Complete Me(60)

I sip the champagne, sigh, and have to admit that there’s something to be said for the billionaire lifestyle.

“What happened to the other plane?” I ask Damien. We’d flown from Munich to London in a small jet, similar to the one he keeps hangared in Santa Monica. While comfortable, it pales in comparison to this one.

“This is the Lear Bombardier Global 8000,” he says. “We’re crossing the Atlantic, remember? Not to mention all of the United States. I thought traveling in a plane with sufficient fuel capacity made sense. Plus it’s easier to get work done with an actual office. And sleep in an actual bed,” he adds, trailing his finger lightly up my leg and giving me shivers.

“This thing has an office and a bed?”

“There’s a bed in the stateroom,” he says.

“Wow.” I want to get up and explore, but the attendant has already asked that we fasten our seat belts as the plane is now taxiing toward the runway.

Now, she’s standing next to the jump seat. She’s speaking into a headset, presumably communicating with the pilot. A moment later, she hangs up, then walks toward Damien and me. “Mr. Stark, you’ve had a telephone call from Mr. Maynard. He tried to reach your cell, but apparently the call didn’t connect. When he realized you were on board, he called the tower and asked that we get a message to you to call him at your earliest convenience.”

“Can we hold on the runway?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll call him now,” he says, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. I watch from beside him, frowning as he’s put through to Charles. I can’t imagine why Maynard would be calling—could the court have changed its mind? Is it even allowed to do that?

I study Damien’s face, but his expression gives me no clues. It’s gone completely blank and totally unreadable. A boardroom expression designed to give nothing away to competitors—or to me.

After a moment, Damien stands, and though I reach for his hand, he doesn’t reach back. Neither does he meet my eyes. He heads to the back of the plane and disappears into what I assume is the office.

I try to focus on my book, but it’s impossible, and after I’ve read the same page over at least three dozen times, Damien finally returns. He nods at the attendant, who radios the cockpit, and by the time Damien has fastened his seat belt again we are once again readying for takeoff.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing to worry about.” He stills wears that bland, corporate mask and I feel my heart constrict, as if a giant fist is squeezing it tight.

“But I am worrying. Charles wouldn’t radio the tower unless it was important.”

He smiles, but it seems forced, and I see no corresponding humor in his eyes. “You’re right. He wouldn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“There’ve been some time-sensitive developments on a couple of matters that I’ve been chipping away at.” His voice is level, his words perfectly reasonable. I, however, don’t believe a word of it.

“Don’t shut me out again, Damien.”

“I’m not,” he says firmly. “Not everything is about us.”

I tense, the sting of his words as potent as a slap. “I see.” I finger the book in my lap. “Well, never mind.”

“Nikki . . . ” His voice is no longer cold.

I tilt my head to look at him, my own mask firmly in place. “It’s fine,” I say.

His eyes search mine, the near-black one seeming to see so deep into me that it is almost dizzying. I hold his gaze for as long as I can before I have to look away or else risk him seeing too clearly that I’m certain his words are all bullshit. What I don’t understand is why.