He kisses me lightly. “And I’m very, very glad.”
For a moment, we just lie there quietly. Then Damien says, “That phone call you asked about earlier. It was bad news. From a friend.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I remember what Charles Maynard said. “Is the friend in Germany?”
He gives me a sharp look. “Why would you say that?”
I shrug. “Charles’s voice carries.”
“So it does. No, Germany’s something different.”
“An indictment? One of your Stark International subsidiaries or something?”
The line of his mouth is hard as he answers. “Or something.”
“Are you worried?”
“No.” The word is firm. “Charles is handling it.”
I nod. Since I know nothing about the laws of international trade and finance, I can’t go far with this conversational thread. “Do you want to tell me about your friend’s bad news?”
For a second, I think that he’s going to say no. Then he speaks, his voice steady and even, as if he’s fighting for control. “It’s Sofia.”
It takes me a moment to place the name. “Your friend from childhood? The one Alaine mentioned?”
He nods. “She’s gotten herself into some trouble. It’s not the first time, but it’s frustrating. I keep hoping she’ll get her shit together, but she keeps screwing up.”
“I’m sorry. I hope it gets better for her.”
He kisses my forehead. “Me, too.”
I wait for him to tell me more, but he doesn’t. That’s okay, though, and I take his hand. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t need to ask what I mean. “I am trying,” he says.
“I know you are.” I spoon against him, feeling warm and safe. “And I appreciate it.”
I’m facing away from him, and as I close my eyes, he strokes his fingers over my bare skin. The minutes tick away, and when he speaks, I have already begun to drift off, so that his words have the quality of a dream. “I never used to sleep naked.”
“Why not?” I am only half awake, and I like that he is sending me to sleep with images of a naked Damien.
“Because when we traveled, Richter would come into my room. Somehow, I was always assigned a room of my own, even though the other boys had to share.”
My eyes are open now, but I don’t roll over. I’m afraid that if I look at him, he’ll stop talking. “What happened?”
“He would come in. And he would touch me.” His voice is strained. Hard and measured. “He would threaten me and swear that if I told anyone, that everything I had would be ripped away. And my father would have no money, and we’d starve on the street. But mostly, I would have the reputation of a little boy who told nasty, nasty lies.”
“Bastard.”
“Yes.”
I stay quiet, wondering if he will say more. But he remains silent. I don’t mind. He has told me two truths tonight, and I know that this is only one small part of something larger that is growing between us.
“I thought so,” I say after a moment. “But I guess I was wrong about your dad.”
“What do you mean?”
“I assumed he knew that your coach was abusing you. I realized in the limo that he didn’t.”
For a moment, there is only silence. When Damien speaks, his words are ice cold. “He knew.”
I roll over, shocked into motion. “What? But … but why on earth would he expect you to be at the tennis center dedication if he knows what that vile man did to you?”
“I don’t know,” Damien says. He hesitates, his face drawn into hard lines.
“No,” he amends. “I do know. The tennis center is owned by a sports conglomerate based out of Germany. Powerful company, powerful people on the board.”
“I don’t understand. Is your father involved with the conglomerate?”
“No. And my father couldn’t care less whether I endorse a tennis center or a pet store. It’s all about trading favors. I lend my name to the tennis center, and maybe those powerful people will pull a few strings in Germany.”
“The indictment I keep hearing about?”
“Right. Charles agrees with my dad, actually. He’s pissed as hell at me for making that statement outside Garreth Todd’s party, even though I reminded him that the longer the whole thing drags on, the more billable hours he earns.”
He smiles without humor. “To be honest, I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m not accustomed to acting rashly, and it was rash to make that statement.”
“Why did you?”
“Because it’s the truth. Because that center shouldn’t be named after him. And because I’m tired of the world thinking that I admired that son of a bitch.”
“Then you did the right thing.”
“Maybe. But sometimes even the right thing has unpleasant consequences.”
“It’s that bad?” Worry snakes through me. “One of your companies is in that much trouble?”
Damien hesitates. “It has the potential to be very bad,” he finally says. “But I don’t think it will get that far. I still have a few strings left to pull.”
I nod, somewhat appeased. If Damien isn’t worried, I won’t be, either.
“Come here,” he demands, and I comply eagerly. I slide into his arms, and let the strength of his embrace push out the remaining wisps of worry. All I want is Damien, and I drift off to sleep in the comfort of his arms.
17
The shrill buzz of a doorbell startles me awake. I sit up, confused. I didn’t even know that hotels had doorbells, but apparently the I’m-richer-than-Midas executive suites do, because that is definitely a bell—and it is definitely not being answered.
“Damien?” I expect to hear his reply from the bathroom, and when it doesn’t come, I slide out from under the downy spread and stand up, my body both languid and sore, as if it’s not entirely sure how it’s supposed to feel after last night’s adventure.
Another buzz makes me jump, this one followed by a brisk voice announcing, “Room service!”
The thought of coffee gets me moving. “Just a sec,” I call back, then cast about for something to wear. I spy a robe draped neatly over the back of a chair, which is good considering the state of my dress. Damien put it there for me, of course. But where the hell is he?
I hurry out of the bedroom and through the dining area to the door. Although the waiter must have been out there for at least five minutes, he’s not in the least bit ruffled. “Good morning,madam,” he says as he wheels the cart in and starts to distribute the food to the now clean-and-tidy dining table. Damien really has been busy this morning.
The waiter is uncovering each plate as he moves it from cart to table, and I realize that I am starving. There’s coffee, orange juice, eggs, toast, a waffle, fruit, and enough bacon to feed a small army. There’s not enough silverware or cups for an army, though. In fact there’s one coffee cup, one juice glass, and only one bundle of silverware wrapped in a black cloth napkin.
I may be slow this morning, but I’ve finally clued in on reality—Damien has skipped out on me.
For a moment, we just lie there quietly. Then Damien says, “That phone call you asked about earlier. It was bad news. From a friend.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I remember what Charles Maynard said. “Is the friend in Germany?”
He gives me a sharp look. “Why would you say that?”
I shrug. “Charles’s voice carries.”
“So it does. No, Germany’s something different.”
“An indictment? One of your Stark International subsidiaries or something?”
The line of his mouth is hard as he answers. “Or something.”
“Are you worried?”
“No.” The word is firm. “Charles is handling it.”
I nod. Since I know nothing about the laws of international trade and finance, I can’t go far with this conversational thread. “Do you want to tell me about your friend’s bad news?”
For a second, I think that he’s going to say no. Then he speaks, his voice steady and even, as if he’s fighting for control. “It’s Sofia.”
It takes me a moment to place the name. “Your friend from childhood? The one Alaine mentioned?”
He nods. “She’s gotten herself into some trouble. It’s not the first time, but it’s frustrating. I keep hoping she’ll get her shit together, but she keeps screwing up.”
“I’m sorry. I hope it gets better for her.”
He kisses my forehead. “Me, too.”
I wait for him to tell me more, but he doesn’t. That’s okay, though, and I take his hand. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t need to ask what I mean. “I am trying,” he says.
“I know you are.” I spoon against him, feeling warm and safe. “And I appreciate it.”
I’m facing away from him, and as I close my eyes, he strokes his fingers over my bare skin. The minutes tick away, and when he speaks, I have already begun to drift off, so that his words have the quality of a dream. “I never used to sleep naked.”
“Why not?” I am only half awake, and I like that he is sending me to sleep with images of a naked Damien.
“Because when we traveled, Richter would come into my room. Somehow, I was always assigned a room of my own, even though the other boys had to share.”
My eyes are open now, but I don’t roll over. I’m afraid that if I look at him, he’ll stop talking. “What happened?”
“He would come in. And he would touch me.” His voice is strained. Hard and measured. “He would threaten me and swear that if I told anyone, that everything I had would be ripped away. And my father would have no money, and we’d starve on the street. But mostly, I would have the reputation of a little boy who told nasty, nasty lies.”
“Bastard.”
“Yes.”
I stay quiet, wondering if he will say more. But he remains silent. I don’t mind. He has told me two truths tonight, and I know that this is only one small part of something larger that is growing between us.
“I thought so,” I say after a moment. “But I guess I was wrong about your dad.”
“What do you mean?”
“I assumed he knew that your coach was abusing you. I realized in the limo that he didn’t.”
For a moment, there is only silence. When Damien speaks, his words are ice cold. “He knew.”
I roll over, shocked into motion. “What? But … but why on earth would he expect you to be at the tennis center dedication if he knows what that vile man did to you?”
“I don’t know,” Damien says. He hesitates, his face drawn into hard lines.
“No,” he amends. “I do know. The tennis center is owned by a sports conglomerate based out of Germany. Powerful company, powerful people on the board.”
“I don’t understand. Is your father involved with the conglomerate?”
“No. And my father couldn’t care less whether I endorse a tennis center or a pet store. It’s all about trading favors. I lend my name to the tennis center, and maybe those powerful people will pull a few strings in Germany.”
“The indictment I keep hearing about?”
“Right. Charles agrees with my dad, actually. He’s pissed as hell at me for making that statement outside Garreth Todd’s party, even though I reminded him that the longer the whole thing drags on, the more billable hours he earns.”
He smiles without humor. “To be honest, I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m not accustomed to acting rashly, and it was rash to make that statement.”
“Why did you?”
“Because it’s the truth. Because that center shouldn’t be named after him. And because I’m tired of the world thinking that I admired that son of a bitch.”
“Then you did the right thing.”
“Maybe. But sometimes even the right thing has unpleasant consequences.”
“It’s that bad?” Worry snakes through me. “One of your companies is in that much trouble?”
Damien hesitates. “It has the potential to be very bad,” he finally says. “But I don’t think it will get that far. I still have a few strings left to pull.”
I nod, somewhat appeased. If Damien isn’t worried, I won’t be, either.
“Come here,” he demands, and I comply eagerly. I slide into his arms, and let the strength of his embrace push out the remaining wisps of worry. All I want is Damien, and I drift off to sleep in the comfort of his arms.
17
The shrill buzz of a doorbell startles me awake. I sit up, confused. I didn’t even know that hotels had doorbells, but apparently the I’m-richer-than-Midas executive suites do, because that is definitely a bell—and it is definitely not being answered.
“Damien?” I expect to hear his reply from the bathroom, and when it doesn’t come, I slide out from under the downy spread and stand up, my body both languid and sore, as if it’s not entirely sure how it’s supposed to feel after last night’s adventure.
Another buzz makes me jump, this one followed by a brisk voice announcing, “Room service!”
The thought of coffee gets me moving. “Just a sec,” I call back, then cast about for something to wear. I spy a robe draped neatly over the back of a chair, which is good considering the state of my dress. Damien put it there for me, of course. But where the hell is he?
I hurry out of the bedroom and through the dining area to the door. Although the waiter must have been out there for at least five minutes, he’s not in the least bit ruffled. “Good morning,madam,” he says as he wheels the cart in and starts to distribute the food to the now clean-and-tidy dining table. Damien really has been busy this morning.
The waiter is uncovering each plate as he moves it from cart to table, and I realize that I am starving. There’s coffee, orange juice, eggs, toast, a waffle, fruit, and enough bacon to feed a small army. There’s not enough silverware or cups for an army, though. In fact there’s one coffee cup, one juice glass, and only one bundle of silverware wrapped in a black cloth napkin.
I may be slow this morning, but I’ve finally clued in on reality—Damien has skipped out on me.
