"In a minute." He pulls me closer to him, so that my breasts are pressed against his chest and my chin is tucked onto his shoulder. I breathe deeply, memorizing the scent of him, all musk and masculine spices.

"How is it that I can miss you so much when you're not beside me?" he asks.

"I don't know," I whisper. "But I could ask the same question."

"Oh, Nikki." The last sound of my name is cut off as his mouth closes roughly over mine.

My body melts against him, and I feel myself opening up. I want him. I want him now. Here. On the goddamn stove if we have to, but I want to know that this man is mine. I want to claim him. I want to fuck him.

And I'm frustrated as hell because none of that is going to happen. Not now, with our friends on the other side of this wall, just a few feet away.

Reluctantly, I break the kiss, then extend my hand to him.

"Are we observing formalities, Ms. Fairchild?"

"We are, Mr. Stark."

He laughs, then presses a soft kiss to my palm that makes my thighs tremble and my nipples tighten almost painfully.

Damien eyes me, a smug smile on his beautiful face. "Me, too, Ms. Fairchild."

I aim a prim smile at him. "I don't know what you're talking about. But I will say that you look dashing as usual." I nod toward the next room. "Shall we mingle?"

We leave the kitchen and join the other three, who have moved to the balcony. Evelyn is entertaining Jamie with stories about her television and movie deals back in the day, and Blaine presents a mock frown of frustration as Damien and I approach. "We've lost them," he says. "Once she starts talking Hollywood, she never stops. And I think she's found the perfect audience."

"She has," I agree, lifting my camera to take a few shots of the two women deep in animated conversation. "Jamie can talk classic television and old movies for days, but she's just as happy if the conversation shifts to current sitcoms."

"In other words, they're going to keep each other occupied all night," he says.

"Not all night," I say. "I need some Evelyn time, too." I say the words lightly, but I'm completely serious. It feels as if it's been years, but it was only yesterday we spoke at my office. Evelyn knows about something that's going on with Damien. Something she says I don't need to worry about. But I am worried. And I intend to get answers.

I focus on Blaine and force a smile. "Right now, I want to see your other paintings," I tell him. "Will you show us?"

"Sure." The three of us head back inside and Blaine leads us around the room, pausing at the various canvases so that he can describe what he was going for in a particular scene. There is a similarity in all of them, both in color and in theme. Blaine has bound each of the models in some way, and though the images never cross the line into what I consider bad taste, some do display an intimacy that I would never have agreed to. Some even remind me of the pose Damien had me in last night.

There is one that particularly catches my eye. The model is on a chaise, her legs draped over either side. Two black ribbons bind her legs in position. Another ribbon ties one arm up above her head. Only one hand is free, and it is draped between her legs in such a way that it is clear she is touching herself. Her nipples are erect, her areolae puckered. The muscles in her belly are taut. Though her face is partly turned from view, there is no hiding her arousal.

I don't bother to ask Blaine what he intended with that image; I know only too well. There is an excitement to being bound. To being helpless. A sensual thrill that comes from trusting fully and abandoning modesty at the command of your lover.

Damien presses his hand lightly against my back, and I shiver, imagining that it is me touching myself, and Damien who is watching. I tense, my skin suddenly too sensitive and too damn hot. I feel tiny drops of perspiration bead at my hairline and take a step forward, needing to either break contact with Damien or beg him to take me right there on the floor.

As I move away, I catch his eye.

Yes, he mouths, and his smile holds so much wicked promise that I go weak in the knees.

Honestly, it's a miracle that I don't just melt.

Blaine, thank God, is so caught up in his procession of art that he doesn't notice our near tryst. We move from canvas to canvas, Blaine pointing out details about the composition or the color, telling stories about the models and how they came to him. Most were simply girls looking to make a little extra money. Some posed for free because they wanted the experience. And at each portrait, there is Damien's hand on my back, and my body becoming increasingly, desperately needy.

My nipples, now erect and sensitive, rub provocatively against the soft chiffon with every step I take. My sex feels swollen, begging to be touched. I am wildly turned on, and there's not a thing I can do about it.

It's torture, but as torment goes, it's pretty damn sweet.

Evelyn calls Blaine back out onto the balcony just as we've moved to another canvas, and I cannot help my sigh of relief.

Damien steps behind me and puts his arms around my waist. "This feels like the night we met, Ms. Fairchild. You and I surrounded by erotic art, and me unable to think of anything but fucking you."

My breath is shaky. "We met six years before that, Mr. Stark."

"So we did," he says, his lips brushing my ear. "I wanted to fuck you then, too."

"Do you always get what you want?" I tease.

"Yes," he says, easing closer behind me so that I feel his erection pressed against my rear. "I thought you knew."

"Why Mr. Stark," I say. "I thought you told me it was bad form to host a party with a hard-on."

"True," he says. "Perhaps we should escape to the powder room. I can think of a rather pleasant way to prevent a social faux pas."

"Keep talking," I say. "You just might tempt me."

His hand grazes over my skirt, and I feel the material snaking very slowly up my thigh.

"Stop it," I say, my voice low as I push his hand down. I shift a bit in his arms, then freeze at what I see on the far side of the flooraGiselle stepping into the room through the kitchen. I tense, because Giselle is not one of the people who knows that I am the girl in the portrait, and I don't understand why she's here early. I tell myself that she owns the gallery. That it's not like she hasn't seen nude paintings before. And surely she doesn't know it's me. That was part of our deal, and Damien is a man of his word.

I tell myself all that, and I've almost convinced myself, too. But then Bruce steps into the room behind her, and I freeze, my body like one solid block of icy mortification. My naked portrait hangs on the wall, and my boss is looking right at it.

"You're very tense," Damien teases. "Again, I can suggest several ways to loosen you up."

I realize that he hasn't noticed them and that he doesn't know why I've gone still. Nor can he see my face, or the confusion that must surely be rising in my eyes. Do they know? How could they know?

His thumb grazes over the filmy chiffon. "Tell me, Ms. Fairchild," he murmurs. "What will I find if I slide my hand under your skirt? Did you wear panties tonight?"

"Why are Giselle and Bruce here already?" I ask.

His body goes tense. "What?"

I pull out of his arms and turn to face him. "They don't know it's me in the portrait, do they?"

He's not looking at me, but I can see that his eyes have found the couple. His jaw is tight, but that's the only reaction that I see. "They're not supposed to be here," he says, his voice calm and even.

"No," I say. "Because they don't know. Right?" I shift a bit so that I'm standing in front of him. I feel strangely frantic, as if I'm precariously balanced and if I'm not careful I'll be tumbling without a net. "Damien? Did you tell them?"

For a moment, his face goes hard. He's the businessman, the negotiator. The man Ollie warned me was dangerous. The man Evelyn told me is an expert at keeping secrets.

And then his expression softens, and it is as if all he sees is me. "Yes, but, Nikkia"

That's all I need to hear. "Oh, God. How coulda" I clap my hand to my mouth and breathe in hard through my nose. I'm tumbling now, and I was rightathere is no net to catch me.

Anger bubbles through me. Anger and hurt and humiliation, all black and cold and desolate.

My anonymity was a vital part of our deal. I'm naked up there. And not just naked, but revealed, so that anyone who sees the portraitawho sees the scarsaalso sees my demons.

How could Damien be so cavalier? He saw me melt down at the first session with Blaine. He's the one who soothed me, who I thought understood me.

And now it feels like he's the one who's slapped me.

I blink, because I am not going to cry. Instead, I concentrate on the fury that is cutting through me like a knife, giving me both strength and a weapon. Because so help me, I want to wound Damien as he's wounded me. This cut is deep, all the more so because he is the one person I trusted most to never hurt me.

He reaches for me, his face now as gentle as I've ever seen it. "Nikki, please."

"No." I hold up my hand and shake my head as I choke back a little sob. "And for the record," I say, coolly meeting his eyes, "of course I wore panties. Game's over, remember? The rules no longer apply."

I see the hurt in his eyes, and feel it cut sharply through me. For a moment, I regret the lie. I'm overcome by a desperate longing to lose myself in his arms. To hold him and comfort him, and to let him comfort me.

But I don't. I can't. I need to be alone, and so I let my sharp words hang in the air as I lift my head and walk steadfastly away.

But my exit doesn't give me any satisfaction. Our game may be over, but I don't want the relationship with Damien to end.

I think about the bed and my fear that it was a portent. About Giselle and Bruce and the trust that has cracked like a mirror. I think about the secrets that I know Damien keeps from me, and about the depths of this man who is still so much a mystery to me.

All of that haunts me. And, yes, I'm afraid.

Not of the ghosts of his past, but of the possibility that we will have no future.

13.

"Nikki!"

I'm trying to escape down to the second-floor library, and Bruce is the last person that I want to see right now. Well, almost the last. At the moment, I don't particularly want to see Damien.

I can't, however, continue toward the service elevator without appearing incredibly rude. So I pause and wait for him to catch up with me. I try to plaster on my Social Nikki mask, but honestly, I just don't have the energy. And I'm sure that the smile with which I greet my boss is thin at best.

"I wanted to thank you for doing such a great job at Suncoast yesterday," he says.

"Oh." I wasn't expecting business chitchat. "Thank you. I was pleased you gave me such a challenging assignment on my first day." Over his shoulder, I see myself looking down upon us. I wonder if, having seen me nude before the world, Bruce's assessment of my professionalism has been knocked down a notch. Or twelve.

"Challenging because of the work, or because of your partner?"

"A little of both," I admit.

"I promised you that we'd talk," he says. "Is now a good time?"

It's not, of course. But I'm curious. And so far, I'm only getting a business vibe. Maybe Damien only told Giselle that I'm the girl in the portrait, and Bruce has no idea. After all, it's not like there's a neon arrow over my head saying, She's the One.

"Sure," I say, relaxing a little. "Now's great." There is a seating area surrounding the fireplace, and he leads me in that direction. As we walk, Damien catches my eye. He has moved to the balcony, where he now stands between Evelyn and Giselle.

I look away, then smile at Bruce as I sit. "So why is Tanner the wolf?"

Bruce draws a deep breath. "Listen, before we get into all of that, I think I owe you an apology."

Now I'm confused. "Because of Tanner? It wasn't that bad," I lie.

"No. Because of tonight. Giselle told me that it's you in the painting."

I nod, too dumbstruck to speak. So much for my shiny new theory that Bruce was clueless.

"To be honest, I didn't think anything of it. But once we arrived, I realized that you didn't know that I knew."

"It's fine," I say, though it is a very long way from fine.

"No. It's not. Giselle had no business telling me. I don't think she meant anything by it, but sometimes she just doesn't think."

He looks at me, but I say nothing. It's still not fine, and I am not capable of repeating the lie again.

"I wanted to talk to you now, though, because I don't want you to think that this affects our working relationship."

"Of course not. Why would it?"

He must know that I'm bullshitting, because he doesn't even bother to answer me. Instead, he seems to change subjects altogether. "Did Damien tell you about my sister?"

"Um, no."

"As brilliant a woman as you will ever meet. She does mathematical equations in her head that I can barely do with a calculator. She teaches at MIT now."

I cock my head. "Jessica Tolley-Brown?"

"You know her?"

"Of her," I say, not bothering to hide my excitement. "I almost entered a PhD program at MIT just so I could study under her. But what does shea"

"Do you know how she put herself through school?"

"No. Scholarships, I assume."

"Mostly," he says. "But my sister has expensive taste, and she supplemented her income with modeling."

"Oh," I say. I have a feeling I know where this is going.

"I don't have a problem with the female body," he says. "And I don't think any less of a woman's intellect just because she poses nude. Considering my sister's portfolio, and the fact that she can trample me in just about any contest of wits, it would be pretty hypocritical of me, don't you think?"