Claim Me: A Novel (5 page)

At thirty, Damien has already conquered the world. The valet, who now stands confused without a door to open, probably has trouble conquering the rent. I don’t feel bad for him—he is like so many young people in Los Angeles. Struggling actors or writers or models who’ve moved to the City of Angels in the hope that the town will make them over. It is Damien who is the exception. Damien doesn’t need this town; Damien needs nothing but himself.

Once again, I feel that unwelcome twinge in my heart. Because if my meanderings are true, then what does that say about me? I know he wants me—I see that desire every time I look into his eyes. But I have come to need Damien as potently as the air that I breathe, and I sometimes fear that while our desire is mutual, my need is one-sided.

My melancholy thoughts evaporate the moment Damien opens the door and I see him smiling down at me with such a fiercely protective set to his jaw that I can’t help but sigh. He holds out his hand to help me from the car, his body positioned so that there is no way that the valet will get a gander at my private parts, even if my attempts to ease out modestly are foiled by this very low-to-the-ground car.

I manage the maneuver successfully, thank goodness, and Damien releases my hand and slips his arm around my waist. It is summer, but this close to the beach the air is cool, and I lean against him, relishing his warmth. Damien tosses the keys to the valet, who I think is going to weep with joy at the prospect of sliding behind the wheel of that exceptional car.

“Let me guess,” I say, as we wait for our rather inefficient valet to get a ticket for Damien. “You own the building.” I glance at it as we speak. Only the entry is well lit, and in the shadows, I
see clusters of people. Couples talking together. Men wearing everything from swim trunks to business suits. I suppose that’s normal. After all, the beach is just across the street.

“This building? No, though I might put in an offer if it comes up for sale. It’s an office complex right now, but with this location, it could be converted to a very successful hotel. I’d keep the rooftop restaurant, and not just because I’m friends with the owner.”

The valet hands Damien the card, and for the first time, I notice the restaurant name on the valet stand.
“Le Caquelon?”
I ask as we head for the door. “I haven’t heard of it.”

“It’s excellent. Fabulous view, even better food.” He grins wolfishly as he looks me up and down. “And the tables are very, very private.”

“Oh.” I swallow, because there it is—that sensual ping that is Damien. That makes me turn on a dime from calm and collected to a swooning mass of sensual, sexual need.
I’m going to make you come
, he’d said, and dear God I hope that is a promise he intends to keep.

I clear my throat and try to calm my speeding pulse. I’m sure he can feel it beating against him. “What does the name mean?” I ask.

Before he can answer, the clusters break apart, then seem to re-form into a mob. Now camera strobes are flashing and the vultures are shouting their questions. It’s happened so quickly that I don’t even have time to think. Automatically I wipe all expression from my face, then paste on the tiniest of smiles. For so many years, I’ve hid behind a practiced, plastic mask. Social Nikki, Daughter Nikki, Pretty Pageant Nikki.

Right now, I am Public Nikki.

Damien’s hand tightens around my waist, and though he says nothing, I feel the tension building in him. “Just walk,” he whispers. “All we need to do is get inside.” Inside, as his attorney
Charles explained to me, we are safe. Inside, they would be trespassing.

“Nikki!” A voice stands out from the din, so familiar in its tone that I want to slug the shouter. I don’t, however, react. Instead I face straight ahead and reveal only that tiny public smile.

“The photos that came out last week from the Miss Texas bathing suit competition have gone viral. Is it true you leaked them to promote a new modeling career?”

In my mind, I imagine my hand tightening into a fist, my nails biting into my flesh.

“What about television? Can you confirm that you’ll be starring in a new reality show next year?”

No, not a fist. I am holding a razor blade, that tight, sharp line of steel biting through my skin, the cold pain something I can grab on to.

No
.

I force the thought of blades and pain out of my mind. It infuriates me that these parasites are a catalyst for my weakness. They aren’t worth my time, much less my pain.

“Nikki, how does it feel to have snagged one of the world’s most eligible bachelors?”

I breathe in deep as Damien’s hand tightens around my waist, pulling me even closer.
Damien
. I don’t need the pain—I don’t. They are nothing
—nothing
. I am centered. And I have Damien to help keep me whole.

“Mr. Stark! Can you comment on the rumor that you refused to attend next Friday’s tennis center dedication?”

For a moment, I think that Damien stumbles, but then we are moving again, and in front of us the doors open and a man who must be seven feet tall bursts through, flanked by two men in suits who move to either side of us. The three form a triangular-shaped barrier, and we move like an arrow through the crowd, over the threshold, and into safety.

As soon as the doors close behind us, my chest feels less tight. My breath comes easier. Damien takes his arm from around my waist, but twines his fingers in mine. He looks down at me, the question clear in his eyes. “I’m fine,” I say as we hurry toward the elevator. “Really.”

The tall man, Damien, and I enter the car, but the other two stay behind, presumably to make sure none of the vultures try to enter the restaurant pretending to buy a meal. Once the door slides shut, I look up at Damien. His eyes blaze with raw fury, but beneath it there is concern for me that is so potent I almost weep.

Slowly, he lifts my hand, then gently, sweetly, he kisses my palm.

“I am so, so sorry, my friend,” the giant says with an accent that I can’t place. “A busboy saw the reservation book. It would appear he hoped to make more than just his share of the tips tonight.”

“I see,” Damien says. His voice is level, but there is a tightness to it, and the pressure of his hand on mine increases. I doubt that I am the only one who can tell that Damien is working hard to control the temper that had been so famous back in his tennis days. The temper that had, in fact, caused the injury that left him with dual-colored eyes. “I’d like to have a word with that young man.”

“I’ve already dismissed him,” the tall man says. “He was escorted off the property at the same time I came to assist you and the young lady.”

“Good,” Damien says, and I silently echo the thought. Because considering the rage that I see etched on Damien’s face, if that busboy was still on the premises, he should be very, very worried indeed.

Damien says nothing else during the ride to the rooftop restaurant, and the air in the small elevator car is thick. I’m sure our escort—who I’ve decided is Damien’s owner friend—is mortified that one of his employees leaked the news of where Damien would be. And the fact that Damien hasn’t formally introduced us is more proof of how much the incident has upset him.

Damien’s manners are always stellar.

As for me, I can’t help but regret going out at all. The paparazzi were bad, but this cloud of gloom is worse.

I squeeze Damien’s hand. “They’ll get tired of us soon enough. Some movie star will divorce some other star. Or a reality star will get caught shoplifting. We’re boring by comparison.”

For a moment, I think my ploy hasn’t worked. Then he lifts our joined hands and presses a kiss on my knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should be the one making you feel better.”

“I’m with you,” I say. “That’s as good as it gets.”

He tightens his fingers around mine as he looks up at the man. “Alaine, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’d like to introduce
you to my girlfriend, Nikki Fairchild. Nikki, my friend Alaine Beauchene, one of the best chefs in the city and the owner of
Le Caquelon
.”

“It’s a very great pleasure to meet you,” he says, taking my hand. “Damien has told me so many good things.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure why, but the words surprise me. I can easily picture me talking about Damien with Jamie, but somehow the idea of Damien chatting with his friends about me isn’t something I’ve contemplated before. I can’t deny that the knowledge feels nice. It’s one more thread in the tapestry that is Nikki and Damien.

“Thank you for rescuing us,” I say. And then, because I can’t help but jump all over this peek into Damien’s life, I add, “How do you two know each other?”

“Alaine’s father practices sports medicine. We got to know each other on tour.”

“Two young men crisscrossing Europe,” Alaine says wistfully. “Those were good times, my friend.”

I am watching Damien carefully. I may not know much, but I do know that his years playing tennis were hardly full of happy, fluffy memories. But when he smiles, it seems genuine. “Those were the best times,” Damien says, and I feel an odd sense of relief knowing that his years on the tennis circuit were not total hell. That there had been one or two moments of sunshine peeking through the gloom.

“The two of us and Sofia,” Alaine says with a laugh. He glances at me. “Two years younger than us, and the little imp was determined to stick like glue. Have you heard anything? How is she?”

“Fine,” Damien says, and I am certain that Alaine catches the curtness of his tone, because his lips curve down in the slightest of frowns before curving back up again in what I can only assume is an attempt to be jolly.

“At any rate,” he says as the elevator glides to a stop, “enough about the old days. You are here now for the food, not the memories.”

The doors open, and Alaine gestures for me to exit first. I do, and find myself in a reception area that can only be described as spectacular. It’s not elegant, and at the same time it’s not casual. It is uniquely its own, with a glass roof that is open to the night sky crisscrossed by colored beams of light. The maitre d’ station is an aquarium, and the hair of the girl who stands behind it is at least as colorful as the fish in the tank.

The wall to the left is entirely made of glass and reveals a chunk of Santa Monica and the Westside, along with a bit of beach, and the tiniest view of the Pier. The wall in front of us seems to be made up of panels that glow in the same colors as the beams of light crisscrossing the ceiling. I’m not sure if the design is modern or futuristic, but I like it. It’s funky and different and so brightly colored that I don’t see how the gray fog that has settled over this evening can stay.

“I must get back to the kitchen,” Alaine says. “But Monica will show you to your booth. Ms. Fairchild, it has been a pleasure. Enjoy your meal, and I hope to see both of you next Friday at the dedication.” His voice rises as if in question, but I can’t answer since I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“I won’t be attending,” Damien says. “But I’ll call you next week. We should have drinks.”

His words are perfectly polite and certainly friendly, but they are spoken from behind a mask. I wonder if Alaine can see it. Does he truly know Damien? Or does he only know the bits and pieces of the man that Damien has selectively revealed over the years?

I have a feeling that it is the latter. I doubt that anyone has ever seen completely beneath Damien’s mask, and the thought that I am included in that group makes me sad. I want so desperately
to shine a light into those dark places, and I even believe that Damien wants me to. But he’s spent so long building walls to protect his privacy that I think he forgot to build a door. And now all I can hope is that we can chip away at the stone together.

We’ve been following Monica across the room, weaving between the tables to reach a bright green panel of light. She grabs a handle that I hadn’t noticed and uses it to slide the panel to one side, much like the walls in Japanese movies. Inside, there is a table between two booth-style benches. But it’s not a true booth, because if you slide through or walk behind the bench seats, there is an open area between the table and a window that looks out onto the spectacular, brightly lit Santa Monica Pier.

I follow Damien to the glass, drawn by the allure of both the man and the vibrant colors.

“Your wine is already breathing,” Monica says, gesturing to the table, “and you have both flat and sparkling water. Will you be having your usual, Mr. Stark?”

“Just dessert,” he says. “For two.”

She inclines her head. “It will be right out. In the meantime, please enjoy the wine and the view.”

She leaves, the panel closes, and Damien stands completely still beside me. And then, without any warning at all, he lashes out and slams his palm against the glass.

“Damien!” I expect to hear a commotion from the booth beside us, or at least the clatter of Monica’s heels as she comes to check on us. There is nothing, though. Apparently we’re better insulated than I would have guessed.

“Do you know how much I’m worth?” Damien asks, and I blink at the seemingly random question.

“I—no. Not exactly.”

“It’s more than the GNP of many countries, and it’s damn sure enough to keep me as comfortable as I want to be for the
rest of my life and then some.” He turns to face me. “But it’s not enough to keep those bastards away from you.”

My heart melts. “Damien. It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“You’re on the goddamn Internet in a bathing suit because of me.”

“I’m on the Internet in a bathing suit because my mother forced me into pageants from the time I was four. And because I didn’t have the balls to say no to her when I got older. I’m on the Internet because of those jerks out there. I’m not on the Internet because of you.”

“I don’t like that something that comes from me hurts you. I don’t like it,” he repeats. “But I don’t know that I have the strength to change it.”

“The strength?” I repeat, but he doesn’t answer.

I see the shadows cross his face before he turns back to the window. Damien Stark, the strongest man I know, is twisted into knots, and suddenly I am scared. “Damien?”