“Can you conference her in through the account she used?”

I see Alaine’s eyes shift up, as if he’s examining the various options on his computer monitor. “I think so. Hang on.” Alaine’s image stays on the screen, but a smaller box appears in the corner. It’s a snapshot of a girl with spiky black hair tipped with red. She has a multi-pierced ear filled with tiny silver rings. Her elven face is small and delicate and her skin is unnaturally pale. Her deep brown eyes are ringed with pitch-black kohl. The only color comes from her lips, which are wide and full and striking with bloodred lipstick. It’s hard to tell her age, but even though Damien said that Sofia is almost thirty, she looks barely twenty to me. Then again, I have no idea how old this image is.

“I think this will do it,” Alaine says, then almost immediately adds, “Well, damn the girl.”

It takes me a second to understand what has happened, but then I see that a red X has appeared as a watermark over the image. “What is that?” I ask.

“She’s closed her account,” Damien says. “You don’t have another contact number?”

“Other than her cell phone? No.” Alaine’s mouth is curved down into a frown. “I swear I don’t know what she’s thinking half the time. But she said she’d call after Shanghai and let me know where they’re going next.”

“Tell her to call me, too. For that matter, hook me into the call.”

“Will do. And, Damien, don’t worry. She will turn up. She always does. And we both know that she is a mercurial soul.”

“She’s a disturbed soul,” Damien says.

“Aren’t we all?” Alaine says, but there is a sparkle in his eyes, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t understand the fundamental truth of his words.

As soon as the screen goes blank, Damien calls Ms. Ives back in and gives her a list of instructions, including searching the file for David and then tracking his current band to Shanghai. She takes meticulous notes and promises to contact him the moment she has information. As soon as she’s left, Damien folds me into his arms.

“Are you okay?”

“Frustrated,” he says. “But I’m fine.”

I see the worry etched on his face, but when he looks at me and smiles, it all seems to fade.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For everything.”

My answering smile is so broad it’s almost painful. “Anytime, Mr. Stark.”

“I think I’m done here for now,” he says. “You’ve never been to London, have you? Do you want to stay the night? We could go to Harrods. Catch a show in the West End. See a few sights.”

“No,” I say. “I just want to be with you. I just want to go home.”

“And that’s another reason that we are perfect together,” Damien says. “I want exactly the same thing.”

Chapter Ten

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Stark, Ms. Fairchild. Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, taking the glass gratefully. Damien and I are seated side by side in the rich leather recliners. There’s a polished table in front of us and equally shiny wood trim throughout the interior of the very large cabin. The seats are so comfortable I’d happily have them at home. The flight attendant is tall and slim, with a mass of curls piled on her head in a way that manages to look both cute and professional.

I sip the champagne, sigh, and have to admit that there’s something to be said for the billionaire lifestyle.

“What happened to the other plane?” I ask Damien. We’d flown from Munich to London in a small jet, similar to the one he keeps hangared in Santa Monica. While comfortable, it pales in comparison to this one.

“This is the Lear Bombardier Global 8000,” he says. “We’re crossing the Atlantic, remember? Not to mention all of the United States. I thought traveling in a plane with sufficient fuel capacity made sense. Plus it’s easier to get work done with an actual office. And sleep in an actual bed,” he adds, trailing his finger lightly up my leg and giving me shivers.

“This thing has an office and a bed?”

“There’s a bed in the stateroom,” he says.

“Wow.” I want to get up and explore, but the attendant has already asked that we fasten our seat belts as the plane is now taxiing toward the runway.

Now, she’s standing next to the jump seat. She’s speaking into a headset, presumably communicating with the pilot. A moment later, she hangs up, then walks toward Damien and me. “Mr. Stark, you’ve had a telephone call from Mr. Maynard. He tried to reach your cell, but apparently the call didn’t connect. When he realized you were on board, he called the tower and asked that we get a message to you to call him at your earliest convenience.”

“Can we hold on the runway?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll call him now,” he says, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. I watch from beside him, frowning as he’s put through to Charles. I can’t imagine why Maynard would be calling—could the court have changed its mind? Is it even allowed to do that?

I study Damien’s face, but his expression gives me no clues. It’s gone completely blank and totally unreadable. A boardroom expression designed to give nothing away to competitors—or to me.

After a moment, Damien stands, and though I reach for his hand, he doesn’t reach back. Neither does he meet my eyes. He heads to the back of the plane and disappears into what I assume is the office.

I try to focus on my book, but it’s impossible, and after I’ve read the same page over at least three dozen times, Damien finally returns. He nods at the attendant, who radios the cockpit, and by the time Damien has fastened his seat belt again we are once again readying for takeoff.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing to worry about.” He stills wears that bland, corporate mask and I feel my heart constrict, as if a giant fist is squeezing it tight.

“But I am worrying. Charles wouldn’t radio the tower unless it was important.”

He smiles, but it seems forced, and I see no corresponding humor in his eyes. “You’re right. He wouldn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“There’ve been some time-sensitive developments on a couple of matters that I’ve been chipping away at.” His voice is level, his words perfectly reasonable. I, however, don’t believe a word of it.

“Don’t shut me out again, Damien.”

“I’m not,” he says firmly. “Not everything is about us.”

I tense, the sting of his words as potent as a slap. “I see.” I finger the book in my lap. “Well, never mind.”

“Nikki . . . ” His voice is no longer cold.

I tilt my head to look at him, my own mask firmly in place. “It’s fine,” I say.

His eyes search mine, the near-black one seeming to see so deep into me that it is almost dizzying. I hold his gaze for as long as I can before I have to look away or else risk him seeing too clearly that I’m certain his words are all bullshit. What I don’t understand is why.

I turn my head, ostensibly to look out the window as the plane gathers speed, rushing forward to its inevitable climb. And as the wheels lift off, I can’t help but think that we have reached the point of no return, Damien and I. Like this plane, we will either continue to move forward, or we will crash.