Complete Me(120)

“Okay,” I say with a grin. “You’re officially out of the doghouse. Thank you for the cookies,” I add. “And don’t do it again.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But it’s safer not to make promises.”

I can’t help but laugh. This is one of the foibles of being in a relationship with a man like Damien Stark. But the more important fact is that as much as he drives me nuts, we are talking about this stuff. It’s light in the shadows. It’s glue on the bubble. Because the more solid we are, the longer we can hold back the world.

“Thanks for coming,” I say. “You could have waited and talked to me tonight.”

“No,” he says simply. “I couldn’t have.”

“Lunch?”

“Unfortunately, that I do have to pass on.”

“Too bad, though I suppose it’s just as well. I’ve accomplished absolutely zip today. I take it your day is busier what with a universe to run.”

“My universe today extends only to the two of us.”

At first, I think he’s being romantic. Then I see the hard lines of his face. I push the box aside and perch on the edge of my desk. “You’ve learned something. Is it good or bad?”

“A bit of both, actually.”

“All right. Tell me the good first.”

“The court ruled against the motion to unseal the photos.”

“Damien,” I say. “That’s huge.”

“It is,” he agrees. “But the press isn’t stupid. The odds are they’ll try the back door route and do the same thing I’m doing—try to figure out who sent the evidence in the first place.”

“Have you learned anything new?”

He hesitates, then nods. “About the photos, no. About our leak regarding your portrait, yes. Turns out the ATM camera was very effective.”

“Seriously? That’s wonderful. Who is it?”

“I still need confirmation,” he says. “Let me see where it goes, and then I’ll lay the whole thing out for you.”

“Okay,” I say, though I’m disappointed he won’t tell me right then, even if he is still investigating. I consider pressing the point, but decide not to. I don’t think that his closed-mouthedness stems from the desire to keep secrets but simply from Damien’s innate need to keep control. Of his business. Of information. And, I think, glancing at the doghouse-shaped box, of me.




The intercom buzzes. “Ms. Fairchild, you have another delivery. May I send them back?”

“Sure.” I glance at Damien, but he holds up his hands. “This one’s not from me. I swear.”

I don’t believe him, of course. At least not until I take the envelope from the courier and see his Damien’s face. “Let me open it,” he says sternly.

My chest goes cold. The negligible weight of the plain manila envelope turns heavy in my hand. “You don’t think . . . ”

“I don’t know.” He reaches for it. “But I’m going to find out.”

I pass him the envelope, irritated with myself for not having the guts to rip it open, and at the same time desperately grateful that he’s there beside me. He holds the envelope in a handkerchief, then uses a small pocketknife from his keychain to open it. He pushes the envelope at opposite corners so that the slit gapes open, then starts to peer inside.

“No,” I say firmly. “I want to see when you do.”

His expression is tight, and I expect him to say no. But then he nods. I move to stand beside him, and then he upturns the envelope over the desk, spilling the contents onto the polished surface.