“I love you,” he murmurs, then kisses my temple as I curl up next to him, our clothes still askew and our breathing hard.
We stay that way for what feels like forever, and my eyes are beginning to droop when his phone rings beside us.
“Just ignore it,” I say, snuggling closer.
My cheek is pressed against the T-shirt he still wears, and I can feel the tension as he starts to reach for the bedside table. “Sorry,” he says, then sighs. “I’m juggling a few crises, or else I’d silence the damn thing. Better yet, I’d pitch it in the trash.”
I manage a lazy laugh, but it shifts to concern when he gently slides out from under me and stands up beside the bed. He buttons his jeans, then says, “Okay, Charles. Tell me what you’ve learned.”
He turns to me and smiles, but the expression feels half-hearted, and when he heads out of the room, I sit up with a frown as I think about the previous call from Charles. A call that seems a lifetime ago, but was really only hours.
I slide out of bed, then slip into my robe and follow Damien into the living area. He’s standing at the breakfast bar, his back to me. His elbow is on the counter, his head is resting on his hand, the phone right beside him. Even from behind, he looks fragile, and my heart constricts. Fragile is not a word that’s usually in the Damien Stark lexicon.
“What’s going on?” I say gently.
He turns, his face revealing nothing.
“Just putting out fires at work,” he says.
I move to him, then hold out my hand as if in greeting. His brow furrows, but he takes it automatically. I shake it. “I’m Nikki Stark,” I say as if in introduction. “We’ve met before. I’m the woman who knows you well enough to know when you’re not telling me something.”
“Nikki—”
“No.” I drop his hand and step back, my arms crossed over my chest. “Whatever’s going on, it’s personal. And you’re trying to protect me. First because of my mom. Now, maybe, because of the baby. But don’t you get it, Damien? There will always be something. And that’s not your call to make. You’re my husband, dammit, and I want to be there for you. Hell, I need to be there.”
He’s watching my face, and his expression is such a mix of frustration and pain and love it would be amusing if it weren’t so real.
“Damien,” I press. “Please.”
Finally, he nods. “It’s Sofia,” he says, and it’s as if he’s taken a fist and punched me in the chest. I take a physical step back, my hand rising to cover my heart, like that would be sufficient protection from her.
“What about her?” My words come out in a normal voice, and I’m so proud of myself. Sofia Richter is Damien’s oldest friend—and she completely reviles me. All things considered, I’m not crazy about her, either. And that, of course, is a complete understatement. Just hearing her name now makes me wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug.
“I’ve gotten news about her most recent evaluation,” he says. He’s pronouncing his words carefully, watching my reaction, but I’m determined to be nothing but supportive.
“Oh.” Not long before Damien and I got married, Sofia completely lost her mind. Her crazy had a catalyst—me—but it also had a cause. She and Damien had both been abused by his tennis coach, a man named Merle Richter, who also happened to be her father. Damien was strong enough to cope, but Sofia spiraled down, the mental illness that had always been there inside her, tugging her deeper and deeper into an abyss.
Damien’s taken care of her ever since Richter died when they were both teenagers. And right now, she’s in an institution outside of London receiving the best mental care his money can buy.
I clear my throat. “So how’s she doing?”
“She’s doing well,” he says. “Exceptionally well, actually.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good. But what does Charles have to do with all of that? That’s why he called earlier, too, right?”
He nods, but the gesture is slow, and I can tell this whole conversation is difficult. I don’t back off, though; I want too badly to know.
“So?” I press.
“I wanted more information than the institution was giving us. More than just the official evaluations. So Charles coordinated an investigation for me. Used his resources to talk to the staff and people who have interacted with her around town on her free days. They even spoke with the other patients.”
“And?”
“And everything backs up the reports. She’s doing fantastic.”
There’s a heaviness to his words that surprises me. “And that’s bothering you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. No, of course not. I just—”
He cuts himself off, his eyes on my face before he turns away, his fingers going to massage his temples as if he’s fighting a whopper of a headache.
“She’s like a sister to you,” I say gently. “But she tried to hurt me. So you’re happy for her, but confused.”
Saying that Sofia tried to hurt me is a bit like saying the Pacific is a big lake. Because it was so much more than that. She befriended me, pretending to be someone else entirely. She got close, and then she threw down the gauntlet, all with the aim of trying to get me to cut—or worse.
She wanted Damien—and as far as she was concerned, I was in the way.
The whole thing had been a nightmare, and though Damien had continued to pay for her care after she was committed, he’d cut off all contact with her. But I know he never stopped caring about her.
Now, his lips curve into an ironic smile. “Yeah,” he says. “That about covers it.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I know you love her. Of course you’re going to be happy she’s getting better.”
He closes his eyes and nods, his body a tight wire of tension.
I move closer and wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me close, holding me so tightly I almost can’t breathe. After a moment, he releases me. “Thank you,” he says simply.
I step back, studying his face, but whatever vulnerability had been there is gone. All I see now is the corporate executive. A man used to hiding his emotions. To not giving anything away.
I frown. “Is there anything else? It feels like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
We stay that way for what feels like forever, and my eyes are beginning to droop when his phone rings beside us.
“Just ignore it,” I say, snuggling closer.
My cheek is pressed against the T-shirt he still wears, and I can feel the tension as he starts to reach for the bedside table. “Sorry,” he says, then sighs. “I’m juggling a few crises, or else I’d silence the damn thing. Better yet, I’d pitch it in the trash.”
I manage a lazy laugh, but it shifts to concern when he gently slides out from under me and stands up beside the bed. He buttons his jeans, then says, “Okay, Charles. Tell me what you’ve learned.”
He turns to me and smiles, but the expression feels half-hearted, and when he heads out of the room, I sit up with a frown as I think about the previous call from Charles. A call that seems a lifetime ago, but was really only hours.
I slide out of bed, then slip into my robe and follow Damien into the living area. He’s standing at the breakfast bar, his back to me. His elbow is on the counter, his head is resting on his hand, the phone right beside him. Even from behind, he looks fragile, and my heart constricts. Fragile is not a word that’s usually in the Damien Stark lexicon.
“What’s going on?” I say gently.
He turns, his face revealing nothing.
“Just putting out fires at work,” he says.
I move to him, then hold out my hand as if in greeting. His brow furrows, but he takes it automatically. I shake it. “I’m Nikki Stark,” I say as if in introduction. “We’ve met before. I’m the woman who knows you well enough to know when you’re not telling me something.”
“Nikki—”
“No.” I drop his hand and step back, my arms crossed over my chest. “Whatever’s going on, it’s personal. And you’re trying to protect me. First because of my mom. Now, maybe, because of the baby. But don’t you get it, Damien? There will always be something. And that’s not your call to make. You’re my husband, dammit, and I want to be there for you. Hell, I need to be there.”
He’s watching my face, and his expression is such a mix of frustration and pain and love it would be amusing if it weren’t so real.
“Damien,” I press. “Please.”
Finally, he nods. “It’s Sofia,” he says, and it’s as if he’s taken a fist and punched me in the chest. I take a physical step back, my hand rising to cover my heart, like that would be sufficient protection from her.
“What about her?” My words come out in a normal voice, and I’m so proud of myself. Sofia Richter is Damien’s oldest friend—and she completely reviles me. All things considered, I’m not crazy about her, either. And that, of course, is a complete understatement. Just hearing her name now makes me wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug.
“I’ve gotten news about her most recent evaluation,” he says. He’s pronouncing his words carefully, watching my reaction, but I’m determined to be nothing but supportive.
“Oh.” Not long before Damien and I got married, Sofia completely lost her mind. Her crazy had a catalyst—me—but it also had a cause. She and Damien had both been abused by his tennis coach, a man named Merle Richter, who also happened to be her father. Damien was strong enough to cope, but Sofia spiraled down, the mental illness that had always been there inside her, tugging her deeper and deeper into an abyss.
Damien’s taken care of her ever since Richter died when they were both teenagers. And right now, she’s in an institution outside of London receiving the best mental care his money can buy.
I clear my throat. “So how’s she doing?”
“She’s doing well,” he says. “Exceptionally well, actually.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good. But what does Charles have to do with all of that? That’s why he called earlier, too, right?”
He nods, but the gesture is slow, and I can tell this whole conversation is difficult. I don’t back off, though; I want too badly to know.
“So?” I press.
“I wanted more information than the institution was giving us. More than just the official evaluations. So Charles coordinated an investigation for me. Used his resources to talk to the staff and people who have interacted with her around town on her free days. They even spoke with the other patients.”
“And?”
“And everything backs up the reports. She’s doing fantastic.”
There’s a heaviness to his words that surprises me. “And that’s bothering you?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. No, of course not. I just—”
He cuts himself off, his eyes on my face before he turns away, his fingers going to massage his temples as if he’s fighting a whopper of a headache.
“She’s like a sister to you,” I say gently. “But she tried to hurt me. So you’re happy for her, but confused.”
Saying that Sofia tried to hurt me is a bit like saying the Pacific is a big lake. Because it was so much more than that. She befriended me, pretending to be someone else entirely. She got close, and then she threw down the gauntlet, all with the aim of trying to get me to cut—or worse.
She wanted Damien—and as far as she was concerned, I was in the way.
The whole thing had been a nightmare, and though Damien had continued to pay for her care after she was committed, he’d cut off all contact with her. But I know he never stopped caring about her.
Now, his lips curve into an ironic smile. “Yeah,” he says. “That about covers it.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I know you love her. Of course you’re going to be happy she’s getting better.”
He closes his eyes and nods, his body a tight wire of tension.
I move closer and wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me close, holding me so tightly I almost can’t breathe. After a moment, he releases me. “Thank you,” he says simply.
I step back, studying his face, but whatever vulnerability had been there is gone. All I see now is the corporate executive. A man used to hiding his emotions. To not giving anything away.
I frown. “Is there anything else? It feels like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
