10.

"Go," Damien says to Ollie, his voice colder and more commanding than I have ever heard it.

I see my friend open his mouth as if to argue, but I catch his eye and nod. He frowns, then shoots Damien a look so full of disdain it makes my stomach curl. Damien doesn't notice. He's paid Ollie only scant attention, and his eyes have never left my face.

"Damien," I begin.

"No," he says. He pulls me roughly to him and wraps his arms around me. He practically trembles with anger, and I press my cheek against his chest, thankful to have this brief reprieve before the storm hits.

The music is still loud and fast with such a heavy bass that the roof beneath our feet seems to throb. I imagine we must look ridiculous, holding each other as if in a slow dance, but I don't care. And soon, to my surprise, the music changes to match our pose. I glance up, curious, and see that a small crowd has gathered around us. Damien Stark is at least as famous as Garreth Todd, and we have stolen Mr. Todd's spotlight.

I can only presume that the DJ is among the spectators, and has decided to match the music to our mood.

Since we do nothing more than sway in each other's arms, interest soon wanes. The crowd either drifts away or joins us on the floor, and I begin to feel less like a fish in a bowl. A chastised fish, ready to be scolded.

He holds me through one song and then another, and though I am happy to spend my entire life inside the circle of his arms, I have reached the point where I can no longer stand the suspense. "Say something," I plead.

He stays silent, and a cold dread curls through me. I am about to beg again when he speaks, so low and so gentle that I have to strain to hear him, and even then I am not sure that I have actually caught his words.

"I'm sorry."

"You'reawhat?" I step back so that I can see his face, because I am certain that I have not heard right.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. We have stopped swaying and now we stand still on the dance floor.

"Is this some sort of reverse psychology? Because I know you pretty well, Damien Stark, and that wasn't repentance I saw in your eyes when you crashed through the crowd. More like scary megalomaniac fury. Besides," I add with a small grimace, "I'm the one who's sorry."

Damien's expression doesn't change, but for the tiniest of instants, I think I see a flicker of amusement. "First off," he says, "I didn't crash through the crowd. I walked, and quite calmly, too, considering the circumstances."

I swallow. I knew he was pissed.

"Second," he continues, "I believe a megalomaniac is someone who suffers from delusions about their own power. Trust me," he says, and this time I am certain I see mirth dancing in his eyes, "I suffer no delusions about the extent of my power. And finally, you may have reason to be sorry. I, however, have more."

"Iaoh." I have no idea what to say. This conversation isn't going at all the way I expected. But he's right; I do have reason to be sorry. "I should have told you that Jamie and I were going out with Ollie."

"So you knew at the time?"

"No. Raine called later and told Jamie about the party. Then Ollie called and ended up coming along. I actually picked up the phone to call you. But then I didn't," I finish with a shrug.

"Because you knew I'd be pissed."

I nod. "And that's why I'm sorry."

"Then we have that in common."

I watch his face silently, waiting for him to explain.

"I don't want to be the asshole who keeps you away from your friends," he says. "And I don't want you to feel like you have to keep things from me in order to see them. And I'm sorry because you obviously felt exactly that way."

Polite Nikki starts to protest, but what he's saying is the truth. Slowly, I nod.

"I won't keep you from your friends, Nikki. But dammit, I don't like the son of a bitch."

This is not exactly breaking news, but I still take a moment to consider how to respond. "I get that," I say. "He hasn't exactly earned your trust. But I've known him forever, and he's one of my closest friends."

"He's seen you naked, Nikki. He's touched your scars."

I blink at him. Surely he's nota"Are you jealous?" The possibility shocks me. I've already told Damien that Ollie and I never slept together. It was never like that between us.

"Hell, yes, I'm jealous. I'm jealous of anyone who comforts you. Who pulls you into his arms and makes the hurt go away."

"I didn't even know you back then," I whisper.

"And I'm jealous of the time that he's had with you that I haven't."

"You're not being fair."

"I'm not being fair at all. But that doesn't change the facts. You're not just friends. You haven't been for a long time. At least not since he got you through the hell with that asshole Kurt." I close my eyes, remembering the boy who'd hurt me so badly years ago that I'd needed Ollie to help me pick up the pieces. "Ollie's in love with you, Nikki. It's the one thing I do respect him for," Damien continues. "He has excellent taste in women."

These are not things that I want to hear. Ollie has only ever been my friend, albeit an extremely close one, at least until recently. I don't like the way things are changing, and I don't want to hear what Damien is saying.

Mostly, I don't want to suddenly realize that I've been foolishly, stupidly blind.

I think of Courtney and feel a little sick. "He's engaged, Damien," I say, but the words are weak, and I cannot help but see Jamie in my mind. Fidelity is not one of Ollie's strong suits.

"I know he is," Damien says. "And maybe he loves his fiancee, I don't know. But I do know that he loves you. And one of these days, that's going to cause a very big problem between him and me."

I manage a weak smile. "Don't go all Wild West on me. Though with all your money, I guess it would be more Stark Manor than O.K. Corral, and a duel instead of a gunfight. But be careful, Damien. Ollie grew up in Texas. He's a good shot."

"I'm a better one," Damien says, and there's none of my light teasing in his voice.

"I really am glad you're here."

"As am I. It's good to hold you. This entire day has been challenging."

I wince, thinking of the paparazzi that accosted me outside of the office and those bullshit allegations of corporate espionage. "Sorry."

He gently strokes my cheek. "No," he says. "Not you. But there are things." He sighs, and I am surprised at the exasperation I hear. "Tapestries that I've woven carefully over the years are starting to unravel. I don't like it when things don't go as I plan or expect." He aims a small smile at me. "You may not have noticed it about me, but I am most comfortable when I am in control."

"I'm shocked, Mr. Stark. Truly shocked."

He ignores my sarcasm, and when he speaks, his voice is low and even. "Actually, I suppose you do fall within those parameters. I wanted you at home. You said no. I didn't like it."

I step close to him and slide my hands around his waist. "I suppose if it bothers you that much, you can simply tie me up and keep me permanently at your side."

I can feel the way his body stiffens against mine, and I am glad I'm holding on to him. My own knees are weak. How simple it is to slip into passion with Damien. Even when we quarrel, we're never far away from the fire, and it's so easy to get pulled into the conflagration.

And always, always, there is the need to touch him, to feel him, to know that he is real and that he is mine.

"Why, Ms. Fairchild," he says, "I believe you're thinking naughty thoughts."

"Very," I confirm.

"I may have to take you up on your suggestion," he says. He tugs on the end of my pink scarf. I feel the smooth brush of the material as it slides over my skin. "Tie you up," he says, twisting the end of the scarf around one wrist. "Keep you close." He gives the scarf a tight, quick jerk, and I stumble toward him. He catches me so that I don't fall, and bends down so that his lips are close to my ear. "But first, I think you need to be very thoroughly spanked."

I tilt my head so that he can see my eyes. "I'd rather be thoroughly fucked."

He groans, and I know that I have won this round. "Oh, God, Nikki. What you do to me."

"No," I say, my entire body on fire. "What you do to me. And please, Damien, do it soon."

"We're leaving," he says, and I can only nod mutely.

"Where are we going?" I ask, as we take the elevator down. There are two other couples in the car with us, and only the tips of our fingers are touching. It is so intimate, though, that I feel like I'm naked before them.

"The apartment," he says curtly.

Thank God. If he wanted to go all the way back to the Malibu house I was going to lose my mind. Even so, I'm not sure I can make it the few short blocks.

But then the elevator doors glide open and as soon as our companions step off in front of us, we are accosted by the flash of cameras, the press of microphones, and the overlapping queries of a dozen demanding voices.

Now I clutch Damien's hand and move closer to his side.

"Mr. Stark!"

"Damien!"

"Nikki, over here!"

"What can you say about your refusal to speak at the dedication of the Richter Tennis Center?"

"Can you explain your decision, Mr. Stark?"

I hold tight to Damien and keep my head down as we press forward toward the street. I assume at first that these are simply the same reporters and paparazzi that had been hovering about when we'd arrived. But then I see that in addition to the TMZ and E! reporters, there are vans from CNN and even the Wall Street Journal.

Apparently someone noticed Damien's arrival, and the word spread like wildfire.

I squeeze Damien's hand tighter, hoping he has a car nearby. It may only be a block to the apartment, but I do not want to walk it with these vultures following in our wake.

"What about the rumors out of Germany, Mr. Stark?" a voice calls, and Damien's hand tightens around mine as he leads us firmly and silently toward the valet stand.

"Nikki, is Damien Stark off the bachelor block?"

"Damien! How will the talk of a possible German indictment affect your holdings in the European Union?"

My mind is spinning. An indictment? I force myself not to look at Damien, and instead look forward, my face a mask of disinterest. There is no wayano way in hellathat I am letting these vultures see that I haven't a clue what they're talking about. Is Stark International in some kind of legal snafu? Is that what he meant by the tapestry unwinding?

"Nikki! Mr. Stark! Germany! Indictment!" The voices blend together into a hideous cacophony. "Richter! Dedication! Damien! Damien! Damien!"

Damien must have summoned Edward without me realizing because the limo pulls to a smooth stop in front of the valet stand, and Edward gets out.

"No," Damien says. "I've got it." As Edward gets back in behind the wheel, Damien tugs me forward, then opens the rear passenger door, his body shielding me from the blinding storm of lights and questions.

I'm just about to slide into the car when Damien pulls his hand from mine, then turns and faces the crowd. A hush falls. Considering Damien's staunch policy of not talking to the press, I think the paparazzi are at least as shocked as I am.

"I will not be attending the dedication ceremony for the Richter Tennis Center," Damien says, in the firm clear voice he uses during business meetings. "While I fully support the construction and operation of such a center, I cannot in good conscience support its dedication honoring a man I don't respect. As for your other questions, neither Ms. Fairchild nor I have any comment."

Immediately, the air fills with mingled voices, each louder than the next, none discernible. They are shouting follow-up questions, shouting for Damien to turn for a picture, shouting for me to step away from the open limo door. Damien ignores them, turning to face me. I realize that I am still standing frozen, slightly bent midway in the motion of entering the limo.

And then, another voice rises above the noise, this time from the far side of the street.

"Damien Jeremiah Stark!"

I glance at Damien, but his hard expression reveals nothing. I straighten, then peer over the roof of the limo. The reporters have shifted the aim of their cameras, and now their lights are focused on an older man making his way across Flower Street.

"Get into the car," Damien snaps at me.

"We need to talk," the man calls out.

I stand frozen.

"Get in," Damien urges, his voice more gentle.

I comply, but I peer out the far window at the man, and then once more up at Damien. "Who is that?" I ask.

He meets my eyes, his jaw tight, his expression hard. "My father."

11.

Damien slides in beside me and tugs the door closed. "Go," he says to Edward, who nods and starts to pull slowly out into the street. Reporters scramble to get in front of the car, taking pictures of the limo and of Damien's father, who is now pounding on the side window and yelling for Damien to stop.

I grab Damien's hand, then look left at the old man's face. "Damien," I say. "Let him in. If you don't, those reporters are going to eat him alive."

Silence.