Claim Me(48)

I always do, I reply, then sigh happily as I slide my phone back into my purse, but not before noticing the time. It’s only 9:45, which means that I have fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to report for work.

My phone rings, and I pull it out. Damien again. “I’m imagining,” I say, keeping my tone sultry.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He doesn’t sound sultry at all. In fact, he sounds downright pissed. I grimace. Apparently, he’s just spoken to Edward.

“Going to work,” I say.

“I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now.”

“So why aren’t you?”

“Dammit, Nikki—”

“No,” I snap. “I’m the only one who gets to say that. Dammit, Damien, I am perfectly capable of driving myself. And if you want to hire out Edward then ask me. It’s easy. You walk up to me and say, ‘Nikki, darling, light of my life, can I have my driver take you to work?’ ”

There is a pause, and I hope that he is laughing. “And you would have said yes?”

“No,” I admit. “But that’s the way you should have handled it. It’s my job, Damien. I want to drive myself. I will drive myself.”

“I don’t want you around the paparazzi without someone there with you.”

Oh. I feel a little bit better. I don’t agree with what he did, but at least there was a reason for doing it. “Nobody’s here,” I say.

“But there could have been.”

“And I would have dealt with it,” I say, probably too sharply. I count to five. “You can’t be with me every second of every day. No matter how much I wish you could. I’m going to see them when I’m alone. It’s going to happen, and we both just have to deal with it.”

I hear him exhale. “I don’t like it.”

“Me, neither.”

“Dammit, Nikki.”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say.

Finally Damien speaks. “I’m going to my meeting,” he says, but what he means is, I’m worried about you.

“I’m fine,” I say. “And, Damien?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Right emotion. Crappy execution.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” he says. “It is not an argument I can have from Palm Springs.”

I frown. Apparently it is an argument he can have in Los Angeles. Great.

He really does have to go to his meeting, so he ends the call, and I’m left scowling at my phone and the knowledge that I’m going to have to deal with not only the paparazzi, but with Damien trying to babysit me through my day.

I shove the problem out of my head and hurry into the building. I no longer have time to grab a coffee, but that’s okay because I don’t want to risk spilling it on my white blouse. As my mother’s voice in my head reminds me, there are better ways to make a first impression than coffee stains on your outfit.

The reception area is on the fourth floor, and I punch the elevator call button and wait impatiently for the elevator to arrive.

The doors finally slide open and I shift to one side to let the passengers get off. I’m about to step into the car when I hear a throaty, familiar voice behind me.

“Well, look at you, Texas. All dressed up with someplace to go.”

I turn and find myself facing Evelyn Dodge, a brassy broad if ever there was one, and one of my favorite people in the world. She’s wearing flowing black pants and gold sandals that look like something imported from Morocco. The pants are mostly obscured by a blustery multi-patterned shirt that, as far as I can tell, was created by stitching together dozens of Hermes scarves. She looks a bit like a gypsy with very expensive taste.