The force of these unexpected words crashes over me, and I take a step backward. He reaches out, and though I take his hand without hesitation, I find that I am shaking my head. Not necessarily in protest, but in confusion.

"IaI don't understand."

"I think you do. And I think you want it, too. Tell me, Nikki, did you leave your panties at home because you like the way it feels, or because you like knowing that you're open to me? That I can touch youathat I can fuck youawhenever and wherever I want?"

I swallow, because he is right. More than that, I understand now the melancholy I saw in his eyes Thursday night, followed by the possessiveness when he claimed me after midnight.

He is rightaI am his. How can it be otherwise when he is inside my heart now?

But this?

He is watching me closely, examining me with the same implacable analysis that he uses to vet a business transaction or a financial report. But I am a woman, and my emotions don't follow the line of a ticker tape. He knows that, too, of course, and beneath the hard, logical intellect, I see the soul-deep vulnerability.

He wants this. Maybe he even needs it. And he has handed all of the power of this moment to me.

My heart twists, because the truth of it is that I want it, too. Isn't that why I've felt lost all night? I discovered a new side to myself when we played our game, and despite being "his," I felt more liberated than I ever had. More in control of myself and my emotions. More centered, I think, as I brush my thumb over the finger that I had so tightly bound only moments before.

I am still holding tight to the side of the glass case. As I glance down and see the two Bradbury books, I cannot help but shiver as I think of the story Damien told me. I picture him, young and strong, riding his bike to escape his father. Riding to meet his hero, a man who crafted worlds out of ink and imagination. Insubstantial, but real enough to a boy who needed to escape.

Is that what he's doing now? Crafting a false reality out of smoke and mirrors and tempting me into the fantasy with him? But it's not fantasy that I want with Damien. I want the reality. The moments, like the Bradbury story, when Damien lets me in enough to see a bit of his past and a piece of his heart.

My chest tightens as I shift my gaze from the glass case to Damien's equally transparent eyes. He is awaiting my answer, and I want to melt against him and whisper yes, yes, of course, yes. But I stand still, frozen by the fear that if I do, I will be letting myself get pulled into something that isn't and never can be real.

"Why?" I ask. "Before, you said that you wanted me. But you have me now, with or without the game." I lift my leg and point toward the emerald ankle bracelet. "I'm still wearing it, Damien. You know I'll always wear it. So why? What difference does it make?"

He tilts his head toward the glass case. "You say you want me to open up more," he says, and I marvel at the way he always knows what I am thinking. "I want that, too. I don't want secrets between us, Nikki."

"You told me about the tennis center," I say.

"Not everything," he replies.

I stay perfectly still, because I know that is true.

"I need parameters, Nikki. Especially now. I need to knowa" He cuts himself off and looks away, his jaw clenching as he wrestles with the words. "I need to know that you will be here, with me, no matter what."

He looks so vulnerable, and I am humbled that I have so much power over a man with strength such as Damien.

"Don't you already know that? I do."

There is something dark in the eyes that look back at me. "How can you, when there are still so many things you don't know?"

He is not saying anything I haven't thought of, but for a moment, I am afraid. What dark secrets does Damien have that still remain buried?

The thing is, I understand better than anyone why he wants the facade of the game in place if he's going to try to open up to me. I cut myself in order to cope with the horrors of my childhood, but what did Damien do? Nothing except conquer the world and learn to bury his secrets deep.

I glance down at the books in the glass case, and can't help the smile that touches my lips. Even the little things are a big step for Damien. But the shit in his pastathe things like Sara Padgett and the guilt he felt over that poor girl's suicideathose are the kinds of things that Damien needs to say with a net.

The truth rips through me. The game is his net.

And once that net is in place, doesn't it make sense that the physical between us can strengthen the emotional?

Maybe I'm manufacturing a justification, but there's no denying that I want what he's offering. That desire, however, doesn't quell the lingering fear that still bubbles inside me.

Damien must see my hesitation, because he reaches for my hand. Only then do I realize that I have been unconsciously twisting my once-abused left finger between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.

"Can you tell me?" he asks gently.

I swallow and try to will the words to come. "I'm scared," I confess.

"Of what?"

"Of you," I say, then immediately regret the words when I see confusion and hurt flash in his eyes. "No, no, not like that." I move closer and press my palms against his cheeks. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"That does sound terrifying."

I grin, grateful to him for putting me more at ease. "Sometimes I'm afraid that I'm using you." I pause, waiting for him to make a joke about how he would be very happy for me to use him any way that I like. But he remains silent, watchful, and I realize that he understands how hard this is for me. "Like a crutch, I mean." I think of the scars that mar my thighs. Of the string wrapped tight around my finger. Of the weight of a knife in my hand and the ecstasy of that first fiery sting when the blade slices through skin.

Most of all, I think of how much I've needed all of those things, and of the scars I now bear as testament to my weakness.

I swallow, then look down, not wanting to meet the eyes of this man who already sees so much inside me. "I'm afraid that you're a replacement for the pain."

"I see," he says, but there is no emotion in the words. Not anger or hurt. Nothing.

And then there is silence.

I draw a breath, but I don't look up. I'm too afraid of what I will see on his face.

Only seconds pass, but they are heavy, full of the weight of unsaid things. Then he tucks his fingertip under my chin and tilts my head so that I must either close my eyes or look at him.

I look and immediately have to blink back tears. Because it isn't anger or hurt or pity that I see. It is adoration, and possibly even a little bit of respect.

"Damien?"

"Oh, baby." He takes a step toward me, and I see the force of will that pulls him to a stop, staying just far enough from me to give me space, but close enough to give me strength. "Tell meatell me what the pain does for you."

"You know," I say. I've told him all this before.

"Humor me."

"It grounds me," I say, as a tear rolls down my cheek. "It centers me. It gives me strength."

"I see." He brushes his thumb across my cheek, wiping away my tear.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"I'm not." There's a flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and I find that my fear is fading. That I am, in fact, softly hopeful.

"You humble me, Nikki. Don't you see that?" It must be clear from my expression that I do not, because he goes on. "If I do all those things for youasoothe you, center you, give you strengthathen that is worth more to me than every penny I have earned building Stark International."

"Ia" I start to speak, but words don't come. I haven't thought of it that way before.

"But, baby," he continues, "it's not true. The strength is in you. The pain is just your way of mining it. And as for me? I like to think that I am a mirror for you. That when you look at me, you see the reflection of everything you really are."

I am crying openly now, and he moves to a nearby coffee table and brings me a box of tissues. I wipe my nose and sniffle, feeling overwhelmed and foolish, but blissfully happy.

"You talk as though you love me," I say.

He doesn't answer, but his slow smile lights his eyes. He steps closer, one hand cupping the back of my head as his lips close over mine in a kiss that starts out sweet and gentle, but ends up so deep and demanding that it curls through me all the way down to my toes.

"Say yes, baby," he says, breaking the kiss. "Say that you are mine."

"How long?" I ask, breathlessly. But he doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. I see the answer in his eyesafor as long as it takes. For as long as we want. For as long as I consent to be his.

He says nothing, merely stands in front of me. So much rides on my answer, and yet his eyes are calm, his stance casual. Damien is a man who shows nothing he doesn't want to show. And yet there is so much he wants to show to me, and so much that I want to share with him.

I hesitate only a moment longer, and only because I want to look at him. I want to drink in this man who has more strength than any human I have ever met, and yet is willing to humble himself before me.

How can I have thought that he has shared too little with me? Not specific events, maybe. But Damien has shown me his heart.

"Yes," I say, holding out my hand. "We have a deal, Mr. Stark."

The smile that spreads across his face is slow and wicked, and I laugh out loud.

"Oh, dear," I say.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea." He gives my hand a tug. "Come on."

Considering we'd both been MIA from a party that he is hosting in his own home in part to celebrate a portrait of me that now hangs on his wall, I assume that the reason we ascend back up the service elevator is to slide seamlessly back into that party.

The first person we see when we step into the small hallway that leads to the kitchen is Gregory, Damien's distinguished, gray-templed valet. "Ms. Fairchild and I are going out." I blink in surprise. Gregory shows no reaction at all.

"Of course, Mr. Stark. I'll take care of supervising the cleanup and closing out the house."

"We're leaving?" I whisper once Gregory has moved away and Damien is propelling me into the main area.

"We are," he says.

I consider arguing. Emily Post and Miss Manners flow in my blood, not to mention the even stricter social rules of Elizabeth Fairchild. One does not leave one's own party. There are rules. Proprieties that must be observed and social niceties that must be respected. Whatever Damien has in mind can wait, and I should say as much. I should put my foot down and insist that we stay here, mingling and making polite conversation.

Instead I mentally bitch-slap my mother's rule book and stay blissfully silent.

We make three additional stops. First at Giselle, who seems baffled, but doesn't argue. I wear my practiced plastic smile as she and Damien talk. I'm not as put off by her as I was earlier, but neither do I intend to enlist her as my new best friend. Next, we track down Evelyn and Blaine to say both congratulations and goodbye. I'm in the middle of a very proper handshake with Blaine when we both look at each other and laugh. "Come here," he says, and pulls me into a hug.

The hug I receive from Evelyn is even bolder, and as she holds me close I hear her whisper. "Glad I'm not the only one getting a little tonight."

"Only a little?" I reply, then smile as she laughs wickedly.

"And there it is, Texas," she says, releasing me. "That's why I like you." She aims a finger at me. "This week," she says. "Photos and wine and talking trash, and not necessarily in that order."

"It's a date," I say. Then realize my camera's downstairs in the library.

"Leave it," Damien says, when I say as much. "I promise you won't need it."

"I don't know," I counter. "I can't think of a more beautiful sight than you standing naked in front of a window."

"Are you under the impression there will be nakedness involved tonight?"

"I'm hopeful, Mr. Stark. I'm very, very hopeful."

Jamie is the last person we seek out, and we find her at a table on the balcony deep in conversation with a tousle-haired guy in a Hawaiian print shirt.

Oh, no, Jamie, I think. Not another one. Not after going on and on about Raine.

"Hey, you two," she says, looking up at us. "Louis, this is my roommate, Nikki. I'm guessing you already know Mr. Stark."

As Damien and Louis do the meet-and-greet, Jamie's eyes dart to me. Everything okay?

I nod. Everything's fine. I glance at Louis. Are youa?

She wrinkles her nose and gives the slightest shake of her head. "Louis is a director," she says breezily. "We were talking television. Great house," she adds, turning her attention to Damien. "Greater party."

"Glad you think so. Nikki and I just came by to say our goodbyes."

"Oh." She gives me a knowing look. I paste on my most innocent smile.

"Edward will take you home whenever you're ready," Damien tells Jamie. "Enjoy yourself."

"Cool. Thanks." She gives me a goodbye hug and Damien and I sneak back through the kitchen to the service area so that we aren't waylaid by anyone catching us leaving by the stairs.

"So where are we going, Mr. Stark?" I ask as we step out into the cool night air. "Do you fancy a walk?"

"Actually, I fancy a drive."

Usually Damien parks in front of his house. Tonight, however, the driveway has been taken over by a valet parking team called in to handle the party traffic.

I follow him around the house, frowning as we pass the attached garage. "Where are we going?"

"Someplace you haven't seen yet."

"Uh-huh." I'm intrigued, and as I take his hand I glance around the property. We're in an area north of the house, away from the lights of the party. It's dark here, with the exception of soft landscaping lights cleverly hidden among the plants and stonework.

He's right; despite the amount of time I've spent on the third floor, I've done very little exploring of the rest of the house or the grounds. Of course, the landscaping near the structure has only recently been completed, and beyond that perimeter of flower beds and walking paths and picnic areas, the plants still grow wild, though I see that Damien has hired someone to cut away some of the brush and install soft lighting to mark footpaths through the undergrowth.

"It's so pretty out here," I say as we follow a flagstone path that twines away from the house.

"It is," he agrees, but his eyes are on me.

"Watch the path, Mr. Stark," I say.