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?”

His palm against the window clenches, and I can see his muscles tighten. “I owned a small, gourmet wine and cheese company once,” he says. “Or rather Stark International did.”

My mind spins at the shift in conversation. I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I trust he has a point. I ease behind him and press against his back. I put my arms around his waist and brush my lips against the nape of his neck.

“Tell me about it,” I say.

“It was an old company, family run, good reputation. I loved their products and thought it could be a profitable partnership. And it was—for about a year.”

“What happened?”

“The press learned that Stark International was behind this mom-and-pop business and started lambasting them. Didn’t matter that we weren’t mass-producing the food. We hadn’t changed the system. We had simply provided enough capital to let the company grow within its own parameters. But they were called out as Big Business disguised as the Little Guy, a trick designed to fool consumers. All the negative attention stopped growth cold. Suddenly a company that was solidly in the black was in the red.”

“What did you do?” I hold my breath, because I am certain I know where he’s going, and I don’t like it.

“I pulled out. Very publicly and very loudly. Even so, it took a while for the business to get back on its feet. Being associated with Stark International almost destroyed the company whose cheese and wine I loved so much.”

“I’m neither cheese nor wine,” I say softly. “And I’m not spiraling down. I could never spiral down with you beside me. You hold me up, Damien. We both know it.”

He is silent for so long that I think my words haven’t touched him. And then, with an abruptness that takes my breath away, he spins us around, so that my back is against the cool glass. He steps away long enough to turn to face me, and then suddenly his mouth is on mine, and he is kissing me. His mouth is hard and demanding against mine, and I am held fast between the glass and Damien, an infinity of night stretched out before me, and the power of his kiss the only thing that is keeping me anchored.

When he breaks the kiss, I see an unfamiliar ferocity in his eyes. “I will do it,” he says. “If that’s what it takes to protect you, I will leave you. Even if it kills me.”

“You won’t,” I counter, my breath coming hard and fast as my chest tightens painfully in protest and fear. “You won’t because it would kill me, too.”

“Oh, Nikki.”

He lowers his head to close his mouth over mine once again, more gentle this time, but just as possessive. I arch back, losing myself in his touch. I am like a switch, and all it takes is the slightest contact from Damien to send a wild current through me. To light me up and make me shine.

“Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?”

“Tell me,” I beg.

“I want to strip you bare and press you up against the glass. I want to trail my fingers over you lightly, just enough to make you awaken to my touch. I want to watch the lights of the Pier flash behind you, and I want to watch my own reflection in your eyes as you come.”

My mouth is dry, so the little “oh” that I say doesn’t actually come out as sound.

“But I can’t,” he says. “I believe I told you that I wasn’t going to touch you.”

“I won’t hold you to it,” I say.

“But that would be breaking the rules.”

I have to force myself not to whimper. “You’re playing games with me, Mr. Stark.”

“Yes,” he says plainly. “I am.”

“I suppose that’s fair, sir,” I say. “I’m yours, after all. At least for the night. But tomorrow, I’ll be a rich woman and the game’s going to have a new set of rules.”

For a moment, he is perfectly still. Then he nods slowly. “You raise a good point, Ms. Fairchild,” he says. “I need to make sure I get my money’s worth.”

“Your money’s worth?”

“Did you read the article in Forbes I sent you?” he asks. “The reporter did a good job of describing my philosophy in business.”

“I read it.” In fact, I’d read it several times, savoring every tidbit I learned about Damien the Businessman.

“Yes, sir,” he corrects.

“Yes, sir,” I repeat. “I read the article.”

“Then you know that I attribute much of my success to my ability to extract as much value as possible from every monetary transaction.”

I lick my lips. “And I’m a monetary transaction?”

“You are indeed.”

“I see. And how do you intend to extract value?”

“I already told you,” he says. “If you’re not going to pay attention …”

“You said you were going to make me come.”

His mouth curves into a lazy smile and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “So I did. Good girl. You get an A in class, after all.” Then, with a devious gleam in his eye, Damien takes hold of the cord at the small of my back and begins a slow tugging motion.

Oh. My. God.

It’s as if he’s creating electricity out of friction, and I close my eyes as my breath comes shallower and faster. “Damien,” I whisper.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes—oh, God, yes.”

“Good,” he says. And then releases the cord.

The friction stops and my eyes fly open.

He’s looking down at me, his smile a little too smug. “Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?”