Authors: J. Kenner
“I’ll have Sylvia get a key and the security code to her in Arrowhead, and send someone over here to pack some of Jamie’s things. She can go straight to Malibu when she returns.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
“What else do you need?”
I move out of his arms and go sit on my sofa. “Can you arrange to just have all this be over?”
“I wish I could,” he says, dropping down beside me.
The truth is, I am scared. But I don’t want to show it. I know Damien will feel responsible. He’s not, of course. That honor belongs to whatever psychopathic bitch—because I am just certain it’s a woman—has decided to paint a bull’s-eye on my size eight ass.
“Maybe it’s Carmela,” I say.
“Not her style,” Damien says, then adds, “but I have my people looking anyway.”
“You’ve been keeping me out of the loop.” I’m not accusing, simply stating a fact. And to be honest, I haven’t really wanted to think about it. But I no longer have the cushion of the Atlantic Ocean and all of Western Europe and the entire staff at the Kempinski to separate me from reality. Now, I know that whoever is harassing me is here to stay, and if I don’t focus on it—if I don’t wonder and think and watch my own back—then I’m no better than those idiot girls in movies who go up the stairs in scary houses, even though they know damn well the killer is waiting for them.
This is reality, I think. And whether I like it or not, it’s forcing its way into our lives.
“I didn’t see the point of burying you in this crap if we didn’t know anything.”
I cock my head. “You’re protecting me again.”
“I am,” he says. “And as I believe I already explained in rather intimate detail, I don’t intend to stop. Do you have a problem with that, Ms. Fairchild?”
“Only if you’re keeping me out of the loop to do it,” I say. “So what haven’t you told me?”
“Not much,” he says, and I can hear the frustration in his voice that stems from that simple fact.
“Start with the painting. Have you learned anything about who leaked the story that I’m the model? Or that you paid me so much? Because that first letter came about that time, so I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume it’s the same person.”
“I happen to agree with you,” he says. “And the short answer is no, we haven’t found anyone.”
“And the longer answer?”
“Will have to wait.” He points to the broken window and the two men who are passing in front of it. “My team.”
We meet them at the door, but they choose not to come in until after the police arrive. Instead, they go back outside to canvass the area, pull the feed from the newly installed camera, and do whatever it is security guys do when they’re on the case.
“The longer answer?” I press as soon as they’re gone.
“We have a few leads. Arnold—he’s the investigator I keep on retainer—recently got copies of some security footage from an ATM on Fairfax.”
I shake my head, clueless.
“That ATM happens to be across the street from a coffee bar where our intrepid reporter has a habit of meeting with his sources.”
“Wow,” I say, impressed. Damien had identified the original reporter who broadcast the story a while back, but the reporter had refused to reveal his source.
“It’s going to take a while. The camera’s focus is concentrated on a certain perimeter. But Arnold thinks he has a way to pop the focus on the background activity.”
“That will take time,” I agree. “Especially since we don’t know what day he might have met with the source.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Damien says. “But we have a rough time frame, and at the very least he can start pulling prints and getting them to me. With luck, there will be someone I recognize.”
“Shouldn’t I look, too?”
“You should,” he says. “But the odds are good that whoever is doing this is trying to get to me. I have Ryan’s team investigating the players in a few particularly contentious deals I have brewing,” he adds, referring to his security guys.
“Distract you by harassing your girlfriend, and maybe you won’t be such a hard-ass in negotiations?”
“Something like that.”
“It might not be business,” I say. “You’ve slept with a lot of women, Damien. Even if you weren’t serious about them, that doesn’t mean they weren’t serious about you. And one of them might be the jealous type.”
“Agreed. And we’re pursuing that avenue, as well.”
“What about the anonymous letter that came to Stark Tower? Or the text I got in Munich?”
“Nothing yet,” Damien says. “But we haven’t given up.” He glances at his watch, then he pulls out his phone and makes a call. “Anything?” he says, then frowns as the person on the other end speaks. “Good thinking,” he finally says. “That just might work out well for us.”
“That was Ryan,” he says to me after he ends the call. “The cameras at the entrance and the parking garage caught our culprit. Tall, wiry. Completely covered in a black hoodie and sunglasses. Kept his or her head down, but Ethan says the gait looks to be male, and quite possibly a teenager.”
“A teenager? But—”
“I’m guessing someone hired him. Our perp loiters around the convenience store, asks a kid if they’d like to earn a few extra bucks.”
“Oh.” It makes sense.
“Fortunately, there are cameras in strip malls. We might get lucky.”
I nod. It’s a solid plan, but I’m not holding my breath.
“I’m going to assign someone from my security team to you.”
My head snaps up. “The hell you are. I’m not living my life under surveillance.”
“It’s necessary.”
“You don’t have the Secret Service following you around.” It’s one thing to stay with Damien, to take reasonable precautions with my life. It’s something else entirely to suddenly live in a glass jar like a politician or a celebrity.
“I have a team available when I need them. But there’s no indication I’m in danger.”
I start to say that I’m not in danger, either. But considering I’d just agreed to move into Damien’s house because of flying rocks, I can’t really backtrack now. As much as I don’t want some dude in a black suit with an earpiece monitoring my every move, I also don’t want to be stupid about this.
“Nikki,” he says gently. “Do you think I could survive if something happened to you?”
I draw in a breath because I know how he feels. If something happened to Damien, I am certain that I would shrivel up and die.
“All right,” I say. “But not someone who flanks me, and not an obvious tail. But if you want to have someone hang out at the office if I end up renting it, I won’t object. And I’m guessing you already have access to that tracking device we had installed in the car.”
“I could access it,” he says. “But not without some trouble. I’d rather install something I can monitor openly.”
“Done,” I say.
“And your phone,” he says.
I frown. “What about my phone?”
“I want to be able to track you with it. There are apps that will allow me to do that. I’m going to install one.”
“Just like that? No ‘Mother May I’?”
“No,” he says and holds his hand out for my phone.
I hand it over.
He downloads the app, fiddles with the settings, then gives it back to me.
The he takes his own phone out of his back pocket and repeats the process. A moment later, my phone buzzes. I glance at it, open the new app, and see a red dot indicating that Damien is right there in my apartment. “So you’ll never lose me, either,” he says.
“Oh.” I hold tight to my phone, still warm from his hand, and suddenly I’m speechless. Maybe it’s the stress of the evening, maybe it’s hormonal, but for some reason, adding that tracker to my phone is about the most romantic thing I can think of. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’m never letting you go, Nikki,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me close.
“I’d never forgive you if you did.”
The next morning I stand transfixed as Lisa spreads her arms wide to indicate the modest office space. “So?” she asks. She’s petite, but so poised that she seems to fill the room anyway. “What do you think?”
“I love it,” I say. The space comes furnished, and apparently the owner of Granite Investment Strategies has excellent taste. Not only is the desk large enough to spread out half-a-dozen projects, but it’s also sleek and modern with enough whimsy to be fun, but not so much that it lacks professionalism. The walls are bare, but that should be easy enough to fix.
The love seat is a bonus. The space is small enough that it would have made sense to only have the two molded plastic guest chairs. But the original tenant had managed to work the space well, and the small sofa that sits against the far wall seems to pull the room together instead of overwhelming the space.
“It’s available immediately,” Lisa says. “My client’s very eager.”
I run my fingertip over the desktop, tempted. I’ve been on the fence about leasing office space, but now that I’m actually standing in an office that could have my name on the door, I have to admit that it’s pretty heady stuff.
I slide my hand into my pocket and run my fingertip over the edge of one of the business cards that Damien presented to me this morning.
Nikki L. Fairchild, CEO, Fairchild Development
. I’d laughed when I opened the box, but there had been tears, too. Not just because I’m finally, really doing this, but because of the pride I saw in Damien’s eyes.
It occurs to me that he must have started much the same way; after all, he hardly sprang fully born from Zeus’s head with a tennis racquet in one hand and Stark Tower in the other. No, he started small and worked his way up to gazillionaire status. I smile, oddly comforted by the thought.
“It’s a great opportunity,” Lisa prompts.
“I know,” I say honestly. Because of the circumstances, the terms of the sublease are exceptional. Not only that, but the building has great security—as Damien discovered last night when he made a few calls after the police left. Tenants need a card key to enter the building and clients must be buzzed in by the receptionist who serves as the gatekeeper between the outside world and the building’s twelve tenants.
Even better, it’s walking distance to the Sherman Oaks Galleria. If I have a bad day at work, I can console myself by going shopping. And if I have a good day at work, I can celebrate by going shopping.
I sway a bit on my heels, trying to decide. No, that’s not true. I want this. But it’s scary—like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Except that I have a parachute. His name is Damien, and I know that he will always catch me.
“I can just work from home,” I say lamely.
“No question,” Lisa says. “I have lots of clients who do that. Most start-ups begin in the home.”
I eye her with surprise; I wasn’t expecting solidarity.
“But what about your roommate?” she asks. “Jamie, right? You said she’s an actress? Does she have a steady job? I mean, is she a regular on a show?”
“No, but what does that—oh. Right.” Jamie is supportive as hell, but she’s also my best friend and a talker. If I’m trying to code and she wants to dish about men or her wardrobe or whether or not to get a tattoo on her ass, then it’s going to be hard to focus on work. And the rent on this place really is low.
“I put together a plan for you,” Lisa says, pulling a leather folio out of her briefcase. It’s monogramed with my initials—
NLF
—and she moves to stand by my side as I flip it open, a little bit awed by everything she’s done for me.
Inside, I find a plan for networking that focuses on women in tech and entertainment. “There are at least two dozen organizations in town focusing on women in tech-related fields,” she explains. “You can’t ask for a better way to meet potential business partners or clients. As for the entertainment contacts, it’s a bit of a stretch, but you’re on the radar now, like it or not. Might as well use it.”
I’m not sure I want to trade on my rather unwelcome celebrity status, but I can’t help but agree with her assessment.
She flips a few pages in the portfolio and shows me a rough profit and loss statement that factors in the cost of the office space along with income projections based on her research into the app market. I’m happy to see that the few apps I already have on the market are beating the averages.
“That’s conservative,” she says. “But as you can see, I expect you to be very solidly in the black within six months, and any start-up capital that you pull from your savings will be fully recouped.”
I continue to flip pages, a little in awe. “Lisa, this is great. But it must have taken you forever to pull together, and I—”
I hesitate. I want to say that I’m not a client, but it sounds a little harsh.
Lisa must understand what I’m getting at because she laughs. “I’m happy to help a friend,” she says. “Even one I barely know because we got off to such a crazy start.”
I can’t help but grin. She’s right. Objectively, we hardly know each other. But she’s one of those people that seems to fit, and I’m grateful that she started chatting me up back when I worked for Bruce, and that she didn’t get scared away when he fired me and the paparazzi shit hit the fan.
“Not that I’m totally altruistic,” she adds, with a gleam in her eye. “I expect some awesome referrals.” Her phone rings, and she holds up a finger as she looks at the display. “I need to take this,” she says. “Take a look at the rest of that and give me a sec.”
I nod, then take the portfolio over to the single window at the side of the room. It’s large and lets in enough light that the room feels airy and pleasant. I glance down and realize that it overlooks Ventura Boulevard. I lean forward so that my head is almost touching the glass, but from this angle, I can’t see the Galleria. What I do see, however, is the black sedan parked on the street across from the building. It’s familiar, and it only takes me a second to remember where I saw it before—on the street in front of my condo just this morning.
Security guys
.
I think about the protective bubble that I so desperately crave, but I know that it has already cracked. Or maybe it was only an illusion to begin with. Either way, Damien and I are living in the real world now. And, honestly, I can’t deny that after last night, I’m happy to have someone watching my back.