I look between the two men. It’s a standoff, and my money is on Damien.

Soon enough, I’m proven right.

“Fine,” Charles says. “You’ll leave Friday, then. If you’re out of the country, that’s another excuse we can throw to the press.”

“I don’t give a damn what you say to the press,” Damien says, his voice sharp with irritation. “There and back again, Charles. And if you can’t get me in and out quickly on commercial flights, then tell Grayson we’re taking the Lear.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

He turns to me. “You’re sure?”

“There are a lot of things on your resume,” I say. “But I’m pretty sure babysitter isn’t one of them. Yes. I’m sure.”

“Fine, but I want you to stay here while I’m gone.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ll be fine at home.”

“They’ll hound you,” he says. “And they’ll hound Jamie,” he adds, because he knows me well enough to know that matters. “Mostly, it will make me feel better. Please, Nikki. Right now I’m asking. Don’t make me demand.”

It’s his way of saying that he’s the one making the rules in this game I agreed to continue. I nod in acquiescence. The truth is that I’d rather stay here, too. I want to be strong enough to say that I really don’t care if they accost me on the stairs up to the condo. I want to—but I’m not.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”

“Thank you. Besides, I want to install better security at your place. Charles, on your way out, tell Sylvia to make arrangements for that and to let Ms. Archer know when the installation will happen. What?” he demands, noticing my smile.

“Nothing.” Fortunately, I don’t think Jamie is going to mind having a security team swoop down on her. And Damien is just being Damien.

As usual, he reads my mind. “Correction,” he says to Charles. “Tell Sylvia to ask Ms. Archer if she’s amenable to a security system and, if so, when would be a convenient time for the install. Better?”

I nod. “And thanks.”

We walk Charles out, and as soon as the door closes behind him, I move closer to Damien and press my palms against his bare chest. “London, huh? I miss you already.”

“Just so we’re clear, I don’t want you to stay in my apartment because I’m worried about you.”

“No?”

“I want you here because I like the idea of you in my bed.”

“That works out well, then. Because I like being in your bed, too. Mostly, though, I like being in your arms.”

20

By mid-afternoon on Friday, I’m craving traffic jams and smog. I want to go out in the world, and damn the reporters and paparazzi and plain old gawkers.

At the same time, I’m enjoying this bubble of domesticity I’m sharing with Damien. He’s kicked back on the sofa, his bare feet on the coffee table, his iPad in one hand and a sparkling water near the other. He’s wearing a Bluetooth headphone in his far ear, so from my perspective it looks as if he’s mumbling to himself. I’ve long ago tuned him out. As fascinated as I am by Damien in general, I do not need to know the ins and outs of the labor problems that one of his subsidiaries is having in Taiwan.

As for me, I’ve just finished reading a downloaded copy of The Martian Chronicles, and though I’d started the story with a picture of a young Damien in my mind, by the end, I’d been sucked in by the plot and the characters.

Now, though, I’m feeling at loose ends. I don’t have my laptop, so there’s not much actual work I can do. I’m not in the mood to start another book, and the television doesn’t interest me in the slightest. I consider putting on a fashion show for Damien featuring the clothes he’s stocked in the closet, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. I’ve been dominating his time lately, albeit unintentionally, and though he makes light of his need to oversee his empire, I know that the world of Damien Stark will unravel if he is not actively at the helm.

I go to the kitchen to brew a cup of green tea, since it’s supposed to be calming and I feel so antsy. I’m actually not freaking out about the press, but I can’t decide if that’s because I’m dealing so well with this new crisis in my life, or if it’s simply because Damien and I are locked up here in his castle in the sky, and the problems of mere mortals are really not our concern.

I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s the latter and that when I go out into the world or log on to the Internet, this smug sense of control is going to blow away like so much dandelion fluff. As evidence of my theory, I have only to look at my phone. My mother has called twice, and each time I’ve let it go to voice mail. I have not listened to the messages. I have not called her back. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever will. My mother has the ability to push me over the edge where even a Hummer full of paparazzi could not.

Despite a world filled with paparazzi and Elizabeth Fairchilds and other unpleasant beings, I am so antsy that I consider testing the waters of the outside world by taking a walk down to the Museum of Contemporary Art. It’s only a few blocks away, and I doubt that there are reporters waiting to ambush me there. It’s also close enough that Damien won’t worry. Or he won’t worry as much, because if I start to freak he is less than five minutes away by foot.

Besides, I really want some fresh air.

I take my tea and a fresh water for Damien and head back into the living room, arriving at the same time as Sylvia, who is coming in from the back entrance that connects to the office of Stark International.

“Ms. Fairchild,” she says. “How are you?”

“Good,” I say. “How’s life on the outside?”

Damien grins at me. “Going a little stir crazy?”

“Not that I don’t love this fairy palace, but—”

He makes a noncommittal noise, then turns to Sylvia, who appears to be hiding a smile. “What have you got for me?”

“Just a few signatures,” she says, handing him a clipboard and several documents. She glances at me. “And this came for you,” she adds, then holds out a plain white envelope. It’s addressed to me, care of Stark International. There’s no return address, but the postmark is from Los Angeles.

“That’s weird,” I say, as Damien tosses the clipboard onto a cushion and comes to my side.

“Open it,” he says.

I do. There’s a folded piece of paper inside. I pull it out, unfold it, and immediately feel sick.

Bitch. Slut. Whore.

“Motherfucker,” Damien breathes, plucking the letter and the envelope from my hand. He takes a magazine from the coffee table and puts them both between the pages, then hands the magazine to Sylvia. “Get this to Charles. Don’t get fingerprints on it.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark. Ms. Fairchild, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No, of course you didn’t,” I say.

“It’s okay, Sylvia.” Damien’s words are a dismissal.

She nods. “I’ll just come back for those documents later.” She starts to leave, then pauses and turns back to me. “I apologize if this is out of line, Ms. Fairchild, but I just wanted to say that I saw the painting when I was at the Malibu house coordinating with the decorator before the party.”