Claim Me(136)

The next morning I wake up alone and immediately slide out of bed, planning to go find Damien. The sound of voices, however, makes me pause, and I double back to the closet in search of something to wear.

As in the Malibu house, Damien has filled a closet for me. I pull on a black T-shirt and a denim skirt, then head toward the living room to see who’s here.

What I see makes me stop short. Damien stands shirtless in the center of the room. He wears gray sweatpants tied loosely around his hips. He’s balanced on one leg, his arms outstretched. I am behind him, and I can see the muscles in his back as he moves his arms in slow, controlled motions. He is power and grace and it is only after my chest starts to feel uncomfortably tight that I realize I am actually holding my breath.

I suck in air, and Damien puts his foot down, then turns and smiles at me. “Tai chi,” he says, without waiting for me to ask. “It keeps me flexible. Come on in. Go ahead, Charles. You were saying?”

The sight of Damien had given me tunnel vision, blocking out everything else around him. But now my vision expands and I see Charles Maynard on the steel and leather couch, an array of papers spread out on the coffee table. The room is flooded with light from the wall of windows and that—along with seeing Damien—makes me smile despite all that has happened.

“We managed to keep all images of the actual artwork out of the more prominent venues,” Charles says. “I’m somewhat surprised that the various editorial staffs caved to yesterday’s demand letter, but I’ll attribute that to your reputation and deep pockets. No one wants to get in a battle with Damien Stark.”

“They probably know that if they push me on this, I’ll just buy them out.”

“If you mean that, I’ll certainly share that information if I get any pushback.”

“I mean it,” Damien says. “If that’s what it takes to make this go away, then that’s what I’ll do.” He’s looking at me as he speaks, his expression so fiercely protective it makes my knees go weak. I cross to the sofa and sit on the arm.

“Blaine faxed back his affidavit yesterday,” Charles continues, “so we filed the Application for Temporary Restraining Order first thing this morning.”

“You can actually keep them from talking about this?” I ask.

Charles turns to me, his expression compassionate but businesslike. “I’m afraid we can’t do that. We could sue for defamation, but that requires a false statement, and Damien assures me that the rumors are true.”

My cheeks heat, but I nod. “Then what are you doing?”

“We want to stop the publication of the painting itself. Or any other of Blaine’s works. It’s his style that’s partly fueling the fire. The idea that the image is dark and erotic.”

“Oh.” My cheeks burn even hotter. “But how can you keep them from printing photographs? I saw the reporter taking pictures at the party. And there must be dozens of Blaine’s paintings in Southern California. Anybody could invite a reporter in to take a few snaps if they want some extra cash.”

“The owner of the painting doesn’t own the copyright,” Damien explains. “That remains with Blaine. So that’s how we’re handling it.”

“Of course, they can still print photos of you,” Charles says, and I know that there are many, many photos of Damien and me together.

“I understand,” I say. “I suppose every little bit helps. But how on earth did you pull all this together so fast?”

“I’m sure you realize that Damien is one of my most important clients—”