Claim Me(32)

“What?” I ask.

“Having fun, Ms. Fairchild?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I’m glad. Earlier—the way those bastards upset you. I didn’t like it.”

“Me, neither,” I say, in what is undoubtedly the understatement of the year. “But I’m okay now. And you seem pretty okay yourself.”

“I would have happily ripped their heads off at the restaurant,” he admits.

“I could tell,” I say. “But I didn’t just mean the paparazzi.”

“Oh?” he eyes me warily.

I lift a shoulder. “I’m still wondering about that call,” I admit. “Is something going on?” I blurt, because I’ve been holding it in all evening and can’t take it anymore. “Has Carl done something?”

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?”