Damien is looking at me with an odd expression.

“What?”

“You’ve been tossed in with the sharks, and yet you’re digging in your heels and facing them. If you ever tell me again that you’re not strong, I’m going to turn you over my knee and spank you.”

“Promises, promises,” I trill, then slide off the barstool. “If you’re determined to take time off, too, then I thought of something we can do today.”

There is undeniable hunger in his eyes. “I can think of all sorts of things we can do today,” he says.

“Not that,” I say. “Although I have a feeling what I have in mind gets you hard, too.”

“How you tease,” he says. “So tell me, how are we spending our day?”

“Well,” I say, “I was hoping we could talk about money.”

“It really depends on your goals,” Damien says to me, tapping the end of his pencil against the figure-covered sheet of paper.

I nod, wanting to learn as much as he can teach me. As it stands, I’m currently without income, but Jamie’s right. I do have a million dollars. And if I’m going to be gawked at and gossiped about because of it, I’m going to damn well use some of it.

“The million is for my business,” I say. “You already know that, but I want to make sure we’re clear. I don’t want the million to go away.”

“The principal,” he says.

“Yes. The principal needs to be there—and liquid—when I need it. But if I’m going to be out of a job, then I want to be able to live on the interest and dividends. I’ve got a little bit of money coming in every month from my smartphone apps, and I’ve got a couple more that are almost ready to go.” I grimace. “I haven’t launched them because I haven’t had time, but I guess that’s not an excuse anymore.”

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I am,” I say firmly. I’ve decided that the only way to deal with this is one step at a time. I’m not entirely sure what the step is that will get me past the mortification of being front and center in the tabloids, but at least I can take care of the rest. And if I’m going to be vilified for making a million, then I’m damn sure going to protect that million.

“So you can help me set this up? I want to know what percentage of the money I should put in stocks or bonds and all that kind of stuff.”

“I’ll teach you whatever you want to know,” he says.

I nod slowly, hesitatingly, and Damien eyes me warily.

“Brokers get paid with the trades, right?” I may be brilliant at math, but I’ve never wrapped my head around investment strategies. I’ve never tried, honestly. I’ve always been afraid that I’d do the same crap job as my mother, and the idea of being like my mother is far too disturbing.

“Right,” he said. “We could also interview financial managers. They take a percentage, but if they know their stuff, the money grows enough to cover the cost.”

“That’s where my mother screwed up,” I say. I don’t mean to speak aloud, and when I look at Damien’s face, I see soft understanding in his eyes.

“She made bad choices,” he says. “You won’t.”

“I’m not so sure. I’ve made plenty of bad choices in the past.”

I don’t do it intentionally, but I realize that my thumb is idly stroking the scar on my inner thigh.

“Just the fact that you’re being so careful and asking so many questions proves to me that you’re going to be fine. And so is your money. I work with several brokers and managers. If you like, I can have Sylvia set up some meetings, get them into the office today if you want.”

“That would be great,” I say, then immediately take it back. “No. No, never mind.”

“All right,” he says slowly, but I can see the hurt in his eyes. “Whatever you want.”

“That’s the thing,” I say. “I already know who I want.” I take a deep breath. “Will you manage it for me? I can’t imagine there’s anyone I would trust more than you.”

There is no trace of the hurt left on his face. Instead, there is only something soft and tender. His smile is slow, and the shake of his head is even slower. “No,” he says, and I gasp in surprise. “That’s not what I do. But I do oversee my own managers with such microscopic interest that I imagine they consider me among their most irritating clients. Fortunately, the percentage they earn off the growth is sufficient to quell that irritation. I won’t manage your money, but I will babysit it. I’ll introduce you to my manager, we’ll get you set up, explain your goals, and then I’ll watch over your nest egg. Sound good?”

“Will you explain the investment choices to me?”

“I’ll explain anything you want. We’ll do this together, okay? And who knows. Maybe next you’ll be asking me to help with your start-up.”

“Don’t push,” I say. I’ve explained to him why I want to take it slow, though I think he is on Jamie’s side of the equation. Damien would simply jump in and do brilliantly. I want to wade in slowly and do brilliantly.

He holds a hand up as if in self-defense. “I’m not pushing. Why would I push you to go out on your own when I’d much rather get you set up as a division of Stark Applied Technology?”

I laugh. “Once I’m out there on my own and raking in the dollars, then you can buy me out for some obscene amount of money. But I’m starting on my own.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “I just want to see you actually start. I’m waiting, you know. I fully intend to license some of your software for use in my offices. The cross-platform note system you told me about could come in quite handy.”

“All the more reason not to jump in before I’m ready,” I say firmly. “I don’t want to let you down.”

“You could never let me down,” he says. He pulls me in for a quick, firm kiss. “And, Nikki? Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me to help you with the million.”

I nod slowly. Have I made this decision because a man I trust happens to be brilliant with money? Or am I following the pattern of last night, surrendering control to Damien instead of coping for myself?

He’s told me more than once that there is strength inside me. And though the words are a comfort, I’m not sure I believe them. I didn’t feel strong last night. And every time I think about the press going apeshit over my personal business, nausea crashes over me.

But Damien is looking at me with such tenderness that I say none of that. “I’ve trusted you with my heart,” I say, because that is an undeniable truth. “Why wouldn’t I trust you with my money?”

I speak the words lightly. His expression, however, is serious. “You do know that I trust you, too?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Just because it takes me time, doesn’t mean I trust you less.”

“I know that,” I say, because in my head, I do get it, and I have to admit that he’s already told me so much. In my heart, though, I want him to spill out everything still locked inside. But do I want that so that I can be strong for him as he is for me? Or am I simply being selfish, looking for a tangible confirmation of how he feels about me, even though I already know from every glance and every touch that I am cherished?