Unwrap Me (6 page)

“I don't know what you mean,” I lie. “We only just met. How could I possibly know you?”

He doesn't even miss a beat. “So get to know me.”

“You have a girlfriend.”

“If that's what you want to call it, then yes. I do. So?”

“So?” I repeat. “So, duh.”

He laughs. “I'm not a saint, Nikki. I've fucked around. A lot, actually. I've moved on to the next and the next after that. I've lived most of my life taking what I want. But it's a life that feels unreal and just a little off-kilter.”

The word seems to flash in neon in my mind. “Off-kilter?” I repeat.

He ignores me. Instead he steps in closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne. Hell, I can practically feel the heat he exudes. His voice is low, meant for my ears only, and the words seem to flow over me, sensual and enticing.

“I like to fuck, Nikki, and I'm very good at making a woman feel incredible. But all those women? I look at them and I see an ending.”

My mouth has gone dry, and I can barely get my words out. “Why are you telling me this?”

His smile is full of wicked promise. “Because with you, I see a beginning.”

I swallow, then force myself to flash one of my practiced, plastic smiles. “Great line. Does it work often?”

“I don't know.” He is looking at me as if he knows all my secrets. “I've never used it before.”

Oh.
I shake my head, because this can't be happening.
We. Just. Met.
He's playing me. He has to be playing me.

“I need to go,” I say, flustered.

“All right,” he says slowly. “But know that I'm going to be watching you. And I will have you, Ms. Fairchild.” He nods toward the painting. “There's a reason that Blaine named it
Anticipation
. She's waiting. She's wanting. She doesn't have him yet, but she knows he's coming. Anticipation, Nikki. It's one hell of a potent aphrodisiac.”

Since I can no longer manage words, I scurry off like a fool. Only when I'm safely at the piano do I turn back toward the painting, then cringe when I see that Carmela has come up to him. As I watch, she presses her palm to his chest, then brushes her lips over his ear.

But though she is touching him, stroking him, I can tell she hasn't reached the core of him. I know, because I can see the truth in those astounding, mesmerizing dual-colored eyes.

And they're focused intently on me.

“You really like it?” Ollie asks me, nodding toward the set of camera lens filters he's bought me for Christmas.

“Are you kidding? Of course.” Photography is my passion, and I am more than willing to accept any and all camera-related gifts.

“And you, too?” I ask.

He, Jamie, and I are on the floor in the living room of the condo Jamie and I share, and Lady Meow-Meow, Jamie's fluffy white cat, is playing in the paper and ribbons left over from the presents we've just finished opening. I'd had no idea what to get Ollie, and so I went with a new briefcase, splurging to get it monogrammed.

“Love it,” he says, then kisses me.

“God, more PDA,” Jamie says, and even though I am a horrible person for thinking it—and even though I know Jamie is only teasing—I second the thought.

Ollie came over about two in the morning when he finished his brief and stayed the night with me. We didn't make love, but we'd cuddled and I'd slept in his arms, and it had felt nice—and I'd been completely racked with guilt because while Ollie was holding me, I was thinking about Stark. I'm an idiot, of course, because with Ollie I have a good thing. A great thing. And I really shouldn't mess it up before it even begins.

“He's going to ask you to move in with him,” Jamie tells me as soon as I'm back from driving him to the airport later that morning. “He told me because it'll leave me in a lurch on the mortgage and, well, I just thought you should know. But that's good, right? Because this thing between you and Ollie is good. Like about-damn-time good. Right?”

“Sure.” I feel a little numb and tell myself it's just relationship jitters. Things are changing so quickly. Thus the off-kilter-ness. “Yeah.” I draw a breath. “Thanks for telling me.”

She cocks her head. “You don't look so sure.”

“I just—well, I just want to be smart. I mean, look at Courtney. They were together for years and he cheated on her umpteen times.”

She nods sagely. “True, but we both know that as far as Ollie's concerned, he's always wanted you. I can't imagine he'd cheat on you. If for no other reason than I'd kill him.”

“I guess.”

“I'm trying to figure out what's in your head,” Jamie says. “Isn't this a good thing? I mean, you guys are sleeping together, and it's good, right? And he's been one of your best friends forever. And he loves you and you love him.”

“I do love him,” I say, and I mean it. “And the sex really was nice. But…”

I trail off, thinking about the heat I felt with Damien last night. Waves of intense passion that I've never once felt with Ollie. Not before, when we were just friends. Not in bed, when we transitioned to lovers.

“You're not sure you love him like that?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Take it from me, babe,” Jamie says. “As a woman who's spent her life going through men. That kind of love doesn't really exist.”

“Your parents adore each other,” I point out.

She grimaces. “Yeah, they do. So much that I spent my life feeling like a third wheel.” She shakes her head. “Forget it, Nik. You and I both know that fairy tales are for fools. Ollie loves you. He gets you. And he's already met your demons. You're too smart not to know when you've got a good thing.”

“You're right. I know you're right.” And I
do
know she's right. After all, I know the difference between love and lust. And with Ollie I have the complete package.

So why am I feeling so twitchy?

I draw in a breath and try to steady myself. “Another movie? We haven't done
Die Hard
yet this season.”

“Tonight, maybe? I'm actually meeting Gregory for Christmas brunch.”

“Gregory?”

“The tall guy. The one in that new sitcom. Well, sort of in it. He's had a speaking role in two episodes, and they've hinted he might end up a regular.”

“And you're meeting him on Christmas morning for brunch?”

“And probably for sex, too,” she says, then grins impishly. “Because I know that he's not the one. Which means that just having some fun with him is more than fine. Seriously, Nik, promise me you'll just chill today.”

“I promise,” I say, and I mean it. But later when my phone dings with a text, I have to rethink my words.

White Christmas/It's a Wonderful Life
double feature.

Meet me at the Chinese in an hour.

I consider ignoring it.

Then I consider going, but not answering.

Then I think that I'll send a one-word reply:
Okay.

Instead, I text him back,
Who is this?

His reply comes faster than I expect.
Minx. Get moving or you're going to miss the trailers.

I roll my eyes, enjoying myself far more than I should.
Yes, sir
.

For several moments there's no answer. Then my phone dings as I'm looking for my keys.
Good girl
.

But I'm not a good girl, of course. Apparently, I'm a very bad girl. Because I didn't even hesitate when he told me to go. I just rolled over and wagged my tail, happy for him to want me.

Once again, my phone chimes:
There's a car waiting in front of your building. It will bring you to me.

I take a deep breath, suddenly realizing that even going to the movies with Damien Stark is unlike anything I've ever done before. And I can't help but wonder what else will be different.

Anticipation,
I think.

And as I hitch my purse over my shoulder and hurry down to the waiting car, I know without a doubt that I'm either making a huge mistake…or doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing.

He's waiting for me in the lobby when I burst inside, my admission already taken care of by the ticket that the chauffeur handed me.

“I like your limo,” I say as he hands me a bucket of popcorn. Honestly, I liked it a lot. It inspired all sorts of naughty thoughts. The kind I don't usually think. The kind that seemed oddly familiar when it was Damien Stark on my mind.

“I'm very glad to hear it,” he says as he passes me a soda. “I guessed on Diet Coke.”

“You guessed right.”

“And butter on the popcorn.”

“Hell, yes,” I say. After growing up with my mother and exactly one cup of air popped corn with absolutely nothing on it only once every two months, I'm happy to drown my greasy movie popcorn with a fake butter-like substance. The more the better.

There are only about fifty people in the theater, and with a house this size, that means that we are very much by ourselves when Damien steers me toward one of the back rows in the center section. “Long way from the screen,” I say.

“I like my privacy,” he retorts.

“Your celebrity status becoming a burden?” I tease.

“On the contrary. I just assumed you'd want to be away from gawkers when I touch you.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “How exactly do you intend to touch me?”

“That depends,” he says.

“On what?”

“On whether you'd rather watch the movie or come for me.”

His words make me whimper, and I hear his soft chuckle as the houselights start to dim. “Good answer, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, and I squirm a little in my seat, already turned on. Already wet.

And, yes, already nervous about what's to come.

He starts simply enough. His hand on mine. His fingertip lightly brushing over the back of my hand. Stroking and teasing. Then trailing lightly up and down my forearm.

I've never thought of an arm as particularly sensual—god knows no other man has set my body on fire by caressing such a utilitarian body part—but right now I'm actually having to bite my lip to keep my mouth closed so that I don't moan and whimper in the middle of this theater.

Stark, damn him, knows exactly the effect he's having on me, and since we have four hours together in this theater, he's taking it slowly. Torturously, wonderfully, deliciously slowly.

So slow, in fact, that he's only reached my shoulder by the time the gang's reached Vermont. And when he starts to slide his hand down—when he slips his fingers down the V-neck of the light sweater I'm wearing and then under the lace of my bra—he's moving so slowly and building so much of that damned anticipation, that I almost come simply from the touch of his finger on my nipple.

“Good girl,” he says, and as he speaks, he takes my hand and places it in his lap. He's hard as steel, and this evidence of how turned on he is makes me even wetter, and I squirm a little, wanting satisfaction. Because I'm close now. So damn close, and it's very clear that he is going to drag this out.

He slides his hand free of my shirt, then strokes me over the rough linen of my skirt. Once again, he moves excruciatingly slowly as he tugs the skirt up. This time, however, I'm not getting more and more turned on with each subtle shift of his hand. On the contrary, I'm getting more and more tense. Because his fingers are brushing my knee. Then the inside of my thigh. Then creeping higher. And higher. And getting closer and closer to my secrets.

Secrets nobody knows. Just Ollie. Just Jamie.

And not Stark—I don't want a man like Damien Stark to know how weak I am. I don't want him to see me like that.

But he's right there, and he's going to feel the hard, raised scar tissue. He's going to know. He's going to—

I lurch to my feet, yanking my skirt down as I do and spilling the popcorn in the process. “I'm sorry,” I say. “This is a mistake. I have to go.”

I don't wait for him to reply, I just turn and rush toward the lobby, and then on out into the light without even slowing.

It's not until I reach the stars of the Hollywood Walk of Fame that I slow down, then bend over and press my hands to my knees and take big, deep gulps of air.

I'm hunched like that when I feel his hand on the small of my back. I close my eyes, expecting him to demand an explanation. Expecting him to tell me I'm not worth the trouble.

Expecting him to just leave so that I can go back to my calm and quiet routine with Ollie.

Instead, he says, “Walk with me.”

“I—what?” I straighten and look at him, confused.

“It's too pretty a day to be cooped up in a theater. Let's walk.” He extends his hand, and then just holds it out for me as I hesitate, unsure what to do. I know what I
should
do. I should run from him. He's dangerous.

And yet I can't make myself go.

Finally, I take his hand, then watch as slowly—ever so slowly—his smile reaches his eyes. “Come on,” he says, as he starts walking down Hollywood Boulevard.

I don't know what I expected. Maybe an interrogation. Maybe small talk. But we walk in easy silence for a few blocks until he tugs me to a stop in front of a thrift store. “I once found a first edition Ray Bradbury here,” he says. “Owner had no idea what he had.”

“You like science fiction?”

“I do,” he says, and those simple words seem to convey a lifelong passion.

I'm not sure what to say, so I let my eyes drift back toward the window, and that's when I see it. I gasp and squeal and point with an “Oh my god! It's my Looney Tunes lunchbox!”

“Lunchbox?”

“I've wanted that particular one since I was seven,” I explain. “See? The Road Runner is on the front. Bugs Bunny's on the back. And there are Wile E. Coyotes on each of the sides. But I never got it. I asked every birthday and every Christmas, and I never got it.”

“What did you get instead?”

“Clothes. Hair stuff. A Barbie Dreamhouse.” I scowl. “My mom knew damn well I never liked Barbies. But that's what she wanted me to be. That's how you and I almost met once, actually. Did you know?” I can tell from his face that he doesn't, and so I go on. “You judged a pageant in Dallas, and I was supposed to be in it. But I'd gotten sick that morning and had to back out.” I'd actually swallowed an entire bottle of ipecac syrup. I'd vomited all over my mother's expensive Oriental rug, which I'd considered a perk. And the violent stomach cramps were more than worth the day of absolute freedom.

“I remember that pageant,” he says. “I had the feeling I was missing something special.”

I think he's teasing me, of course, but there's such a serious expression on his face when he says the words that I'm actually confused. Because there's certainly no reason he would have missed me. Then again, the moment I saw him at Evelyn's party, I felt like I was missing an entire chunk of my life.

Déjà
vu
, I think.
So freaking weird.

The truth is that Damien Stark has wormed his way into my blood. And while that feels good up to a point, the overall effect is something far too dangerous.

Gently, I tug my hand free of his under the pretense of going to the door to check the hours. “Closed today, of course. It's Christmas. But maybe I'll come back tomorrow and get it. Then again, I probably won't. It's not the same buying it for yourself.”

“Which is why I've never gotten him,” he says, pointing to a stuffed teddy bear. It's the handcrafted kind, with soft fur and jointed arms and legs. It's wearing a little vest and there's a red kerchief peeking out of a pocket.

“Adorable. A new member of your board of directors?”

“Not a bad idea,” he says. “But no. Pure sentiment. I had one just like him as a kid. Before I started playing tennis professionally. At some point my dad threw him out. I only realized once we started to travel for tournaments and I wanted to take Bob with me.”

“Bob?” I grin. “Bob the bear.”

“Hey, I was about seven. Give a guy a break.” He takes my hand again, and I don't object as I fall in step beside him. And over the next few blocks the conversation deepens. He talks about the stress of playing tennis so young. He even talks about the gossip that surrounds him, though he doesn't give me any real details. But he acknowledges the rumors that a girlfriend died under suspicious circumstances. And the speculation that perhaps his coach's death was murder, not suicide. I reciprocate, telling him about how lonely I was after my sister died, and how my mother always pushed me into a pageant life that I really didn't want.