Claim Me: A Novel (11 page)

He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. Instead, I move to snuggle against him. I know that he is still disturbed, as much because he thinks he hurt me as because he lost control. I, however, feel the
opposite. He’s lost control with me. And that is almost like sharing a secret. The thought makes me smile, and I close my eyes and sigh deeply. Sore, yes, but sweetly content.

I’m on the verge of falling asleep when his soft words wash over me.

“My father intends to go to the dedication.”

“Oh,” I say. It’s all that I can manage, though I am fully awake now, and I rise up onto my elbow to face him.

“I won’t be there. Richter was a balls-out bastard, and I won’t support the decision to honor him, not even in the smallest way.”

“Of course you won’t go.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

“I’m glad you have the balls to stand up to your father. I don’t think I could ignore an edict from my mother.”

“I bet you could,” he says. “You’re stronger than you think.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I search his face. “And the tennis center thing is all that’s been bugging you? Truly?”

“Yes,” he says.

Am I imagining the hesitation? Am I so used to Damien’s secrets that I’m seeing them when they’re no longer there?

Yes
, he said. And I decide to believe him. At the very least, he has opened a door. But Damien Stark, like this house, has many rooms, and I can’t help but wonder how many doors remain shut and locked.

I wake in the morning to the scent of brewing coffee and fresh-baked croissants, and when I peel my eyes open I find Damien beside the bed holding a tray, which I immediately identify as the source of those mouthwatering scents. “What’s all this?” I ask.

“A woman heading off to the first day of a new job deserves breakfast in bed,” he says, setting the tray across my lap as soon as I’ve sat up and scooted back.

I take a sip of the coffee, then sigh as the elixir begins to work its magic. “What time is it?”

“Just past six,” he says, and I stifle a groan. “When are you supposed to be at work?”

“Ten,” I say. “Bruce is having me start on a Friday since it’s going to be a day of paperwork and getting my feet wet. Probably the last truly relaxing week I’ll have for a long time. Monday, I’ll be dragging myself in by eight, I’m sure.”

“Don’t even pretend to complain. You know you love it.” He sits on the bed beside me and takes a sip from my mug. I don’t think he even realizes that he’s done it, but I can’t help but smile at the casual intimacy.

As for loving the work, he’s right. I’d moved to Los Angeles less than a month ago planning to take the tech world by storm. My job at Carl’s company, C-Squared, turned out to be a bust, but I’m giddy about my new position at Innovative Resources, a company that does equally fine work with a less psychotic boss.

I spread some strawberry jam on the croissant and take a bite, surprised to find that it’s warm and flaky and just about melts in my mouth. “Where did you get fresh croissants?” I cannot believe that his morning jog took him into town. And these are not heated-up frozen pastries.

“Edward,” Damien says, referring to his driver.

“Thank him for me.”

“You can thank him yourself. Unless you’re planning to walk to work, he’ll be giving you a lift.”

“Not you?”

“While I would love to carpool with you, I’m afraid that’s not possible today.” He leans close and I expect a kiss. Instead, his hand closes over mine and he very deliberately brings the croissant to his mouth and takes a bite. He grins at me, his eyes dancing like a mischievous child. “You’re right,” he says. “Delicious.”

“You owe me now, mister. You can’t expect to steal a woman’s pastry and get away with it.”

“I look forward to your just and severe punishment,” he says, standing. He holds out his hand to me. “Or perhaps I could make it up to you in the shower.”

“I don’t think so,” I say archly. “I don’t want to be late for my first day.”

“I thought you weren’t due in until ten.”

I nod as I finish the croissant and wash it down with another slug of coffee. “I’m not. But I need to get home and get dressed.” I shoot him a wicked smile. “And I need to shower off last night’s sex.”

“That’s a very sad thought,” he says. “Of course, if you insist on taking such drastic action, I did offer to share my shower.”

I look him up and down. He’s clean-shaven and dressed in neatly pressed slacks and his usual white button-down shirt. His jacket is laid across the foot of the bed, and I can even smell the soapy fresh scent of him. “Looks like you managed just fine without me,” I say.

“Never.” The word is heavy with meaning. “And for you I’m willing to get doubly clean.”

“Tempting,” I admit as I push the tray away and slide out of bed. The air is cool, but it feels good against my still Damien-sensitive skin. “But don’t you have work to do? Things to merge? Cutting-edge technology to acquire? Perhaps a galaxy to purchase?”

He holds a robe open for me to slip on. It’s not the red one that I soaked in the pool, and I wonder how many robes he has stocked in that closet. “I did that last week. Apparently there’s nothing left to buy.”

“Poor you.” I twist in his arms and plant a gentle kiss on his chin as he tightens the sash around my waist. “Just like Alexander. No worlds left to conquer.”

He slides his hand up my silk-covered arm and I shiver from the touch. “I assure you that I am very content with my conquests.” The heated look in his eyes shifts to something more calculating. “Although you are right. I have a day full of meetings in Palm Springs starting at eight.”

I gape at him. “And you were offering me a shower? What would you have done if I’d taken you up on that?”

“I would have enjoyed myself very much, I assure you.”

“And been late for the meeting.”

“I’m rather confident they can’t start without me. That is not, however, an excuse to be late.”

As if on cue, a loud rush fills my ears and the house seems to vibrate. “What is—”

“My ride,” Damien says as a helicopter appears below the roofline and continues its descent below the balcony.

I hurry outside and watch as the helicopter lands on a flat, grassy area of the yard.

I turn and look at Damien. “What?” I say. “You couldn’t afford a proper helipad?”

“On the contrary, you’re looking at a state-of-the-art, eco-friendly, reinforced turf landing platform.”

I blink at him. “Seriously?”

“It’s quite revolutionary, I assure you. The ground is prepped with a high-tensile-strength mesh system that creates an anchored root system providing a surface area with remarkable load-bearing capacity. And because the Malibu hills are prone to mudslides, I’ve taken additional precautions and strengthened the area with a buried grid system into which that root area blends. The result is pretty damned impressive.”

“If you do say so yourself.”

He smirks. “I’m afraid this isn’t one of my projects. Not yet, anyway. I’ve begun talks with the company that holds the patent on the mesh technology.”

“To acquire the company?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe I’ll simply be a silent partner.” He fixes me with a steady look. “Not all of my business ventures involve my fingers in the pie.”

I ignore the unstated message. I want the million that I earned posing for the portrait in order to seed my business—a business I intend to kick into gear once I feel like I’m ready. Damien wants to help me—and he thinks I’m ready now. It’s not a discussion that I’m diving back into now, but he presses on.

“You’re ready, Nikki. You can do this.”

“Surprisingly, I think I’m a better judge of my ability than you are,” I say, more sharply than I intend.

“Willingness, yes. Ability, no. That’s a much more objective
criterion, and I see more clearly than you do. You’re too close to the subject in question. Let’s examine the evidence, shall we?”

I cross my arms over my chest and scowl at him, but he presses on.

“You already have two reasonably profitable smartphone apps on the market, fully designed, marketed, and supported by you and you alone. You accomplished that entrepreneurial feat when you were still in college, so that in and of itself indicates the kind of self-sufficiency a successful business owner needs. Your degrees in electrical engineering and computer science are only icing on the cake, but your invitation into PhD programs at both MIT and CalTech demonstrate that I’m not the only one who sees your worth.”

“But I turned down the programs.”

“So that you could work in the real world and gain experience.”

I can see that I’m not going to win this argument, so I do the only thing I can do—I ignore it and kiss him gently on the cheek. “Your car pool’s here, Mr. Stark. You don’t want to be late for homeroom.” I turn to head inside, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back. His kiss is long and deep and makes my knees go weak, but Damien considerately holds me up so that I don’t collapse in a puddle on the flagstone tiles.

“What was that for?” I breathe when he releases me.

“A reminder that I believe in you,” he says.

“Oh.” His voice is filled with so much pride and confidence that I wish I could soak it up like a drug.

“And a promise of things to come,” he adds with a sexy curve to his lips. “I’ll call you when I get back. I’m not sure how late I’ll be.”

“The helicopter’s not as speedy as it looks?” I tease.

“More like my colleagues don’t conduct business as expediently as I’d like.”

“No prob. I should have dinner with Jamie tonight, anyway. I’ve been a best friend in absentia lately.” I start to pull away, but his fingers tighten around mine. “What?”

“I don’t want to go.” His grin is boyish, and I laugh with delight. Damien is so many things, and I am falling hard for all of them.

“But if you don’t, then how can I spend the day looking forward to having you back?”

“You’re a very wise woman,” he says, then presses a fresh kiss to my lips. “Until tonight.”

Edward greets me outside by the door of a gracious silver and burgundy car that looks like it belongs on
Masterpiece Theatre
. “New car?”

“No, ma’am,” Edward says. “Mr. Stark rebuilt her about three years ago.”

“Really?” I look the car over, wondering when on earth Damien found the time. I try to imagine him under the chassis, his hands dirty and a spot of grease on his nose. Surprisingly, it’s an easier picture to conjure than I would have imagined. As I’ve seen time and again, Damien can do pretty much anything. And look damn good doing it, too.

As for looking damn good, the car certainly fits that bill. It’s all soft curves and flowing lines, the epitome of automotive class and grace. It’s almost a crime that Edward wears a simple suit instead of livery, and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if his voice took on a British tinge.

He is oblivious to the way my mind is wandering. “We normally reserve the Bentley for formal occasions, but Mr. Stark thought you might enjoy arriving at your new position in style.”

As he speaks, the helicopter rises from behind the house, far enough away that it barely kicks up a breeze. It’s too far for me to see Damien, but I lift my hand anyway and wave a silent thank-you.

“I need to go home, actually. Not work. But Mr. Stark was right about the rest,” I say as I slide past Edward into the car. “I’m definitely going to enjoy this ride.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Stark was very clear that I am to see you safely to your office.”

“Was he?” I consider pulling out my cell phone and giving Damien a piece of my mind, but that would ultimately change nothing. I consider my options and then nod. “Fine,” I finally say, pushing my irritation aside. “But I do have to go home first.”

“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” He shuts the door, and I’m snug in a leather and wood cocoon, breathing in the scent of luxury.

The windows, I notice, are not electric but instead operate with old-fashioned knobs that appear to be mahogany and are polished to a sheen. The white leather seat is as soft as butter, and the seat back in front of me actually has a tray table. I defy convention and release it from its full upright and locked position. It eases down to form a perfectly positioned writing surface. I’m suddenly overcome with a longing for a quill pen and parchment.

“What year is the car?” I ask Edward as he maneuvers us down the drive.

“It’s a 1960 S2 Saloon,” he says. “Only 388 were produced, and I’m afraid there are very few still on the road. When Mr. Stark ran across this one in a junkyard, he was determined to bring it back to its former glory.”

I’m not at all certain what Damien would have been doing in a junkyard, but it takes no effort whatsoever to imagine his determination. What Damien wants, Damien gets, be it a classic car, a Santa Barbara hotel, or me.

I run my finger over the varnished surface of the desk, the motion reminding me of my earlier whimsy. “You don’t happen to have a paper and pen up there, do you?”

“Certainly,” Edward says. He leans over and pulls something out of the glove box, then passes a folio back to me. I open it and find a fountain pen and heavy linen stationery monogrammed with
DJS
—Damien’s initials.

I hesitate. I hadn’t really expected that Edward would have the things I asked for, and now that I’m faced with the prospect of putting my thoughts on paper, I am suddenly tongue-tied. Or finger-tied, as the case may be.

But this is too sweet an opportunity to squander, so I draw a breath, put the nib of the pen on the paper, and begin to write.

I continue to write, pouring out my teasing phrases through the intimate flow of ink onto paper. As I watch my precise handwriting fill the page, I almost regret the tech revolution. How wonderful to have received a letter from a lover. To open it and see his heart on the page, his handwriting bold and strong. There’s an immediacy to texts and emails that can’t be denied, but the intimacy of a letter really can’t be replicated.