“Hell, yes, I’m jealous. I’m jealous of anyone who comforts you. Who pulls you into his arms and makes the hurt go away.”

“I didn’t even know you back then,” I whisper.

“And I’m jealous of the time that he’s had with you that I haven’t.”

“You’re not being fair.”

“I’m not being fair at all. But that doesn’t change the facts. You’re not just friends. You haven’t been for a long time. At least not since he got you through the hell with that asshole Kurt.” I close my eyes, remembering the boy who’d hurt me so badly years ago that I’d needed Ollie to help me pick up the pieces. “Ollie’s in love with you, Nikki. It’s the one thing I do respect him for,” Damien continues. “He has excellent taste in women.”

These are not things that I want to hear. Ollie has only ever been my friend, albeit an extremely close one, at least until recently. I don’t like the way things are changing, and I don’t want to hear what Damien is saying.

Mostly, I don’t want to suddenly realize that I’ve been foolishly, stupidly blind.

I think of Courtney and feel a little sick. “He’s engaged, Damien,” I say, but the words are weak, and I cannot help but see Jamie in my mind. Fidelity is not one of Ollie’s strong suits.

“I know he is,” Damien says. “And maybe he loves his fiancée, I don’t know. But I do know that he loves you. And one of these days, that’s going to cause a very big problem between him and me.”

I manage a weak smile. “Don’t go all Wild West on me. Though with all your money, I guess it would be more Stark Manor than O.K. Corral, and a duel instead of a gunfight. But be careful, Damien. Ollie grew up in Texas. He’s a good shot.”

“I’m a better one,” Damien says, and there’s none of my light teasing in his voice.

“I really am glad you’re here.”

“As am I. It’s good to hold you. This entire day has been challenging.”

I wince, thinking of the paparazzi that accosted me outside of the office and those bullshit allegations of corporate espionage. “Sorry.”

He gently strokes my cheek. “No,” he says. “Not you. But there are things.” He sighs, and I am surprised at the exasperation I hear. “Tapestries that I’ve woven carefully over the years are starting to unravel. I don’t like it when things don’t go as I plan or expect.” He aims a small smile at me. “You may not have noticed it about me, but I am most comfortable when I am in control.”

“I’m shocked, Mr. Stark. Truly shocked.”

He ignores my sarcasm, and when he speaks, his voice is low and even. “Actually, I suppose you do fall within those parameters. I wanted you at home. You said no. I didn’t like it.”

I step close to him and slide my hands around his waist. “I suppose if it bothers you that much, you can simply tie me up and keep me permanently at your side.”

I can feel the way his body stiffens against mine, and I am glad I’m holding on to him. My own knees are weak. How simple it is to slip into passion with Damien. Even when we quarrel, we’re never far away from the fire, and it’s so easy to get pulled into the conflagration.

And always, always, there is the need to touch him, to feel him, to know that he is real and that he is mine.

“Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “I believe you’re thinking naughty thoughts.”

“Very,” I confirm.

“I may have to take you up on your suggestion,” he says. He tugs on the end of my pink scarf. I feel the smooth brush of the material as it slides over my skin. “Tie you up,” he says, twisting the end of the scarf around one wrist. “Keep you close.” He gives the scarf a tight, quick jerk, and I stumble toward him. He catches me so that I don’t fall, and bends down so that his lips are close to my ear. “But first, I think you need to be very thoroughly spanked.”

I tilt my head so that he can see my eyes. “I’d rather be thoroughly fucked.”

He groans, and I know that I have won this round. “Oh, God, Nikki. What you do to me.”

“No,” I say, my entire body on fire. “What you do to me. And please, Damien, do it soon.”

“We’re leaving,” he says, and I can only nod mutely.

“Where are we going?” I ask, as we take the elevator down. There are two other couples in the car with us, and only the tips of our fingers are touching. It is so intimate, though, that I feel like I’m naked before them.

“The apartment,” he says curtly.

Thank God. If he wanted to go all the way back to the Malibu house I was going to lose my mind. Even so, I’m not sure I can make it the few short blocks.

But then the elevator doors glide open and as soon as our companions step off in front of us, we are accosted by the flash of cameras, the press of microphones, and the overlapping queries of a dozen demanding voices.

Now I clutch Damien’s hand and move closer to his side.

“Mr. Stark!”

“Damien!”

“Nikki, over here!”

“What can you say about your refusal to speak at the dedication of the Richter Tennis Center?”

“Can you explain your decision, Mr. Stark?”

I hold tight to Damien and keep my head down as we press forward toward the street. I assume at first that these are simply the same reporters and paparazzi that had been hovering about when we’d arrived. But then I see that in addition to the TMZ and E! reporters, there are vans from CNN and even the Wall Street Journal.

Apparently someone noticed Damien’s arrival, and the word spread like wildfire.

I squeeze Damien’s hand tighter, hoping he has a car nearby. It may only be a block to the apartment, but I do not want to walk it with these vultures following in our wake.

“What about the rumors out of Germany, Mr. Stark?” a voice calls, and Damien’s hand tightens around mine as he leads us firmly and silently toward the valet stand.

“Nikki, is Damien Stark off the bachelor block?”

“Damien! How will the talk of a possible German indictment affect your holdings in the European Union?”

My mind is spinning. An indictment? I force myself not to look at Damien, and instead look forward, my face a mask of disinterest. There is no way—no way in hell—that I am letting these vultures see that I haven’t a clue what they’re talking about. Is Stark International in some kind of legal snafu? Is that what he meant by the tapestry unwinding?

“Nikki! Mr. Stark! Germany! Indictment!” The voices blend together into a hideous cacophony. “Richter! Dedication! Damien! Damien! Damien!”

Damien must have summoned Edward without me realizing because the limo pulls to a smooth stop in front of the valet stand, and Edward gets out.

“No,” Damien says. “I’ve got it.” As Edward gets back in behind the wheel, Damien tugs me forward, then opens the rear passenger door, his body shielding me from the blinding storm of lights and questions.

I’m just about to slide into the car when Damien pulls his hand from mine, then turns and faces the crowd. A hush falls. Considering Damien’s staunch policy of not talking to the press, I think the paparazzi are at least as shocked as I am.