“I paid a visit to Giselle earlier. You won’t be working with her again.”

His words propel me to a sitting position. “What the fuck?” I think about her text. “Goddammit, Damien, quit talking in riddles and tell me what’s going on.”

He lifts his hips so he can readjust his clothes. Then he stands. I scramble to do the same, and follow him back to that glass wall. “She was in the ATM footage. I confronted her, and she confessed she leaked the story about the portrait so she could get cash to help keep her business going after she and Bruce split. She also sold the story about Jamie and the Ferrari, not to mention the bullshit about our little love nest in Malibu.”

“What? No.” But even as I say it, I think about the intensity of her expression when I told her Jamie was staying in Malibu. And I think about all the financial trouble that she told me she was having as a result of her divorce.

Most of all, I think about that text. It was a confession, I now realize. A confession and an apology.

“But she’s the one who told me about the article in the Business Journal.”

“Camouflage,” he says. “She sells the story, then tells you. You’re both surprised together, and she looks innocent.”

My head is spinning. “Wait a second. You fired her? She was doing my walls in my office. If anyone was going to fire her, it should have been me.”

“I told you,” he says. “No one fucks with what’s mine.” There is an edge to his voice that I rarely hear. The edge that reminds me that, yes, Damien has a dangerous side. A ruthlessness that helped him win game after game of tennis in his youth, and then claw his way to the top of the corporate ladder without even breaking a sweat. He is not a man to be fucked with.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it wasn’t him Giselle was fucking with. Maybe the articles were about the two of us, but she’d slipped her way into my office, into my life.

Damien is studying my face, and he’s obviously seeing my temper rising. “It’s done,” he says. “It’s over.”

“How is it done?”

“I explained to her that my lawyers were more than capable of dragging out multiple actions for defamation and invasion of privacy. She’s a businesswoman at heart, so she understands that I can keep a litigation going forever, but she’s going to have trouble finding a lawyer whose hourly rate doesn’t break her. We came to terms.”

“What kind of terms?”

“She turned over all right, title, and interest in her galleries to me. She’s relocating to Florida. And good fucking riddance.”

I press my palm against the glass, as if the coolness will ease the bite of my temper. “You don’t have to fight my battles, Damien.”

“I love you, Nikki. I will always fight for you.”

His words are heavy with meaning and ripe with passion. They knock me backward and steal my breath. “You love me,” I say stupidly.

The corner of his mouth curves up. “Desperately.”

I swallow back the knot of tears that has formed in my throat. “You haven’t said it,” I say. “Not for weeks now.”

He closes his eyes as if my words have hurt him, but when he opens them again, it’s not pain that I see, but love. He reaches for me and pulls me close. I lean against him, breathing in the scent of soap mixed with sex. It’s heady, and I want to get lost in it. Lost in this moment.

“I love you, Nikki,” he repeats. “I say it with every touch, with every look, with every breath that I take. I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

“Me, too.” I brush a kiss across his lips, then meet his smile. “But you can’t protect me from everything, Damien. And you sure as hell can’t protect me by keeping things from me. You should have told me about Giselle. Hell, who knows what else is out there you’re keeping from me. So just stop it, okay? It doesn’t protect me, it just pisses me off.”

“All right,” he says evenly. I think that’s the end of it, but then he continues. “Sofia sent the photos.”

I have to rewind his words in my head, because what he is saying makes no sense whatsoever. “The photos in Germany. Sofia is the one who sent them to the court? I don’t understand. Why? How do you know? Did you talk to her?”

He moves away from the glass wall to the center of the room. He paces, not like a man trying to solve a problem, but like a man who already knows the answer and doesn’t much like it.

“I discovered a discrepancy in one of my father’s accounts. Small amounts siphoned off to an account that I don’t have access to. In excess of a hundred thousand dollars, and yesterday I learned that money was filtered to Sofia.”

I don’t ask him how he knows all of this if he doesn’t have access to the account. I do not doubt that Damien Stark has access to pretty much any information that he’s willing to pay for. “Why would your father send Sofia that much money?”

“Payment for her testimony,” he says. “He wanted her to testify about the abuse—same reason you wanted me to testify. But he didn’t know about the photos. She must have found them in Richter’s things. She took those, sent them to the court, waited around just long enough to make sure it worked, and then used the money to skip out of Europe.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“After I learned about the skimmed money, I had another talk with dear old dad. He told me.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do.”

I nod slowly, trying to process all of this. “Does he know where she is now?”

“He says no, and before you ask, I believe him about that, too. Sofia was never fond of my father. I can see her taking his money. I can’t see her staying in touch.”

“All right,” I say slowly. “I understand that you’re still worried about her, but this means that you can stop worrying that the pictures will turn up in the tabloids. Sofia won’t release them, right?”

“No,” he says with more intensity than I would expect. “I’m certain that she won’t ever let anyone get their hands on those images.”

“So this is good news,” I say. “You’ll find her eventually—doesn’t she always show up?”

“She does, and I may have a lead on her already. I tracked down David and his band. They just arrived in Chicago from Shanghai. I spoke to David on the phone. He tells me he hasn’t seen Sofia, but I don’t believe him. I think a face-to-face conference might help jog his memory.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he says.

He has stopped pacing, and I go to him, then take his hands in mine. “How long will you be gone?”

“If I’m lucky? I’ll be back by dinner.”

“And if you’re not lucky?”

“Let’s hope I am.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Since Jamie wants to grab some things from our condo, she rides in with Edward and me. The plan is to drop me by my office, then swing Jamie by the condo. Then Edward will take her back to Malibu before returning to Sherman Oaks to wait for me. While he’s gone, I promise to stay inside my office, safe behind the protection of the building’s efficient receptionist.