My heart is pounding painfully in my chest and my skin feels clammy. Damien tracked down Kurt. He got him fired. And he never asked me. Never talked to me. Just did it.
“He’s rich and arrogant and as far as he’s concerned he owns the world and it damn well better behave the way he wants it to.”
“No,” I say automatically. My voice is soft. I feel numb. “Damien’s not like that. He was protecting me. That was his way of protecting me.”
“Protecting you? The way he protected Sara Padgett?”
My head snaps up. “What are you talking about?”
“You know who Eric Padgett is, right?”
My stomach clenches. I’m terribly afraid of what he’s going to say. “Yes,” I manage. “You know I do. He’s the dead girl’s brother.”
“He keeps threatening to go to the press and say that Stark killed his sister. For weeks we’ve had all of Stark’s resources aimed at stopping this one asshole, and he just keeps pushing back saying he wants his money, and he’s going to screw Stark, and there’s more dirt out there than just his sister, but it all sounds like the same old smear routine. Just like I told you in Beverly Hills—we figured Eric Padgett was just one more asshole looking for a payday.”
“What’s happened?” My voice is completely flat. I just want to hear the horrible thing and get out of there. I need to be alone. I need to process this.
“Stark paid him off yesterday. That’s right,” Ollie adds in response to my openmouthed gape. “The same Damien Stark who wanted a balls-to-the-wall defense against the guy did a complete 180 and paid the fucker off. Forget fighting. Forget all his talk about not backing down, about taking it all the way as far as it would go. He just caved. Quickly and completely.”
“Caved how?” I ask, so softly I’m surprised Ollie can hear me.
“Caved to the tune of twelve-point-six million dollars.”
“Oh, God.” I don’t mean to speak, but the words fly out. I press my hand over my mouth and blink back tears.
Ollie is watching me, but I’m not really seeing him. Instead I’m seeing Damien on his terrace pacing with a phone to his ear, talking to Charles Maynard about something I don’t understand. And about twelve-point-six million dollars.
“Oh, God,” I repeat.
There’s no compassion in Ollie’s eyes as he looks at me. “Maybe Stark just got tired of the bullshit. But I don’t think so. I think he’s covering up what he did. He’s dangerous, Nik, just like I’ve been saying. He’s dangerous, and you damn well know it, too.”
My thoughts bounce randomly through my head as I steer my battered Honda to Damien’s Malibu house. Anger, loss, fear, denial, hope. I don’t know what I’m thinking or even what to think. All I know is that this isn’t good.
All I’m sure of is that it hurts like hell.
It’s just past noon, but I’m certain I’ll find him there. I called his office from the road and his secretary told me he was heading home.
Home, I know, means our third floor studio.
“Hey, Blondie,” Blaine says as I step off the landing and into the studio.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“Been doing some color studies. Trying to get the damn sky right.” He shakes his head. “Getting close, but I’m not quite there yet.” Then he gets a closer look at me, and his brow furrows with concern. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
I glance at the painting. My image is there on the canvas, more fleshed out, but still unfinished. I look raw, as if the top layer of me has been stripped away, and in that moment I think that Blaine has truly captured me. Because that is how I feel. Like Damien has ripped his way through to see what I kept hidden, and then left me exposed and vulnerable.
Damien steps in from the kitchen. “Nikki.” I hear the pleasure in his voice, then the shift as he truly looks at me. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going to cut out,” Blaine says.
Damien doesn’t look at Blaine or answer. His eyes are only on me.
I wait until I hear the door shut, and then I draw in a tight breath. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely get the words out. “Did you control her the way you do me?”
I see confusion in his eyes, and it pisses me off. I hold on to the anger, because it gives me strength. “Sara Padgett,” I say. “Goddammit, Damien, do you think I don’t know?”
“What is it you think you know?” His voice is as cold as ice.
“I know you need to be in control. Your life. Your business. Your women. Your bed. I even get it,” I say. A tear has escaped and is snaking its way down the side of my nose, but I’m holding it together. Right now, it’s me who’s the expert on control. “You were abused, weren’t you? And now you need it. You need to be in control.”
I watch his face, looking for confirmation, but there’s nothing there. His face is blank and unreadable.
“I do like to be in control, Nikki. I don’t think I’ve ever made a secret of that.”
No, he hasn’t. But there have been so many other secrets. “Did it start as a game?” I ask. “Did you tie her up, too?” I move toward the bed and take one of the drapes in my hand. “Did you put this oh so gently around her arms? Then around her throat? Did you tell her about pleasure and pain?” The tears are flowing freely now, and my voice is thick with them. “Was it—was it an accident?”
His face is no longer blank. Now it’s dark, like a violent storm, and just as dangerous. “I did not kill Sara Padgett.”
I manage to look him straight in the eye. “I’ve got twelve-point-six million reasons to believe that you did.”
His face goes white. It’s true. Oh, dear God, until that moment, I don’t think I really believed that it was true.
“How the hell did you hear about that?”
My skin feels clammy and my stomach is roiling. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Certainly not from you,” I say. “I guess that’s not the kind of thing you were going to try to be more open with me about, huh? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you.”
“How?” he repeats.
“I overheard some of your phone conversation,” I snap. I leave out the rest.
He shoves his fingers through his hair. “Nikki—”
I hold up my hand. “No,” I say. I just want to get out of there. I shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out the ankle bracelet. I take a deep breath and then I drop it onto the bed.
I pause only long enough to look at the raw, unfinished painting. I feel a lump in my throat. Then I turn and hurry down the stairs.
Damien doesn’t come after me.
I’m not sure how I get through the next two days. They are a haze of ice cream, classic movies, and really depressing country songs. Twice, Jamie makes me go sit by the pool, saying that the vitamin D will be good for me. But it doesn’t feel good. Nothing feels good.
My sleep schedule is all screwed up, and I don’t worry about fixing it, because I don’t need to get up early since I don’t have a job. I called Bruce from the car after leaving Damien’s house and told him I couldn’t accept the job. I need to cut all my ties with Damien Stark because if I don’t, I know I’ll get reeled back in. I can feel the part of me that’s already tugging in that direction, I miss him so terribly.
“He’s rich and arrogant and as far as he’s concerned he owns the world and it damn well better behave the way he wants it to.”
“No,” I say automatically. My voice is soft. I feel numb. “Damien’s not like that. He was protecting me. That was his way of protecting me.”
“Protecting you? The way he protected Sara Padgett?”
My head snaps up. “What are you talking about?”
“You know who Eric Padgett is, right?”
My stomach clenches. I’m terribly afraid of what he’s going to say. “Yes,” I manage. “You know I do. He’s the dead girl’s brother.”
“He keeps threatening to go to the press and say that Stark killed his sister. For weeks we’ve had all of Stark’s resources aimed at stopping this one asshole, and he just keeps pushing back saying he wants his money, and he’s going to screw Stark, and there’s more dirt out there than just his sister, but it all sounds like the same old smear routine. Just like I told you in Beverly Hills—we figured Eric Padgett was just one more asshole looking for a payday.”
“What’s happened?” My voice is completely flat. I just want to hear the horrible thing and get out of there. I need to be alone. I need to process this.
“Stark paid him off yesterday. That’s right,” Ollie adds in response to my openmouthed gape. “The same Damien Stark who wanted a balls-to-the-wall defense against the guy did a complete 180 and paid the fucker off. Forget fighting. Forget all his talk about not backing down, about taking it all the way as far as it would go. He just caved. Quickly and completely.”
“Caved how?” I ask, so softly I’m surprised Ollie can hear me.
“Caved to the tune of twelve-point-six million dollars.”
“Oh, God.” I don’t mean to speak, but the words fly out. I press my hand over my mouth and blink back tears.
Ollie is watching me, but I’m not really seeing him. Instead I’m seeing Damien on his terrace pacing with a phone to his ear, talking to Charles Maynard about something I don’t understand. And about twelve-point-six million dollars.
“Oh, God,” I repeat.
There’s no compassion in Ollie’s eyes as he looks at me. “Maybe Stark just got tired of the bullshit. But I don’t think so. I think he’s covering up what he did. He’s dangerous, Nik, just like I’ve been saying. He’s dangerous, and you damn well know it, too.”
My thoughts bounce randomly through my head as I steer my battered Honda to Damien’s Malibu house. Anger, loss, fear, denial, hope. I don’t know what I’m thinking or even what to think. All I know is that this isn’t good.
All I’m sure of is that it hurts like hell.
It’s just past noon, but I’m certain I’ll find him there. I called his office from the road and his secretary told me he was heading home.
Home, I know, means our third floor studio.
“Hey, Blondie,” Blaine says as I step off the landing and into the studio.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“Been doing some color studies. Trying to get the damn sky right.” He shakes his head. “Getting close, but I’m not quite there yet.” Then he gets a closer look at me, and his brow furrows with concern. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
I glance at the painting. My image is there on the canvas, more fleshed out, but still unfinished. I look raw, as if the top layer of me has been stripped away, and in that moment I think that Blaine has truly captured me. Because that is how I feel. Like Damien has ripped his way through to see what I kept hidden, and then left me exposed and vulnerable.
Damien steps in from the kitchen. “Nikki.” I hear the pleasure in his voice, then the shift as he truly looks at me. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going to cut out,” Blaine says.
Damien doesn’t look at Blaine or answer. His eyes are only on me.
I wait until I hear the door shut, and then I draw in a tight breath. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely get the words out. “Did you control her the way you do me?”
I see confusion in his eyes, and it pisses me off. I hold on to the anger, because it gives me strength. “Sara Padgett,” I say. “Goddammit, Damien, do you think I don’t know?”
“What is it you think you know?” His voice is as cold as ice.
“I know you need to be in control. Your life. Your business. Your women. Your bed. I even get it,” I say. A tear has escaped and is snaking its way down the side of my nose, but I’m holding it together. Right now, it’s me who’s the expert on control. “You were abused, weren’t you? And now you need it. You need to be in control.”
I watch his face, looking for confirmation, but there’s nothing there. His face is blank and unreadable.
“I do like to be in control, Nikki. I don’t think I’ve ever made a secret of that.”
No, he hasn’t. But there have been so many other secrets. “Did it start as a game?” I ask. “Did you tie her up, too?” I move toward the bed and take one of the drapes in my hand. “Did you put this oh so gently around her arms? Then around her throat? Did you tell her about pleasure and pain?” The tears are flowing freely now, and my voice is thick with them. “Was it—was it an accident?”
His face is no longer blank. Now it’s dark, like a violent storm, and just as dangerous. “I did not kill Sara Padgett.”
I manage to look him straight in the eye. “I’ve got twelve-point-six million reasons to believe that you did.”
His face goes white. It’s true. Oh, dear God, until that moment, I don’t think I really believed that it was true.
“How the hell did you hear about that?”
My skin feels clammy and my stomach is roiling. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Certainly not from you,” I say. “I guess that’s not the kind of thing you were going to try to be more open with me about, huh? Well, I suppose I can’t blame you.”
“How?” he repeats.
“I overheard some of your phone conversation,” I snap. I leave out the rest.
He shoves his fingers through his hair. “Nikki—”
I hold up my hand. “No,” I say. I just want to get out of there. I shove my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out the ankle bracelet. I take a deep breath and then I drop it onto the bed.
I pause only long enough to look at the raw, unfinished painting. I feel a lump in my throat. Then I turn and hurry down the stairs.
Damien doesn’t come after me.
I’m not sure how I get through the next two days. They are a haze of ice cream, classic movies, and really depressing country songs. Twice, Jamie makes me go sit by the pool, saying that the vitamin D will be good for me. But it doesn’t feel good. Nothing feels good.
My sleep schedule is all screwed up, and I don’t worry about fixing it, because I don’t need to get up early since I don’t have a job. I called Bruce from the car after leaving Damien’s house and told him I couldn’t accept the job. I need to cut all my ties with Damien Stark because if I don’t, I know I’ll get reeled back in. I can feel the part of me that’s already tugging in that direction, I miss him so terribly.
