Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(11)

I manage the maneuver successfully, thank goodness, and Damien releases my hand and slips his arm around my waist. It is summer, but this close to the beach the air is cool, and I lean against him, relishing his warmth. Damien tosses the keys to the valet, who I think is going to weep with joy at the prospect of sliding behind the wheel of that exceptional car.

“Let me guess,” I say, as we wait for our rather inefficient valet to get a ticket for Damien. “You own the building.” I glance at it as we speak. Only the entry is well lit, and in the shadows, I see clusters of people. Couples talking together. Men wearing everything from swim trunks to business suits. I suppose that’s normal. After all, the beach is just across the street.

“This building? No, though I might put in an offer if it comes up for sale. It’s an office complex right now, but with this location, it could be converted to a very successful hotel. I’d keep the rooftop restaurant, and not just because I’m friends with the owner.”

The valet hands Damien the card, and for the first time, I notice the restaurant name on the valet stand. “Le Caquelon?” I ask as we head for the door. “I haven’t heard of it.”

“It’s excellent. Fabulous view, even better food.” He grins wolfishly as he looks me up and down. “And the tables are very, very private.”

“Oh.” I swallow, because there it is—that sensual ping that is Damien. That makes me turn on a dime from calm and collected to a swooning mass of sensual, sexual need. I’m going to make you come, he’d said, and dear God I hope that is a promise he intends to keep.

I clear my throat and try to calm my speeding pulse. I’m sure he can feel it beating against him. “What does the name mean?” I ask.

Before he can answer, the clusters break apart, then seem to re-form into a mob. Now camera strobes are flashing and the vultures are shouting their questions. It’s happened so quickly that I don’t even have time to think. Automatically I wipe all expression from my face, then paste on the tiniest of smiles. For so many years, I’ve hid behind a practiced, plastic mask. Social Nikki, Daughter Nikki, Pretty Pageant Nikki.

Right now, I am Public Nikki.

Damien’s hand tightens around my waist, and though he says nothing, I feel the tension building in him. “Just walk,” he whispers. “All we need to do is get inside.” Inside, as his attorney Charles explained to me, we are safe. Inside, they would be trespassing.

“Nikki!” A voice stands out from the din, so familiar in its tone that I want to slug the shouter. I don’t, however, react. Instead I face straight ahead and reveal only that tiny public smile.

“The photos that came out last week from the Miss Texas bathing suit competition have gone viral. Is it true you leaked them to promote a new modeling career?”

In my mind, I imagine my hand tightening into a fist, my nails biting into my flesh.

“What about television? Can you confirm that you’ll be starring in a new reality show next year?”

No, not a fist. I am holding a razor blade, that tight, sharp line of steel biting through my skin, the cold pain something I can grab on to.

No.

I force the thought of blades and pain out of my mind. It infuriates me that these parasites are a catalyst for my weakness. They aren’t worth my time, much less my pain.

“Nikki, how does it feel to have snagged one of the world’s most eligible bachelors?”

I breathe in deep as Damien’s hand tightens around my waist, pulling me even closer. Damien. I don’t need the pain—I don’t. They are nothing—nothing. I am centered. And I have Damien to help keep me whole.

“Mr. Stark! Can you comment on the rumor that you refused to attend next Friday’s tennis center dedication?”

For a moment, I think that Damien stumbles, but then we are moving again, and in front of us the doors open and a man who must be seven feet tall bursts through, flanked by two men in suits who move to either side of us. The three form a triangular-shaped barrier, and we move like an arrow through the crowd, over the threshold, and into safety.

As soon as the doors close behind us, my chest feels less tight. My breath comes easier. Damien takes his arm from around my waist, but twines his fingers in mine. He looks down at me, the question clear in his eyes. “I’m fine,” I say as we hurry toward the elevator. “Really.”

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.”