Claim Me(122)

But when he speaks, he tells me nothing. “I think this is Carl’s way of blowing smoke.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask.

“You said he wants to rebuild burned bridges. What better way to do that than to warn me about some upcoming danger?”

“Because there’s always some sort of danger for a man like you,” I say, picking up the direction of his thoughts.

“An angry competitor. A fired employee. A stolen patent. And then Carl comes along and tells me to be on guard, and when I next notice some nefarious deed, I will think, oh, isn’t it lucky that Carl warned me. I guess the little prick isn’t so bad after all.”

I laugh, because Carl is a little prick and nothing is going to change that. But the laughter doesn’t erase my worry. “So you’re really not worried?”

“I make it a point not to worry,” Damien says. “There’s no profit in it.”

“Damien—”

“Stop,” he says gently.

“Stop what?”

“Stop worrying about me. You’re wasting precious energy.”

“What else am I going to do with it?” I ask airily. “It’s not as if you’re here beside me.”

He laughs. “Good girl,” he says. “Where are you?”

“The parking lot. I’m going to hit the grocery store and go home.”

“Good. Can you do me a favor and pick up some—”

And that is when my phone decides to die. I curse it, but at least I got to talk to him about Carl.

Even though Damien isn’t troubled, I am, and it stays on my mind as I poke through Ralph’s, grabbing coffee and ice cream and other staples of living. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but as my list is on my dead phone, I’ll just have to wing it.

I end up with two plastic bags full of various essentials, and after I park my car at the condo, I leave the parking area and follow the sidewalk around to the front stairs. There’s a crowd gathered there, and it takes me a second to realize that they are waiting for me.

Shit.

I may have been in the mood to confront them earlier, but that has passed. All I want now is to get inside, eat ice cream, and wait for Damien.

I square my shoulders, make sure every trace of emotion is wiped off my face, and soldier on.

Immediately, they swarm me.

“Nikki! Nikki, look over here!”

“Was the portrait completely nude?”

“Does it have the usual Blaine elements like bondage?”

I’m breathing hard, and my body feels suddenly cold and clammy. I don’t understand where these questions are coming from, and I’m afraid—so very afraid—to think too hard about it.

“Why did you do it, Nikki? Was it for the money or the thrill?”

“Nikki! Can you confirm that you accepted a million dollars from Damien Stark to pose nude for an erotic painting?”

I freeze, too horrified to take another step, as camera flashes burst around me. I feel sick, and I am certain that any moment now I’m going to throw up.

“Have you ever posed nude before?”

“Is the painting a reflection of your sex life with Damien Stark?”

“Why did you agree to be tied up?”

They’re all around me, circling me, and I reach out for Damien’s hand, but of course he’s not there. My knees feel weak, and I have to force myself to stay upright. I will not fall, I will not react, I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve gotten to me.