I am real.

“I saw your press conference,” he finally says.

“Oh?” I try to sound light and encouraging, but inside my heart is breaking. If he saw it and wanted me here, wouldn’t he have pulled me into his arms?

“I didn’t expect you here so quickly.”

“When you know you want to be with someone you love, you want to get there as fast as you can.” My smile wavers, and I’m suddenly afraid I’m going to cry. I hadn’t even let myself admit until now how much I wanted to hear those three little words from him. But I did—I do. And not only is he not saying them back, but he’s probably going to send me away, too.

“Oh, Nikki.” There are too many emotions packed into my name, and I cannot sort them out. “No matter what you tell the press, you deserve better than a relationship with a man behind bars.”

“I deserve
you
,” I say. “But if you think I can’t handle all of this, then you’re right. I can’t. Not without you. Damien, don’t you get it? I can’t just sit on the sidelines and watch them try you for murder. I need to be here. I have to be here. I need you.” I pause to draw a breath, and then tilt my head to look him in his eyes. “And I think you need me, too.”

The weight of eternity seems to hang in the second that passes before he answers.

“I do,” he says, and then, “God, Nikki, I do.” It is as if a glass wall around him has shattered. The life returns to his eyes, the smile to his face. Suddenly his arms are around me and he’s holding me close and I’m soaking up the rhythm of his heartbeat and breathing in the scent of this man I love so deeply.

“Then it’s okay that I came?” My words are tentative, uncertain.

“Oh, baby, yes,” he says, and the emotion in his voice almost brings me to tears. “You are my blood; without you, I’m nothing but a shell.”

“You should never have walked away,” I say.

“No,” he says firmly. “I had to. I had to give you that one fair chance to get free of me. Because you
will
be drawn into hell, Nikki, and though you may think I’m strong, where you are concerned I am weak. I am selfish. I walked away once to protect you, but I won’t do it again. If you want to go, do it now. Otherwise, I will keep you here beside me, because that is where I want you. By my side, Nikki. Always.”