The tall man, Damien, and I enter the car, but the other two stay behind, presumably to make sure none of the vultures try to enter the restaurant pretending to buy a meal. Once the door slides shut, I look up at Damien. His eyes blaze with raw fury, but beneath it there is concern for me that is so potent I almost weep.

Slowly, he lifts my hand, then gently, sweetly, he kisses my palm.

“I am so, so sorry, my friend,” the giant says with an accent that I can’t place. “A busboy saw the reservation book. It would appear he hoped to make more than just his share of the tips tonight.”

“I see,” Damien says. His voice is level, but there is a tightness to it, and the pressure of his hand on mine increases. I doubt that I am the only one who can tell that Damien is working hard to control the temper that had been so famous back in his tennis days. The temper that had, in fact, caused the injury that left him with dual-colored eyes. “I’d like to have a word with that young man.”

“I’ve already dismissed him,” the tall man says. “He was escorted off the property at the same time I came to assist you and the young lady.”

“Good,” Damien says, and I silently echo the thought. Because considering the rage that I see etched on Damien’s face, if that busboy was still on the premises, he should be very, very worried indeed.

3

Damien says nothing else during the ride to the rooftop restaurant, and the air in the small elevator car is thick. I’m sure our escort—who I’ve decided is Damien’s owner friend—is mortified that one of his employees leaked the news of where Damien would be. And the fact that Damien hasn’t formally introduced us is more proof of how much the incident has upset him.

Damien’s manners are always stellar.

As for me, I can’t help but regret going out at all. The paparazzi were bad, but this cloud of gloom is worse.

I squeeze Damien’s hand. “They’ll get tired of us soon enough. Some movie star will divorce some other star. Or a reality star will get caught shoplifting. We’re boring by comparison.”

For a moment, I think my ploy hasn’t worked. Then he lifts our joined hands and presses a kiss on my knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should be the one making you feel better.”

“I’m with you,” I say. “That’s as good as it gets.”

He tightens his fingers around mine as he looks up at the man. “Alaine, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’d like to introduce you to my girlfriend, Nikki Fairchild. Nikki, my friend Alaine Beauchene, one of the best chefs in the city and the owner of Le Caquelon.”

“It’s a very great pleasure to meet you,” he says, taking my hand. “Damien has told me so many good things.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure why, but the words surprise me. I can easily picture me talking about Damien with Jamie, but somehow the idea of Damien chatting with his friends about me isn’t something I’ve contemplated before. I can’t deny that the knowledge feels nice. It’s one more thread in the tapestry that is Nikki and Damien.

“Thank you for rescuing us,” I say. And then, because I can’t help but jump all over this peek into Damien’s life, I add, “How do you two know each other?”

“Alaine’s father practices sports medicine. We got to know each other on tour.”

“Two young men crisscrossing Europe,” Alaine says wistfully. “Those were good times, my friend.”

I am watching Damien carefully. I may not know much, but I do know that his years playing tennis were hardly full of happy, fluffy memories. But when he smiles, it seems genuine. “Those were the best times,” Damien says, and I feel an odd sense of relief knowing that his years on the tennis circuit were not total hell. That there had been one or two moments of sunshine peeking through the gloom.

“The two of us and Sofia,” Alaine says with a laugh. He glances at me. “Two years younger than us, and the little imp was determined to stick like glue. Have you heard anything? How is she?”

“Fine,” Damien says, and I am certain that Alaine catches the curtness of his tone, because his lips curve down in the slightest of frowns before curving back up again in what I can only assume is an attempt to be jolly.

“At any rate,” he says as the elevator glides to a stop, “enough about the old days. You are here now for the food, not the memories.”

The doors open, and Alaine gestures for me to exit first. I do, and find myself in a reception area that can only be described as spectacular. It’s not elegant, and at the same time it’s not casual. It is uniquely its own, with a glass roof that is open to the night sky crisscrossed by colored beams of light. The maitre d’ station is an aquarium, and the hair of the girl who stands behind it is at least as colorful as the fish in the tank.

The wall to the left is entirely made of glass and reveals a chunk of Santa Monica and the Westside, along with a bit of beach, and the tiniest view of the Pier. The wall in front of us seems to be made up of panels that glow in the same colors as the beams of light crisscrossing the ceiling. I’m not sure if the design is modern or futuristic, but I like it. It’s funky and different and so brightly colored that I don’t see how the gray fog that has settled over this evening can stay.

“I must get back to the kitchen,” Alaine says. “But Monica will show you to your booth. Ms. Fairchild, it has been a pleasure. Enjoy your meal, and I hope to see both of you next Friday at the dedication.” His voice rises as if in question, but I can’t answer since I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“I won’t be attending,” Damien says. “But I’ll call you next week. We should have drinks.”

His words are perfectly polite and certainly friendly, but they are spoken from behind a mask. I wonder if Alaine can see it. Does he truly know Damien? Or does he only know the bits and pieces of the man that Damien has selectively revealed over the years?

I have a feeling that it is the latter. I doubt that anyone has ever seen completely beneath Damien’s mask, and the thought that I am included in that group makes me sad. I want so desperately to shine a light into those dark places, and I even believe that Damien wants me to. But he’s spent so long building walls to protect his privacy that I think he forgot to build a door. And now all I can hope is that we can chip away at the stone together.

We’ve been following Monica across the room, weaving between the tables to reach a bright green panel of light. She grabs a handle that I hadn’t noticed and uses it to slide the panel to one side, much like the walls in Japanese movies. Inside, there is a table between two booth-style benches. But it’s not a true booth, because if you slide through or walk behind the bench seats, there is an open area between the table and a window that looks out onto the spectacular, brightly lit Santa Monica Pier.

I follow Damien to the glass, drawn by the allure of both the man and the vibrant colors.

“Your wine is already breathing,” Monica says, gesturing to the table, “and you have both flat and sparkling water. Will you be having your usual, Mr. Stark?”

“Just dessert,” he says. “For two.”

She inclines her head. “It will be right out. In the meantime, please enjoy the wine and the view.”