“You’ve been keeping me out of the loop.” I’m not accusing, simply stating a fact. And to be honest, I haven’t really wanted to think about it. But I no longer have the cushion of the Atlantic Ocean and all of Western Europe and the entire staff at the Kempinski to separate me from reality. Now, I know that whoever is harassing me is here to stay, and if I don’t focus on it—if I don’t wonder and think and watch my own back—then I’m no better than those idiot girls in movies who go up the stairs in scary houses, even though they know damn well the killer is waiting for them.

This is reality, I think. And whether I like it or not, it’s forcing its way into our lives.

“I didn’t see the point of burying you in this crap if we didn’t know anything.”

I cock my head. “You’re protecting me again.”

“I am,” he says. “And as I believe I already explained in rather intimate detail, I don’t intend to stop. Do you have a problem with that, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Only if you’re keeping me out of the loop to do it,” I say. “So what haven’t you told me?”

“Not much,” he says, and I can hear the frustration in his voice that stems from that simple fact.

“Start with the painting. Have you learned anything about who leaked the story that I’m the model? Or that you paid me so much? Because that first letter came about that time, so I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume it’s the same person.”

“I happen to agree with you,” he says. “And the short answer is no, we haven’t found anyone.”

“And the longer answer?”

“Will have to wait.” He points to the broken window and the two men who are passing in front of it. “My team.”

We meet them at the door, but they choose not to come in until after the police arrive. Instead, they go back outside to canvass the area, pull the feed from the newly installed camera, and do whatever it is security guys do when they’re on the case.

“The longer answer?” I press as soon as they’re gone.

“We have a few leads. Arnold—he’s the investigator I keep on retainer—recently got copies of some security footage from an ATM on Fairfax.”

I shake my head, clueless.

“That ATM happens to be across the street from a coffee bar where our intrepid reporter has a habit of meeting with his sources.”

“Wow,” I say, impressed. Damien had identified the original reporter who broadcast the story a while back, but the reporter had refused to reveal his source.

“It’s going to take a while. The camera’s focus is concentrated on a certain perimeter. But Arnold thinks he has a way to pop the focus on the background activity.”

“That will take time,” I agree. “Especially since we don’t know what day he might have met with the source.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Damien says. “But we have a rough time frame, and at the very least he can start pulling prints and getting them to me. With luck, there will be someone I recognize.”

“Shouldn’t I look, too?”

“You should,” he says. “But the odds are good that whoever is doing this is trying to get to me. I have Ryan’s team investigating the players in a few particularly contentious deals I have brewing,” he adds, referring to his security guys.

“Distract you by harassing your girlfriend, and maybe you won’t be such a hard-ass in negotiations?”

“Something like that.”

“It might not be business,” I say. “You’ve slept with a lot of women, Damien. Even if you weren’t serious about them, that doesn’t mean they weren’t serious about you. And one of them might be the jealous type.”

“Agreed. And we’re pursuing that avenue, as well.”

“What about the anonymous letter that came to Stark Tower? Or the text I got in Munich?”

“Nothing yet,” Damien says. “But we haven’t given up.” He glances at his watch, then he pulls out his phone and makes a call. “Anything?” he says, then frowns as the person on the other end speaks. “Good thinking,” he finally says. “That just might work out well for us.”

“That was Ryan,” he says to me after he ends the call. “The cameras at the entrance and the parking garage caught our culprit. Tall, wiry. Completely covered in a black hoodie and sunglasses. Kept his or her head down, but Ethan says the gait looks to be male, and quite possibly a teenager.”

“A teenager? But—”

“I’m guessing someone hired him. Our perp loiters around the convenience store, asks a kid if they’d like to earn a few extra bucks.”

“Oh.” It makes sense.

“Fortunately, there are cameras in strip malls. We might get lucky.”

I nod. It’s a solid plan, but I’m not holding my breath.

“I’m going to assign someone from my security team to you.”

My head snaps up. “The hell you are. I’m not living my life under surveillance.”

“It’s necessary.”

“You don’t have the Secret Service following you around.” It’s one thing to stay with Damien, to take reasonable precautions with my life. It’s something else entirely to suddenly live in a glass jar like a politician or a celebrity.

“I have a team available when I need them. But there’s no indication I’m in danger.”

I start to say that I’m not in danger, either. But considering I’d just agreed to move into Damien’s house because of flying rocks, I can’t really backtrack now. As much as I don’t want some dude in a black suit with an earpiece monitoring my every move, I also don’t want to be stupid about this.

“Nikki,” he says gently. “Do you think I could survive if something happened to you?”

I draw in a breath because I know how he feels. If something happened to Damien, I am certain that I would shrivel up and die.

“All right,” I say. “But not someone who flanks me, and not an obvious tail. But if you want to have someone hang out at the office if I end up renting it, I won’t object. And I’m guessing you already have access to that tracking device we had installed in the car.”

“I could access it,” he says. “But not without some trouble. I’d rather install something I can monitor openly.”

“Done,” I say.

“And your phone,” he says.

I frown. “What about my phone?”

“I want to be able to track you with it. There are apps that will allow me to do that. I’m going to install one.”

“Just like that? No ‘Mother May I’?”

“No,” he says and holds his hand out for my phone.

I hand it over.

He downloads the app, fiddles with the settings, then gives it back to me.

The he takes his own phone out of his back pocket and repeats the process. A moment later, my phone buzzes. I glance at it, open the new app, and see a red dot indicating that Damien is right there in my apartment. “So you’ll never lose me, either,” he says.

“Oh.” I hold tight to my phone, still warm from his hand, and suddenly I’m speechless. Maybe it’s the stress of the evening, maybe it’s hormonal, but for some reason, adding that tracker to my phone is about the most romantic thing I can think of. “Thank you,” I whisper.