Complete Me(65)

There is no emotion in his voice, and that chills me more than anything. I don’t move. We are spooned together, my back against his chest, his arm draped over my waist. I keep my eyes closed, as if that somehow makes the words less real. “Why would you say that?”

“I think your earlier thought was right,” he says. “I think my father might be the one behind this.”

“Damien, no.” I roll over now—I have to see him. “Do you really think so?”

“It makes sense. If I go to jail, his asset stream dries up.” Despite the fact that Damien’s father makes my mother look as sweet and cuddly as the Easter Bunny, Damien has continued to support the man.

“Even if you’re right, that only explains how the court got the photos. Why on earth would you think that he’d make them go public?”

He rubs his fingers together, symbolizing money.

I shake my head, not following.

“Tabloids. Internet sites. So-called news programs. They’ll all pay a lot for information if they think it will sell ad space or papers.”

“Shit,” I say, because he is right, and that pretty much sums it up. “Maybe it’s not him.”

“Maybe not.” But I can tell that he doesn’t believe it.

“What will you do?”

“I’m still thinking about that,” he says, and there is a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Will you tell me when you decide?”

He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Yes,” he says. “I promise.”

I breathe in deep, wishing I could somehow make everything better for him, but knowing that’s just not possible. “How much longer before we get home?” Part of me wants the plane to land right now. Part of me wishes we could stay in flight forever.

“A few more hours,” he says, idly stroking my bare arm, the touch feather-soft and sweetly enticing. “But we’re not going home. Not right away.”

“We’re not? Where are we going?”

“One of my favorite places,” he says, brushing a kiss across my hair. “I think you’ll like it.”





Chapter Eleven

The narrow mountain road twists and turns so much that I am beginning to feel a bit nauseated. It’s late, but the full moon casts a glow over the towering pines that grow so thick along the side of the road that it seems as though we are traveling through a tunnel. We are in a Jeep Grand Cherokee that someone from Damien’s staff left for him at the Ontario airport just outside of San Bernadino. It’s the least sporty car I have ever seen Damien drive, but he looks perfectly at home. In fact, I can’t remember a time when Damien has ever looked out of place. It’s that cool confidence that lets him slide into any situation, and I amuse myself by thinking of him going from a high-powered board meeting to a survivalist weekend retreat.

“You’re grinning,” he says.

“I’m picturing you in a loincloth holding an atlatl,” I admit. “Damien Stark, the leader of the tribe.”

“Please tell me this isn’t a retreat you’re planning for us,” he says. “Not unless it involves you in a Raquel Welch style fur miniskirt for a weekend.”

“Even then you wouldn’t like it,” I tease. “I believe the women were in charge of the cooking back in the caveman days.”

“Good point,” he says with a wicked grin. I don’t bother to take offense. We both know that my cooking skills take a nosedive once you get past “peel back plastic cover and set microwave for five minutes.”