Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(22)

Damien doesn’t answer, and I glare at him, irritated. “Come on, Damien. All that stuff that Carl said—we both know it isn’t going to just go away.”

“I hope it does just go away,” Damien says. “Though I tend to agree.”

“Damien!” I sound as exasperated as I feel. “Just tell me straight out. Has something happened that you haven’t told me about? Is that what the phone call was about?”

“No.” He brushes the tip of his finger over my nose. “I promise.”

I frown as I eye him.

He shifts so that I can see him better, then draws an X over his heart.

I raise a brow, and he lifts three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.

I hold back a laugh, and he holds up his pinkie finger. “Shall we pinkie swear?”

That does it—I laugh and hook pinkies with him.

“I swear to you,” he says, lifting our joined hands and kissing the tip of my little finger, “that call had nothing to do with Carl Rosenfeld.”

I nod. I believe him, but I’m still worried.

Because whoever was on that telephone call had the ability to crack Damien Stark’s cool veneer. And anyone who can do that is no one to trifle with.





5


I open my eyes to a blanket of stars hanging beyond the doorway, uncertain as to what has awakened me. I am groggy and I turn toward Damien, automatically seeking the soft comfort of sliding back into sleep in his arms. But instead of his warmth, I find only the rumpled coolness of abandoned sheets. I sit up, confused. I’d slept soundly, nestled safe against him, and it is disorienting to come back to the world and find myself alone.

The candle has burned down, but Damien has turned the sconce lighting on low, and each fixture emits the slightest of glows, just enough to take the edge off the darkness. I glance toward the kitchen, but that area is dark and quiet. Beside me, the sheets are cool. Damien has not been here for a long time.

I slide off the bed and lift the robe off the floor where it has fallen. I put it on, the gentle caress of the material seeming to mimic Damien’s touch. I reach out for the bedframe, and untie the sash from the iron bar. I wrap it around my waist, cinching the robe. Then I close my hand over the cool iron ball. I will be sorry to see this bed go, but its purpose is done. It was a prop, an illusion chosen for a specific effect.

I tremble, struck by the sudden and unreasonable fear that everything has been an illusion, Damien most of all.

But those are just ghosts. I know better. At least, I hope that I do. I recall his words in the restaurant—that he would leave me to protect me.

I hug myself, suddenly cold. But I know that I am being foolish. Damien hasn’t left me. He’s simply left the bed. “Damien?”

I expect no answer, and I’m not surprised when none comes. The house is large, and over the last week, the workmen have finished painting the interior and even the grounds are almost fully landscaped. There still isn’t any furniture in most rooms, but even so, he could be anywhere, and in a house this large, “anywhere” covers a lot of ground.

For a moment, I consider returning to bed and trying to sleep. He didn’t wake me, after all, and I wonder if he left the room to find some solitude. He told me the phone call wasn’t about Carl’s threats, and I don’t doubt him. But the call still disturbed him, and I’m selfish enough to want to understand why. I want him to confide in me and turn to me for comfort.

I want him to keep his promise to me about shining light on the shadows that surround Damien Stark.

But is that my only motivation for seeking him out now? If so, I really should crawl back in bed. Promise or not, Damien is entitled to his privacy. And no matter how much it may frustrate me, the promise is his to keep or to break.

My hesitation lasts only a moment, because while I do want to understand the man, I want even more to comfort him. I want to hold him and touch him and silently promise him that no matter what he needs, I am there for him.

I want …

Maybe I am still being selfish, but I’m arrogant enough to think that Damien needs me. And, yes, I’m selfish enough to go.

I see that he left his phone beside the candle. I pause, thinking of the text he received, and then the phone call that came soon after. He either recognized the number or the caller’s name is programmed into his phone. Should I look?

I hesitate just long enough to be disgusted by myself. If Damien went pawing through my call history, I’d explode into a completely justifiable rage. And yet I’m actually thinking about looking at his phone? Have I been miraculously transported back to high school?

The thought is undeniably unpleasant, and I forcefully push it out of my mind as I pad to the service elevator at the back of the kitchen. It opens on the first floor in a utility room off the main kitchen, a magnificent space filled with commercial-grade equipment that hasn’t yet been used. I pass through the kitchen into a sunporch. I expect to find him in the gym that eats up at least a thousand square feet on the north side of the house. But when I get there, there is no Damien.

The room is large and divided into distinct sections. The first one I come to is a weight room, filled with machines, free weights, mats, and a boxing bag. I move quickly across the room to the functional but beautiful polished oak door that separates this room from the larger area beyond. In this second room, there is a running track complete with stations. More free weights, pull-up bars, spin bicycles, another boxing bag, and a variety of other equipment.