"By the window," Blaine says, and I'm grateful for the businesslike tone in his voice. "Close to the drapes. Damien, where'd you put that robe?"

There's an antique trunk at the foot of the bed, and Damien opens it and pulls out a red silk robe.

"Just put it on the bed-the far side so it's not in my composition. Yeah, that's right. Okay, Nikki, right there. Do you want to put the robe on in the bathroom and then come in? Easier to just slip it off your shoulders."

I run the drape through my fingers. "No," I say. I take the hem of the tank top and pull it defiantly over my head. The cool air a.s.saults my bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and my nipples feel hard and heavy. I don't look at Damien. Instead, I look out at the ocean.

"Oh, man," Blaine says. "That's great. Your profile is amazing. And you have the most beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Stay like that," he says as he starts to walk the room. "I just want to find the right place."

After a few moments, he's settled in and though I should be more relaxed all I can feel is the tension building inside me, getting tauter and tauter every time he says I'm beautiful. Every time he praises my soft, perfect skin.

I'm holding my eyes wide open, trying not to blink, trying to imagine I'm part of that ocean. That I am the tide, coming in and out, in and out.

"Can you do the jeans now?" Blaine asks, and his voice startles me so much that I jump.

"Nikki?" Damien's voice is soft.

"I-sure." I put my hands on the b.u.t.ton and unclasp it, then start to ease the jeans down over my hips. My fingers are on my skin, and I feel the scars, raised and ugly.

I freeze, take a deep breath, and try again.

But I can't do it. I open my mouth to say something-to ask for more time, a moment alone, something. But no words come out. Instead, I'm suddenly sobbing, my body shaking and my legs unable to hold me up. I sag to the floor and bury my face in the soft material of the drapes.

Damien is immediately at my side. "Shhh," he whispers. "It's okay. We'll take it slow. It's hard, I know. Revealing yourself like that. It takes courage, but you can do it."

I shake my head and let him pull me into his arms. I press my face to his shoulder and he holds me close. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s are pressed tight against his chest, the cotton of his T-shirt soft against my nipples. His palm strokes my back. But there's nothing s.e.xual. He's comforting me, holding me, and I feel warm and safe.

"I can't do it," I whisper when the sobs slow enough to let me speak. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

I pull away. My body is still shaking, and I have the hiccups. "I thought I could. I don't know what I thought. That it would be revenge against you. Against the world. I don't know."

I'm babbling, and he's looking at me with such concern and sympathy that I think my heart is going to break.

"I'm sorry, Damien," I say. "I can't take your money. And I can't do this."

20.

I scramble out of his embrace and s.n.a.t.c.h my shirt off the floor. I pull it on, then stand up, brushing my tears away with the back of my hand.

I fasten my jeans and look around for my purse and camera bag. They're on the floor by the foot of the bed, right where I left them.

I hurry that way and sling my purse over my shoulder. I briefly register that Blaine is gone. I'm grateful he didn't make a show of leaving, even though I'm embarra.s.sed I melted down in front of him.

"I-I can call a cab if you want. Or Edward can-" I cut myself off, closing my eyes. My entire body feels warm. I'm burning up with embarra.s.sment.

Damien has risen to his feet and he's standing by the bed, watching me. I can't read his face, but I know he must be furious.

"I'm sorry, Damien. I'm so sorry." How many times can I say it? Will it ever not sound hollow? "I'll wait outside."

I hurry toward the stairs, my head down.

"Nikki ..." His voice caresses my name, and I hesitate, but then move on.

"Nikki." This time, my name is a command. I stop, my back stiff, and turn to face him.

He is right there, and he brings his hands to my shoulders, his eyes on my face. His expression is dark. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I have to leave. I told you. I can't do this."

"We have a deal," he says, his eyes burning into me. "You're mine, Nikki." His hand slides behind my neck, tugging me toward him. With his other hand, he lifts my tank top and cups my breast. "Mine," he repeats.

The warmth of his hand fills me, and I gasp. I want him, but I can't do this. I can't ...

I shake my head. "I'm breaking the deal."

"I don't accept that."

Anger pierces my embarra.s.sment and shatters my desire. "f.u.c.k what you accept. I'm saying no."

His thumb makes lazy circles on my nipple. "Stop it."

He doesn't. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid." This, I think as desire knots through me. The way I feel. Where this will lead ...

No, I'm not afraid. I'm f.u.c.king terrified.

"Bulls.h.i.t." He pulls me close and takes my mouth with his, kissing me roughly and then pushing me away. "I can taste the fear on you, baby. Tell me. Dammit, Nikki, let me make it better."

I shake my head. I have no words.

Slowly, he nods. "All right. I won't hold you to our deal. But at least let me see what I'm losing."

My head jerks up to look at him. "What?"

"I wanted a portrait. And I wanted the woman. Naked, Nikki. Naked and open in my bed. At least let me see what I'm missing out on."

The anger that's been growing bursts out like gasoline thrown on a fire. "Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?"

He is perfectly calm, his eyes flat and focused on me. "I'm not. Take your jeans off, Nikki. Let me see you."

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h." I blink, and a tear streaks down my cheek. I wanted my scars to be a weapon? Well, they're d.a.m.n well going to be. Angrily, I rip open the b.u.t.ton of my jeans and yank the zipper down. I wriggle out of them until the denim is pooled at my feet. I kick off the d.a.m.n flip-flops and stand there, my legs spread slightly. There's no way he can miss the welts on my hips and inner thighs. "You G.o.dd.a.m.n son of a b.i.t.c.h."

I don't know what I expect, but Damien drops to his knees. His face is about level with my hips, and he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over the thickest scar on my hip. I'd cut too deep, and I'd been too scared to go to the emergency room. I'd closed the wound with duct tape and super glue and kept pressure on with an Ace bandage wrapped tight around me. I'd kept my secret, but the scar was vile. Even now, years later, it's still slightly pink.

"Oh, baby." His voice is soft, like a caress. "I knew there was something, but ..." He trails off, his other hand tracing the scars on the inside of my thighs. "Who did this to you?"

I close my eyes and tilt my head away, ashamed.

I hear his soft exhale and know that he understands. I force myself to look back at him.

"Is this what you were afraid of? That I'd learn about these scars? That I wouldn't want you?"

A tear is clinging to the end of my nose. It falls and lands with a plop on his arm.

"Sweetheart ..." I hear my pain in his voice. And then he leans close to me and runs his tongue over the inside of my left thigh. Over my flesh, over my scar. I can't believe this is real, but it is. He's not running. He's kissing me there, so sweetly, and then he takes my hands and pulls me down until I'm kneeling in front of him.

I'm a mess, tears spilling, my nose running. I'm hiccuping and it's not easy to breathe.

"Shhhh," he says, and then he's gathered me in his arms. I cling to him as he carries me back to the bed and lays me down, naked except for my tank top, which he very slowly pulls off.

I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head to the side, not looking at him.

"No," he says, and eases my arms to my sides. He takes some pity on me, though, and doesn't make me look at him.

Slowly, he explores my scars, as if I am a road map, his finger tracing over each of them. He speaks soothing words, and there's no horror in his voice. No disgust. "This is what you were trying to hide. Why you've run from me. Why you wanted to be painted exactly the way you are."

He doesn't wait for me to answer. He already knows.

"You're a G.o.dd.a.m.n fool, Nikki Fairchild." The harshness in his voice makes me turn my head. I look at him, expecting anger or disgust or exasperation. What I see is desire.

"I don't want an icon. Not on my wall, not in my bed. I want the woman, Nikki. I want you."

"I-"

He presses a finger over my lips. "Our deal is on. No arguments. No exceptions."

He eases off the bed and goes to the window, then pulls down one of the drapes. I hear the rattle of the ornate clips that have connected the material to the bar.

"What are you doing?"

"What I want," he says as he ties the end of the drape to the bedpost. "Raise your arms."

My pulse quickens, but I comply. Right now, I don't want to be in charge. I don't want to control. I want to be swept away, to be taken care of.

Gently, he twists the drape around my wrist, then weaves it through the bedposts before repeating the process with my other wrist. Finally, he ties the loose end off on the other bedpost.

"Damien."

"Hush." He kisses the soft skin of my wrist, then trails his lips down my arm, my shoulder, then over the curve of my breast. His mouth closes over my right nipple, and he sucks hard, making the areola pucker and tingle as he twists and strokes my other breast. Hot threads seem to crisscross my body, tracing from my b.r.e.a.s.t.s to my c.l.i.t. My s.e.x is throbbing, and I bring my legs together, trying to quell some of the building pressure.

He lifts his head and grins at me, and his expression is so devilish that I'm certain he knows exactly how I'm suffering. Then he sets off on his trail of kisses once more, moving down my stomach, to my navel, to my pubic bone, and then-oh, yes, oh, please.

But he shifts his attention, sitting up and putting his hands on my knees. "Spread your legs, Nikki."

I shake my head, and he chuckles, then stands up and rips down another drape.

"What are you doing?"

"You know."

"Damien, no. Please, no."

He pauses and looks at me. "Do you know what a safeword is?"

"I-yes. I think so."

"No doesn't always mean no. But the safeword always means stop. If I go too far, that's what you say. Do you understand?"

I nod.

"What do you want your safeword to be?"

My vocabulary has entirely left my mind. I look around the room, as if something will leap out at me, then gaze out at the ocean. "Sunset," I say finally.

His mouth curves into a smile, he nods, and then he ties the drape to the post at the foot of the bed. I swallow and watch him.

Slowly, he reaches for my right foot, easing my legs apart. He looks at me, and I see the question mark in his eyes.

"Will you hurt me?"

His eyes dart to my scars. "Do you want me to?"

"I-I don't know."

"Do you know what pa.s.sion is?"

I blink, confused.

"Most people think it only means desire. Arousal. Wild abandon. But that's not all. The word derives from the Latin. It means suffering. Submission. Pain and pleasure, Nikki. Pa.s.sion." The flash of heat that burns across his expression is unmistakable. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," I say without hesitating.

"Then trust me to take you where you've never gone before."

I nod, and he looks at me with such naked desire that warm satisfaction fills me. Gently, he binds my ankle, then moves on to the other. When he's done, I'm spread-eagled on the bed, naked and helpless and undeniably turned on.

"You're mine, Nikki. To touch. To soothe. To pleasure." He tenderly cups my s.e.x. I'm slick and hot and he groans with desire. "I want you, Nikki. I want to bury myself in you and f.u.c.k you hard. I want to hear you scream when you come. Tell me you want it, too."

"Yes, oh, yes." I've wanted it since he first touched me. Wanted to feel him inside me, filling me, claiming me.