Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(58)

“Tanner seemed to think that you gave me the job as a favor to your wife.” The statement is out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

Bruce looks at me sharply, and I can’t help but wonder what sort of quagmire I’ve stepped in. “Did he?” Bruce says. “That’s odd.”

“I thought so, too. What did he mean?”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth turn down. “Not a clue,” he says, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Oh, well,” I say lightly. “Probably just Tanner being Tanner.”

“I’m sure that’s all.” He stands up. “We should probably mingle. I think the rest of the guests are starting to arrive.”

He’s right. In the time that we’ve been talking, a steady stream of people has been coming in. A few I recognize from a similar party at Evelyn’s just a few short weeks ago. There’s even a Damien-approved photographer from the local paper, snapping away for what will undoubtedly be a spread in tomorrow’s Sunday edition.

I find Jamie talking with Rip Carrington and Lyle Tarpin, two sitcom stars Evelyn must have invited. Since Jamie considers them each utterly drool-worthy, I know that no matter what else happens, this party will rate a full ten on the Jamie-meter.

My score? Not nearly so high. Bruce has soothed my embarrassment, but I’m still irritated that Giselle knew my identity in the first place. And I’m troubled and confused by Tanner’s strange comment—and Bruce’s even stranger response.

Bruce has gotten washed away in the crowd, but I’m still standing by the fireplace. I bend over and pick up the string off the table, then twist it between two fingers as I look around this room that has been transformed from someplace warm and familiar into a cold, polished place in which I don’t feel comfortable, especially without Damien by my side.

I search the crowd, looking for him, but all I see are strangers. The third floor is full now, bright shiny people with their bright shiny smiles. They all look polished and fresh, and I can’t help but wonder if any of them feel as raw inside as I do at this moment. Between my thumb and forefinger, I am still twisting the string, rolling it this way and that so that it wiggles as if it were a snake. It has given me something to occupy my hands, but that is not why I picked up the string. I tell myself I should set it back down on the coffee table and walk away, but I don’t. I plucked it off the white melamine tabletop for a reason.

Slowly, methodically, I wrap the string around the tip of my finger. I tug it tight, and the skin around the thread immediately turns white, while my fingertip turns a deep red that quickly shifts toward purple. With each revolution, the pain increases. And with each revolution, I am a little more grounded.

I am like a windup doll, and each twist of the key focuses the pain—focuses me. I will keep turning and turning, taking as much as I can, and then, when the key is just about to snap, I will let go and Pretty Party Nikki will perform, moving in and out among the guests, smiling, laughing, and focusing on that one shining spot of dark red pain to guide her back home.

No.

Goddammit, no!

I jerk my left hand away from my right with such ferocity that I stumble and upset the small table beside me. A young man in a purple sport coat is standing nearby, and he takes a step forward as if to help, but I turn away, frantically scraping at the string, too upset to calmly unwind the thread. Instead, I claw at it, my heart pounding wildly, and when it finally falls off my finger and onto the floor, I leave it there, then back away as if it is something poisonous, like a scorpion determined to strike.

I push past the guy in purple then lean against the stonework that surrounds the fireplace. The stones press against my bare shoulders uncomfortably, but I don’t care. I need something to hold me up. And until I find Damien, the wall will have to do.

“Are you okay?” the guy in purple asks.

“Yes,” I say, though I’m not okay. I’m not okay at all.

The guy still stands by me, but I barely notice him. Instead, I’m searching for Damien, and the swell of relief that rushes through me when I find him is so forceful that I have to reach back and hold tight to the stones. He is standing to the side, away from the bulk of the crowd near the hallway that leads to the bedroom. He is alone except for Charles Maynard, his attorney, who stands beside Damien looking harried.

I can’t see Damien’s expression, as his back is to me. He has one hand in his pants pocket and the other holds a glass of wine. It’s a casual position, but I see the tension in his shoulders, and I wonder if he is thinking of me, just as I am thinking of him.

Damien.

As if my thought calls to him, he turns, his gaze finding me immediately. I see everything on his face. Worry. Passion. Need. I think that he is fighting hard to give me space. But I no longer want the distance, and I take a step toward him.

As I walk, I see Maynard reach out for Damien’s shoulder and hear his voice, suddenly raised in frustration. “—not listening. This is Germany we’re—”

Damien turns back to his attorney, and I stop cold, as if the connection between us has been broken. I consider continuing on my way, but then rule it out. I am, after all, the one who is mad at him. So why am I so desperate to run to him?

I glance down at my left forefinger. The indentations from the string are still visible, and the tip is still slightly purple. That pain satisfied a need. It grounded me and kept at bay my anger, my fear, my humiliation. It gave me strength and focus, and once again I wonder if Damien gives me the same thing. Is he a new kind of pain?