Then I clear my throat.

Damien grins, and although I know he's barely thirty, this is the first time he's looked so young. Almost boyish, like a guy you'd hold hands with as you walk across a college campus. I catch the scent of him as he comes closer. A musky cologne. Or maybe that's just the man. I'm not sure. All I know for certain is that I'm desperately aware of him. Desperately aware of my own body. His scent, apparently, works on me like pheromones.

"You're here," I say stupidly.

"I'm here," he says.

"Right." I look around the condo that has become so familiar to me over the last few days. Right then, it looks like alien territory. I set my bag down on the ground, then ease myself off to the galley-style kitchen. With the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, I'll have a moment of privacy to gather myself.

Except he follows me, then leans up against the refrigerator. I turn away from him toward the sink, but I can feel his eyes on me as I grab a gla.s.s from the dish drainer and fill it with water. "So, how come you're here?" I ask brightly, then chug the whole thing down. Only after I've refilled the gla.s.s do I turn to look directly at Damien.

His eyes are locked onto me, holding me in place. "I wanted to see you," he says. From his expression, though, I know what he's really saying: I wanted to see if you're okay.

I smile, understanding that his discretion means he hasn't told Jamie what happened. "I'm good," I say. "I went shopping."

"And what woman wouldn't be good after that?"

I raise my brows. "Stereotypical, much?"

He chuckles. "If the shoe fits, Ms. Fairchild."

"Mmm." I try to fight my grin, but lose the battle.

Jamie sidles in from the living room, a vicious grin on her face. Her eyes dart between the two of us. She's in pajama bottoms and a cheap white tank top covered with paint. "I am so freaking late," she says. "I have totally got to run." She practically sprints for the door. "You two be good."

"Jamie! What the h.e.l.l?" I make a motion with my hand that vaguely indicates her outfit.

"I'm just going next door," she says.

"Douglas?" I hear my voice rise. She is not going over there again. Especially since I know the only reason she's popping over to Mr. Mark On Her Bedpost is because our apartment is now too crowded by one.

"Just a friendly chat," she says. "Cross my heart," she adds, then makes the appropriate motions. Like that's going to make a difference. But she yanks open the door and slips out before I can stop her, and I blurt out a curse contemporaneously with the sound of the door slamming shut.

"We don't like Douglas?" Damien asks.

"Douglas is bad for her," I say. I look him in the eye. "Please tell me that's a concept you understand."

"It is," he says. "I'm also familiar with a number of corollary concepts."

"Such as?"

"Maybe Douglas isn't bad for her at all. Maybe there's just something about him that frightens her. Or you."

"You're very smart, Mr. Stark."

"Thank you."

"But that doesn't mean you know everything."

His mouth twitches, and I feel a little trill of pleasure. I've managed to zing Damien Stark. I wonder how many people can say that?

The humor in his eyes fades quickly, though. "Nikki," he says, his voice as soft and soothing as velvet. "What are you afraid of?"

My stomach twists into knots as I turn away from him and use a hand towel to dry the already dry dishes in the drainer. "I don't know what you mean," I say to a coffee cup.

"Yes, you do," he says. He moves like a cat, so I don't hear him come up behind me. But I feel the change in the air even before he speaks. Even before his hand rests lightly on my shoulder. "You bolted." Gently, he turns me around, then brushes my cheek with his fingertips. "Do I scare you?"

G.o.d yes, and in so many ways. Not the least of which is that Damien Stark terrifies me precisely because I feel safe with him. And I can't become complacent. It's when those walls come down that your heart gets shattered.

"Nikki?" His brow is furrowed. He looks miserable, and I can't stand the thought that I'm the cause.

"No," I say, and even though it's not the truth, it's also not a lie.

"Then why?"

"I ... I was embarra.s.sed."

"Were you?"

I glance at the floor. The pull of Damien's touch is so intense that I'm having a hard time thinking. And this is a danger zone. I need to keep a clear head. "Yes," I insist. "I said no, but then you made me so hot that I forgot myself, and when I was able to breathe again I just ran."

"Bulls.h.i.t." There's disappointment in his voice. And, I think, a little bit of anger.

I swallow.

He takes a step toward me, and I take a corresponding step sideways, easing away down the length of my kitchen counter. Clear head. I need a clear head.

He exhales, and I can sense the exasperation. "I don't like seeing fear in your eyes."

"You're going to be my knight in shining armor?"

The corner of his mouth lifts into an ironic smile. "I think I'm a bit too tarnished for the job."

I can't help but grin. "I guess you'll have to be a dark knight, then."

"I'll fight whatever dragons you want me to," he says with a seriousness that belies my teasing tone. "But you don't need a knight. You're strong, Nikki. h.e.l.l, you're exceptional."

I conjure up the Social Nikki smile. "Is that a line you give to all the women you date?"

"Date?" I hear the hardness creeping into his voice. "I've escorted a lot of women around this town, and I've f.u.c.ked a h.e.l.l of a lot of them. But I didn't date them."

"Oh." I'm not sure if I'm surprised or angry or sad or relieved. True, I need to end this with Damien; I need to protect myself and my secrets. But that implies that there is something to end, and now I fear that I was right all along-I'm just a conquest. A fast f.u.c.k before he moves on. And all that bulls.h.i.t Jamie said about him wanting me was exactly that-bulls.h.i.t.

Damien is watching my face, but I can't get a read on his expression.

I turn back around and pick up an already dry bowl and start attacking it with the dishrag I'm still holding. "So that's it? You just f.u.c.k them and dump them?"

"That's a bit harsh," he says. "Dump suggests they wanted something more, and I'm quite certain that all they wanted was to be photographed on my arm and have a bit of fun in my bed."

"All of them?" I keep my back to him. This conversation has turned surreal.

"I've gone out with a few women who wanted more. I disentangled myself from those women. And no, I didn't sleep with them."

"Oh." The dish is bone dry, but I'm still moving the rag over it. "So you just don't do relationships?"

"Not with them."

"Why not?"

His hand closes gently on my shoulder and I feel the now-familiar heat. "Because none of them was the woman I wanted," he says as he turns me so that I have no choice but to look at him. His eyes are dark and intense, his voice is like a caress. My heart pounds in my chest, and breathing has suddenly become difficult. I think about the way he looked at me six years ago, that one glance that inspired so many fantasies. But that's not what he means; I know it can't be.

"But you did date someone not too long ago," I say, then immediately regret the words when I see his expression darken. Nice turning to ice.

For a moment, I don't think he's going to answer. Finally, he nods. "Yes," he confirms. "I suppose I did."

So was she the woman you wanted? The question seems to hang in front of me, but I can't say it out loud.

The silence thickens and I feel like an idiot for mentioning the woman in the first place. Finally, I lick my lips. "I heard that she died. I'm so sorry."

His face is hard, his jaw tense with the effort of holding in a strong emotion. "It was tragic." His voice sounds unnaturally tight.

I nod, but I don't pursue it any longer. I don't know why he told me that he didn't date at all when it's so clear that this woman meant something to him, but I'm not going to push. Considering the secrets I'm keeping, I can hardly fault him for holding on to a few of his own.

I'm tired now, though, and I want to be alone. I want to find Jamie and go to the corner store and get ice cream and cookies. I want to watch sappy old movies and sit on the couch and cry.

I want Damien Stark out of my head.

Mostly, I want to try to forget the way his touch makes me feel, because I need to abandon even the fantasy of Damien Stark. It's too raw, too real. And despite the fact that I know I have to, the thought of pushing him away rips right through my heart.

I pull out Social Nikki and smile brightly as I toss my dish-towel on the counter. "Listen, it was nice of you to come by to check on me. But I'm fine. Really. And I'm actually in a little bit of a hurry. I don't mean to be rude, but ..." I trail off, looking meaningfully at the door.

"Do you have a date tonight, Ms. Fairchild?"

"No!" I blurt out the word, then immediately regret it. If I did have a date-if I was already seeing that special someone-I'd have the perfect excuse for brushing off Damien Stark.

"Where are you going?"

"What?" I blink, because that's not the polite way to play the game. Then again, I haven't yet seen evidence that Stark follows the traditional social norms. Why I thought he'd start now ...

"If you're not going on a date, then where are you going?"

I can hardly tell him about my new cry-on-the-couch plans, so I fall back on a version of my original itinerary. "As a matter of fact, I'm going to grab a smoothie and then go hike Fryman Canyon Park."

"By yourself?"

"Well, I could take the Royal Guard, but I think they're busy."

"It's going to be dark soon."

"It's not even six yet. Sunset's not until eight-thirtyish."

"The sun may not dip below the horizon until then, but there are foothills involved. And once the sun starts to sink, it gets dark fast."

"I'm only going to take a few shots of the view and the sunset. Then I'm coming back. I promise you I won't let the boogey-men get me."

"They won't," Damien says, "because I won't let them. I'm coming with you."

"No," I say. "I appreciate the concern, really I do. But no."

"Then don't go at all. Let me bring the sunset to you."

I can't argue with that, primarily because I have no idea what the h.e.l.l he's talking about. "What?"

He leaves the kitchen, then comes back in view with a brown paperwrapped package. From the size and shape, it's obviously something framed. "It reminded me of you."

"Really?" A little trill of pleasure swirls through me.

He puts the package on the kitchen table. "I had intended to give it to you earlier, but you were called away so quickly that I didn't have the chance."

I smirk, but if this is his way of extracting an explanation from me, it is not going to work.

"Maybe I should be grateful," he says. "This way I get to see where you live."

"I haven't really put my stamp on it yet. Jamie's taste runs to Early American Garage Sale."

"And yours?"

"I'm much more refined. I go for Mid-Century Flea Market."

"A woman who knows her own mind. I like that."

From the way he's looking at me, I'd say he likes it very much. I clear my throat and glance at the package. I know I should tell him that I appreciate the thought, but that I can't accept it. But I'm curious to know what's inside it. And I'm warmed by the mere fact that he brought me a gift.

"May I?"

"Of course."

I leave the safety of the kitchen counter and venture to the table. I keep a chair between us, but even that is too close. I can feel his presence, that sense of the air thickening with awareness. I have to work hard to keep my hands steady as I slide my finger under the tape and start to peel back the wrapping.

I see the frame first and know that this is no ordinary trinket. It's simple, but made with incredible craftsmanship. But it's the canvas that truly takes my breath away. An Impressionist sunset that conveys both realism and a heightened sense of reality, as if the viewer were looking at the horizon through the lens of a dream.

"It's stunning," I say, and I can hear the awe in my voice.

I turn to look at him and see pure pleasure reflected in his face. It strikes me that he's been silently antic.i.p.ating my reaction. Nervously, even. The thought delights me. Damien Stark, worried about what I'd think about his present. "Evelyn mentioned you were enjoying the sunset."

The statement, so casually made, sends another frisson of pleasure through me. "Thank you," I say, the simple words too small to hold the fullness of my feelings.

There's something familiar about the painting, and it takes me a moment to realize its frame matches the ones that lined his reception area. I remember the array of canvases, including the two stunning sunsets.