I realize that Edward's probably halfway through The Count of Monte Cristo by now, and so I hurry to my bedroom and get my laptop and the files I need. I pause at the door, then return to my closet for my old Nikon, since the fabulous digital Leica Damien gave me is still in Malibu. And as much as I love the Leica, the Nikon was a gift from Ashley, and I refuse to give up using it entirely.

"Back to the apartment?" Edward asks as he opens the limo door for me.

I close my hand tight around the camera. "Actually," I say, "there's one more place I want to go."

"How you holding up, Texas?"

"Okay, I guess." We're on Evelyn's balcony, looking out over the beach. Blaine is out with friends, and Evelyn had been enthusiastic when I'd called from the limo to invite myself over.

I've only been here onceathe night that Damien and I met in Malibuabut it feels like home. I attribute that more to the woman than the location. "When I'm inside and away from it all, I do great. But when I see a paper or am accosted by a reporter, I feel like I'm going to crumble. Honestly, I don't know how celebrities do it."

"They have the fame gene," she says. "You don't."

"There's no such thing as bad PR?" I say dryly.

"For some people, it's a truism. Have you watched reality television?"

I have to laugh. I don't watch it regularly, but I've caught enough episodes with Jamie to understand what she's saying. Some people don't mind being the train wreck that other folks watch. Me, I mind.

"Pretty soon you'll be last week's news. Until then, hold your head up and smile."

I flash a brilliant pageant smile. "That's one thing I know how to do."

In front of us, the sun is beginning its descent toward the horizon. I take out the Nikon and snap shot after shot, hoping that when the prints are developed, I'll have managed to capture even a fraction of that beauty.

"You're going to show me the shots you took at the party, I hope," Evelyn says. "The more snapshots there are of me, the better my odds of finding a picture that's actually flattering."

"Do not even try fishing for compliments with me," I say, laughing. "You're gorgeous and amazing and you know it."

"It's true," she says, then taps out a cigarette and lights it. "I just hope Blaine keeps remembering it."

"I think you've got him hooked." Despite their age difference, they really do seem like the perfect couple. After the drama with Ollie, it's nice to know that some of my friends have relationships that are actually stable.

I'd been spurred to come here after the bullshit with Ollie, but now that I'm here, I find I don't want to talk about it. Instead, I'm enjoying just hanging and chatting. We've already covered the scintillating topics of male models, Botox, and the current summer blockbusters. The conversation was so scattered in fact, that I'd been surprised when she raised the specter of my personal tabloid hell.

"Blaine's still mortified, of course," she adds. "Thinks it's his fault."

"That's ridiculous," I say. "I'm the one who accepted money to pose nude, and then I consented to be tied up. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine."

"We didn't have any idea how much Damien paid you," Evelyn said, "but now that we do, I have to confess that I agree with Blaine. You sold yourself cheap."

I laugh, remembering that Sylvia said the same thing. At times like this, when I'm with friends and people who don't have shark's blood running through their veins, I feel almost proud of what I did. I negotiated a deal. I got my start-up money. And what the hell is wrong with that?

"Aw, hell, Texas. I see it on your face. Now I've gone and got you thinking about it. We can't have that. You want some wine?"

"Love some," I say.

She disappears inside, then returns a moment later with a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses.

She sits at the wrought-iron table then indicates the chair opposite with the tip of her cigarette. "So tell me the rest of it," she demands.

"The rest of it? The rest of what?"

"What's going on in your life, Texas. Fired twiceaexcuse me, once was a layoff. Dating one heck of a fine catch if I do say so myself. Your roommate's got a commercial in the works. Lot of life crammed into not very much time. You've certainly made quite the landing in our fair city."

Put that way, I have to agree. "Despite the firings and the tabloid stuff that we're just going to ignore, things are great. I'm going to take some time to get a couple more apps on the market."

She points at me. "An art app for Blaine. I haven't forgotten."

I grin, not sure if she means it or not. "I'm ready when you are. But that's my short-term plan. Long term is still in the development stages."

"And Damien? You said he's in London? On business?"

"Yeah, but I think he took some time to visit a friend. Sofia. I guess she's in some sort of trouble."

"That's too bad," Evelyn says. She props her hand on her fist and looks at me seriously. "He say what kind of trouble?"

"No."

"Hmm," she says. "What about Jamie? What's she up to?"

I hesitate before answering, wondering about the shift in conversation. Does Evelyn know Sofia? Does she know what kind of trouble she's in? It's possible, I realize. Sofia is from his tennis past, and Evelyn was Damien's agent when he was a young sports icon endorsing tennis shoes and God knows what else.

I think about asking, but hold my tongue. Evelyn has become a solid friend, and I don't want to muddy the waters by using her as a conduit between me and Damien's past.

"Jamie's in heaven," I say, focusing on the original question. "She's really hit it off with the guy she's doing this commercial with. Bryan Raine. You know him?"

"I do," Evelyn says, and she doesn't sound pleased. "I like your friend. Nice girl. A little green, but she'll get there. Bryan Raine, though ... That one's a climber, and I'm not sure your friend is tough enough to deal with the shit he'll eventually throw her way."

My heart is sinking. "You're serious?"

"Afraid so. He won't be happy until he's banging the next big thing. And while he'd prefer a female, I think he'll fuck anything that moves if he thinks it'll ease his climb to the top. Male, female, or small farm animal." She looks at me hard. "Your friend got the skin to make it when he ditches her?"

I open my mouth to say that Jamie's as tough as they come, but I can't speak the words. They aren't true. She's got a tough veneer, but inside she's soft and vulnerable.

"I hope you're wrong," I say.

"So do I, Texas. So do I."

22.

The nice thing about limos is that they have a driver. I take full advantage of that knowledge, and I arrive back at Damien's apartment more than a little tipsy after downing half of Evelyn's very excellent bottle of Chardonnay.

I am interested in nothing but sleep, and I make my way to the bed, hesitating only long enough to feel a pang of regret that I am in it alone.

I've dropped my phone on the bedside table, and I reach for it, then tap out a text: In your bed. Drunk. Wish you were here.

I have no idea what time it is in London, and have had too much wine to bother with the math to figure it out. So I'm not sure if Damien is even awake. But only a few seconds pass before I get his response. Wish I were, too. At airport. Coming home to you. Tell me you're naked.

I smile and tap out a reply. Very. And wet. And wanting you. Hurry home. I have been Damienized, and I don't think I can last long without you. [Damienized, v. To be needful of Damien, especially in the sense of fucking and dirty talk. See, e.g., Nikki Fairchild.]

His answer is almost immediate. I like the new addition to your lexicon. And now I'll be hard for all of a long flight home. Plane boarding. See you soon. Until then, imagine me, touching you.

I don't know if he will get the text, but I send one final message. Yes, sir, I type. And then I hug my phone, and drift off to sleep.

When I wake, it's because my phone is buzzing against my cheek. I roll over, confused, and realize that it's already past noon, and that I've missed a call. I quickly check to see if it's from Damien, but it's only a voice mail from Evelyn telling me I forgot my camera. I curse silently and open my email, planning to send her a quick note telling her I'll get it soon.

That's when I see that there is an email from Damien waiting.

Nikki, on a quick layover in Amsterdam. Arriving LAX five P.M. Do you mind if we go to a charity fashion show tonight? Starts at nine? Would much rather stay in with you, but Maynard's firm sponsoring. Swears press access limited. They'll get the boot if they even think about harassing you. Jamie invited, too. Let me know. Missing you ...

I read the message twice, trying to decide why I'm smiling so broadly. It's only as I start the third read that I realizeahe's asking me, not telling me. I take that knowledge and hold it close to my heart. Then I tap out my reply, though I know he won't get it until he lands.

Of course, sir. But how you do tease, pretending to ask my consent when of course you know that I will do whatever you want, whenever and however.

I hope you're spending your time in the plane thinking of interesting "howevers" ...

P.S. I have the perfect dress at home. Pick me up at the condo at eight? Will check Jamie's social calendar ...

As it turns out, Raine has told Jamie that he's having a night out with the boys, so she's completely keen to be a third wheel with me and Damien.

I'm not entirely sure what to expect from a fashion show hosted by a law firm, but it turns out that Bender, Twain is just one of many sponsors for a function that is raising money for juvenile diabetes. The event is being held in a restaurant in Beverly Hills, but the place has been so transformed that it's hard to believe that it has ever been anything other than a fashion venue. A long runway bisects a giant room, and that is surrounded by chairs. The perimeter is lined with tables providing research, raffles, and gift bags. Jamie and I both snag a bag and are pleased to find them filled with cosmetics, hair brushes, and even a darling tank top.

"This is great," Jamie says to Damien. "Thanks for bringing me."

"Happy to have you along," he says. His mood has been light since he's returned from London.

"So the trip went well?" I ask once Jamie skips off to do the circuit.

"It did," he says.

"Sofia's okay?"

"She's settled," he says. "For her, that's about as good as it gets. And I heard from Charles. He's been working with my attorneys in Germany, and with any luck, that problem is going to go away as well."

"You mean they won't indict?"

He cocks his head to look at me. "That's my hope."

"That would be great," I say. "And even though I don't have a clue about international business or what kind of regulations the Germans think you mucked up, you know you can talk to me about that kind of thing. I may not get it, but I promise I'll be supportive."

The expression on his face is surprisingly guarded. "Someday when I'm ready, I will." He pulls me in for a quick, chaste kiss. "And yes, I believe that you would understand."

A smile flickers on my lips. I'm pleased, but I can't help but think that we're talking about entirely different things.

I don't have the chance to ask, though, because the show is starting. We take our seats and watch the models parade down the runway in skimpy, sexy outfits, with Damien whispering his opinion as to exactly which outfits he wants to see me in. Reporters and photographers are at the base of the runway, and I realize that Charles has made good on his promiseathe press is leaving me and Damien alone. Some weight inside me lifts a little, and I lean back in my chair and enjoy the freedom of knowing that, at least for a moment, I am not a bug under a microscope.

When the show is over, the guests are encouraged to mingle and imbibe from one of the many cash bars while the crew sets up for the charity auction. I look around for Jamie, but she has already disappeared into the crowd, presumably to jump all over that imbibing thing.

Instead, I see Ollie, and I suck in a tight breath. He is talking with a woman who looks somewhat familiar, but I can't place her. Damien hasn't seen him yet, but I know the exact moment when Ollie's glance finds us.

I'm not sure why I'm surprised that he's here. After all, he works with Charles Maynard. The crowd shifts, and I see a pretty, dark-haired woman coming toward him with two drinks in her hands. Courtney. And then Ollie and Courtney and the other woman are all heading our way. I grab Damien's hand and smile my Social Nikki smile. It is the first time I've felt the need to be so armed against Ollie, but I know that I need both the mask and Damien's strength, and that knowledge makes me sad.

"Nikki, Damien, it's good to see you here."

"Ollie," Damien says politely. He glances at the two women.

"Courtney," I say, "it's so good to see you again." I give her a little hug, then formally introduce her to Damien.

"Great to meet you," Courtney says, then turns her attention to me. "I'm planning a destination wedding shower, but I haven't decided where yet." She shifts toward Damien, including him as she speaks to me. "Tell me you two will come? And Jamie and Raine, too."

Automatically, my eyes dart to Ollie's, but his expression is too guarded to read.

"I'm looking forward to hearing all the details," I say diplomatically. The truth is I'm not sure there is going to be a wedding, much less a shower. Courtney, however, doesn't seem the least bit worried.

The other woman with Ollie is introduced as Susan Morris. I keep my polite smile plastered on, but inside, I'm frowning, trying to figure out why her name is familiar.

I'm about to ask, when Ollie continues. "Susan is directing the fashion show."

"I got my training in pageants," Susan says, "although it wasn't formal training. More like an apprenticeship."

"Susan Morris?" I say, finally clueing in. "Alicia Morris's mother?" Susan Morris was almost as much of a stage mother as mine.

"I was hoping you'd remember me," she says. "Ollie said that Damien Stark was here with his girlfriend, and I just had to see you."

"I'm so glad you did," Social Nikki says. The real me isn't at all interested in this relic from my past. I can tell that Damien sees the real Nikki, because he squeezes my hand in support.

"Your mother and I have stayed close. In fact, since I moved to Park Cities, we lunch together at least once a week," she adds, referring to the affluent Dallas neighborhood where I grew up. "I talked to her just this morning, as a matter of fact." Her voice is strangely tight, and I want nothing more than to get away from this woman who reminds me too much of my mother.

"How nice," I say. I flash my wide pageant smile. "I should really go check on my friend Jamie. It was lovely talking to you."

She takes a step sideways and blocks my departure. "Your mother is so mortified she can't even hold her head up in public. And you haven't been any help. You haven't returned her calls or her emails. It's terribly ungrateful, Nichole."

Ungrateful. What the fuck?

Damien steps closer to me. "I believe Nikki has already said that she needs to go check on her friend."

But Susan Morris is not taking the hint. She aims a finger at Damien. "And you! Elizabeth told me how you shipped her home just when Nichole needed her."

My mouth falls open. Needed her? Needed her? All I'd needed was for her to be gone.