Claim Me(160)

Since I don’t know if the paparazzi are clinging like leeches to the front sidewalk, I use the back route to the parking area. Yes, they might swarm my car as I exit the gate, but with any luck I’ll be down the street before they realize it’s me.

As it turns out, I’m lucky. There is a lone photographer camped out on the sidewalk in a lawn chair. I manage a tight grin. As far as I’m concerned, he’s in league with the devil, and I can think of little that is more hellish than sitting outside during a sweltering summer in the San Fernando Valley when the beach and cool ocean breezes are only a few miles away.

My thoughts, however, don’t remain long with the paparazzi. Instead, I’m concentrating on only two things: getting to Damien, and working the clutch exactly right so that the Honda doesn’t stall out on me.

By some miracle, I get to downtown stall-free, and then it is only a few blocks before I pull into the underground parking structure that serves Stark Tower and the adjacent building.

I grab the closest parking place, yank my purse out of the passenger seat, and sprint to the elevator.

Joe is working the security desk and I wave at him as I jog by in the lobby. “I’m going to the apartment,” I call. “Buzz me up?”

“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” Yes, there are definitely perks to being the boss’s girlfriend.

The elevator is open for me when I get to the proper bank. I step inside, press the button, and tap my foot for the entire ride to the top. I still feel antsy, and despite being an express, the elevator can’t move fast enough to suit me. The doors open onto the apartment side of the penthouse, and I step out into the foyer. I don’t hear Damien or Charles, but I assume that they have not left for Germany, since surely Joe would have told me.

“Damien?” I call softly.

I hear a thump from the back of the apartment and hurry in that direction, hoping that it is Damien and that he is alone.

I find him in the bedroom, a suitcase open on the bed. His back is to me, but flip-flops are not quiet shoes, and he turns as I enter the room.

I start to go to him—I want nothing more than to lose myself in his embrace—but something in his expression stops me. There is pleasure and surprise, yes. But there is also wariness. And something darker, too. Something I don’t recognize, but that I fear is … regret?




“Damien?” I am scared now, and for no reason, and the rising of this unpleasant emotion bothers me. This is Damien. The man who would never hurt me. Who would move mountains to protect me. So what the hell am I afraid of?

There is, however, a tiny part of me that knows what I fear—and hopes with a desperate fervency that I am wrong.

“Nikki.” The smile that touches his lips is so warm and genuine that I am emboldened. Whatever gloom has settled over me is simply wrong, and I shove it away and hurry toward Damien.

“I had to come say goodbye again,” I say.

“I’m glad you did,” he says. “I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye to you. I’m going to miss you more than you can imagine.” There is nothing strange about his tone, and he is looking at me with such familiar adoration I think that my heart will burst. Even so, the sense of dread returns.

I press on anyway. “I wanted you to know that what you told me last night changes nothing. I don’t care if you pushed Richter off the roof on purpose. What he did to you was reprehensible, and I will stick by you, Damien. No matter what, I am not running.”

He looks at me with steady eyes and a sad smile. “I believe you,” he says.