Despite the fact that the last time I was in this office I was treated to images of myself with my face scratched off, I actually manage to get some work done, and I’m feeling rather smug about my productivity when Giselle calls to tell me that she won’t be coming by to show me any samples today.

“No problem. I’m going to skip out in a few hours anyway.” Tonight I’m cutting loose at Westerfield’s, and Jamie and I have already planned to spend hours obsessing about our wardrobe before we decide on the perfect outfits. Coupled with the flavored vodka we’ll undoubtedly be sipping, the whole process should be fun. “Is everything okay?” I ask Giselle.

“Couldn’t be better,” she trills. “A client coming in. One of my best ones.”

“Better be careful who you say that to. Damien won’t be keen on getting knocked from the top slot.”

There’s a pause, and then she lowers her voice. “To be honest, Damien is the client. But promise me you won’t say a word. I have a feeling he wants to buy a canvas for your office.”

I laugh, delighted. “Really? I promise to be surprised.”

I’m still smiling when Damien calls. “Hey,” I say. “I was just about to head back to Malibu to get ready for tonight. Are we going to grab something out for dinner, or do you want me to bribe Jamie to cook?”

“Why don’t you two pick your favorite restaurant—my treat—and I’ll meet you at the club later.”

“Work?”

“A meeting. I have a feeling it’ll run long.”

“Oh? Where will you be? We could have Edward swing by and pick you up when you’re done.”

I’m baiting him, of course, but he gives nothing away.

“You girls have fun,” he says firmly. “But not too much fun. Not until I get there, anyway. And, Nikki,” he adds, “I’ve already spoken to my manager about security at the club, so they’re stepping it up a notch. You’ll be watched.”

“All right,” I say. I’d expected as much.

“And I’m sending Ryan to the club. I want him with you until I get there.”

Now I do feel guilty. “Poor guy. He probably used to have a life before he had to start chasing my monsters.”

“There’s nothing he likes better than taking down a monster,” Damien says. “And the fact that I pay him so well makes it even more fun. Trust me, you don’t have to feel sorry for Ryan.”

I laugh. “Okay, then. But, Damien? Please hurry.”

Westerfield’s is loud and fun with some of the best bartenders and DJs in the city. Ollie and Jamie and I discovered it even before Damien was on my radar, but we’ve been by a few times since, and the bouncer who mans the VIP entrance gives me a little salute as Jamie and I approach. Edward escorts us to the door, but he doesn’t follow us in, returning instead to the limo.

I’m wearing a slinky silver skirt and matching tank top with three inch silver shoes. Jamie is my opposite in all black, the color unusually sophisticated for her. The style, however, adds the kick that Jamie usually finds in color. It is essentially backless, all the way down to the dimples just above her ass. The bodice is held in place by a series of loose black cords that crisscross over her shoulder blades. If someone with a pair of scissors took a snip, the dress would come tumbling down. We both look hot, if I do say so myself.

“Looking good, Ms. Fairchild,” the bouncer says as we strut past him. “Knock ’em dead, Ms. Archer.”

“This is why I love Damien,” Jamie says as we move down the exclusive hallway. “He hires staff that know how to properly suck up.”

I laugh as we reach the door that opens onto the public area of the club. Ryan emerges from the shadows to join us. He nods politely, but I see just the hint of a smile when he nods at Jamie. And, unless the light is playing tricks, I see an answering smile touch her lips.

Worry starts to buzz around me like a persistent gnat, and I tug on one of the black cords crisscrossing Jamie’s back to slow her down.

“What?” she says.

“That’s what I wanted to ask.” I cut a glance toward Ryan, and even in the dim light I see the way her cheeks flush.

I remember that Ryan went out to the house last night to check on security, and have to clamp my mouth shut so that I won’t scream. “Tell me you didn’t sleep with him,” I ask when I’m sure I won’t explode.

“Swear to God,” she says. “We talked. And he’s a total gentleman. I made him eggs.”

“You what?”

She lifts a shoulder. “He came out in a hurry because of that shit with you and the photos. And he hadn’t eaten. So I made him eggs. And he said he really liked them. Next time, I might try to make him a waffle. What?” she demands after a moment, peering hard at my face.

I realize I’ve been staring at her, a little pleased, a little baffled. “Nothing,” I say. “Just—I’m glad he likes your eggs.”

“Hey. What’s not to like?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just tosses a grin over her shoulder and hurries to catch up to him. I follow, then slow to a stop when I realize my phone is buzzing. I tug it out of my tiny purse and see the text from Giselle. I open it eagerly, hoping for gossip about the canvas Damien has bought for me. Instead, I stare at her words as if she’d written them in hieroglyphics.

I’m so sorry. I truly wanted to make amends. Things got out of hand.

I read it again, but it doesn’t make any more sense the second time than it did the first. I hit the button to call her back, but the call just rolls to voicemail.

“What is it?” Jamie asks when I catch up to her.

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. I’ll tell you later.” The club is too loud for conversation, and I don’t know enough, anyway.

We’re in the main area, now, just a few yards away from the dance floor. I glance around and finally see Ollie and Courtney waving from across the room. I already know that Lisa’s not coming, after all; she left me a voice mail earlier telling me she had to go to Sacramento on business, but promising she’d take a rain check.

Jamie and Ryan make it to Courtney and Ollie before I do. I take my time approaching, my eyes searching the area for Damien, but I see no sign of him.

“Hey, Courtney!” I’m genuinely happy to see her and pull her into an enthusiastic hug. My greeting to Ollie feels more forced, but we loosen up on the dance floor. Whatever issues we have between us, a danceable beat is sufficient to take the edge off.

“Listen, Nik,” Ollie says a half hour later as we are catching our breath to a somewhat slower song. “Can we talk?”

I stiffen, because I thought we’d tabled our shit for the night.

He doesn’t seem to notice my reaction, though. He leans in so that I am sure to hear him. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About the grief I’ve given you about Stark, I mean.”

I pull back so that I can see his face—and so that he can see my surprise.

He draws in a deep breath. “I know about the photos, Nik. Nobody should have that in his past.”

It’s warm in the club, but I feel suddenly cold. “He doesn’t want your pity.”