“As much as I hate the thought of depriving your guests of interesting conversation, I would still like my hands to be free.”

“Would you?” He trails a lazy finger down my side, and I bite my lower lip to keep from writhing. The sensation is delicious, a cross between a caress and a tickle, and my skin tingles in his wake. “And what is it that you wish to do with your hands, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Touch you,” I say boldly. “I’m allowed. After all, we’re on equal footing now that midnight has passed. Aren’t we, sir?”

There is a pause before his head tilts down in a quick, formal nod. “Yes, madam,” he says as he leans past me to loosen the knots that hold my wrists in place. “We are.”

Once my hands are free, I sit up while he unbinds my ankles. I pull my legs close, enjoying the sensation of moving again. Then I kneel on the bed in front of Damien, who is sitting at the foot of the bed, watching me. It’s hard not to look at him. He’s even more magnificent by the glow of candlelight. I reach out, wanting to feel him beneath my fingertips. Wanting his warmth against my skin. Slowly, I lay my palm over his heart, then close my eyes as I feel it beat, strong and steady like the man himself.

I lay him gently back onto the bed and straddle him, my knees pressed against either side of his waist. I trail my fingers over his chest and watch the way one small muscle jumps in his jaw, evidence of how hard he is fighting for control. I smile, relishing the power he’s relinquished to me. “You make me feel amazing,” I say. “I want you to feel the same.”

“I do. When I touch you. When I see your skin tremble with desire. When your muscles tighten and draw me in. What is it you think that you’re doing to me other than making me feel more deeply than I ever have before?”

“But you’re the one in control.” I shift my hips a little, silently letting him know that I hold the control now.

“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s an illusion. It’s you, Nikki. You have captured me utterly, and you hold my heart in your hands. Be gentle with it. It’s more fragile than you might think.”

I swallow, then blink, moved by his words. Gently, I run my fingertip over his jawline, enjoying the feel of his beard stubble against my skin. I lean over, my body pressed to his, and draw his mouth into a slow, deep kiss.

“What do you want?” I ask once I’ve broken the kiss. “Right now, if you could have me any way you wanted, what would you have me do?”

“Right now, I want you beside me,” he says. “I want to hold you.”

His words undo me, and my throat feels thick with tears. I am weepy and emotional and don’t think I’ve ever been happier. Gently, I ease off him and curl up next to him. My back is to his chest, and I am looking out at the world beyond the window as he casually strokes my arm. We have lain this way before, and it feels warm and familiar. It feels like us.

“I’m going to miss this bed,” I admit.

“I suppose I could keep it here. But it doesn’t really fit the decor.”

“Well, if you’re trying to be all traditional …”

I trail off and he laughs, then pulls me tighter against him. It’s so comfortable between us, and I cherish the way that I feel with Damien. I roll over, wanting to see his face, and I’m immediately glad I do. He presses a kiss to my forehead and we curl up on the bed facing each other. His hand is on the curve of my waist, and I trail my fingers lazily up and down his chest. He has only the slightest smattering of chest hair, and it feels downy beneath my fingers. I amuse myself by making patterns on his chest, and when I look up at him, the corner of his mouth is twitching.

“What?” I ask.

“Having fun, Ms. Fairchild?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I’m glad. Earlier—the way those bastards upset you. I didn’t like it.”

“Me, neither,” I say, in what is undoubtedly the understatement of the year. “But I’m okay now. And you seem pretty okay yourself.”

“I would have happily ripped their heads off at the restaurant,” he admits.

“I could tell,” I say. “But I didn’t just mean the paparazzi.”

“Oh?” he eyes me warily.

I lift a shoulder. “I’m still wondering about that call,” I admit. “Is something going on?” I blurt, because I’ve been holding it in all evening and can’t take it anymore. “Has Carl done something?”

Damien doesn’t answer, and I glare at him, irritated. “Come on, Damien. All that stuff that Carl said—we both know it isn’t going to just go away.”

“I hope it does just go away,” Damien says. “Though I tend to agree.”

“Damien!” I sound as exasperated as I feel. “Just tell me straight out. Has something happened that you haven’t told me about? Is that what the phone call was about?”

“No.” He brushes the tip of his finger over my nose. “I promise.”

I frown as I eye him.

He shifts so that I can see him better, then draws an X over his heart.

I raise a brow, and he lifts three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.

I hold back a laugh, and he holds up his pinkie finger. “Shall we pinkie swear?”

That does it—I laugh and hook pinkies with him.

“I swear to you,” he says, lifting our joined hands and kissing the tip of my little finger, “that call had nothing to do with Carl Rosenfeld.”

I nod. I believe him, but I’m still worried.

Because whoever was on that telephone call had the ability to crack Damien Stark’s cool veneer. And anyone who can do that is no one to trifle with.

5

I open my eyes to a blanket of stars hanging beyond the doorway, uncertain as to what has awakened me. I am groggy and I turn toward Damien, automatically seeking the soft comfort of sliding back into sleep in his arms. But instead of his warmth, I find only the rumpled coolness of abandoned sheets. I sit up, confused. I’d slept soundly, nestled safe against him, and it is disorienting to come back to the world and find myself alone.

The candle has burned down, but Damien has turned the sconce lighting on low, and each fixture emits the slightest of glows, just enough to take the edge off the darkness. I glance toward the kitchen, but that area is dark and quiet. Beside me, the sheets are cool. Damien has not been here for a long time.

I slide off the bed and lift the robe off the floor where it has fallen. I put it on, the gentle caress of the material seeming to mimic Damien’s touch. I reach out for the bedframe, and untie the sash from the iron bar. I wrap it around my waist, cinching the robe. Then I close my hand over the cool iron ball. I will be sorry to see this bed go, but its purpose is done. It was a prop, an illusion chosen for a specific effect.

I tremble, struck by the sudden and unreasonable fear that everything has been an illusion, Damien most of all.

But those are just ghosts. I know better. At least, I hope that I do. I recall his words in the restaurant—that he would leave me to protect me.

I hug myself, suddenly cold. But I know that I am being foolish. Damien hasn’t left me. He’s simply left the bed. “Damien?”

I expect no answer, and I’m not surprised when none comes. The house is large, and over the last week, the workmen have finished painting the interior and even the grounds are almost fully landscaped. There still isn’t any furniture in most rooms, but even so, he could be anywhere, and in a house this large, “anywhere” covers a lot of ground.