I leap to my feet out of pure shock, and when I tear my eyes away, I see that Damien is tapping a text into his phone.
"What are you--"
"This is going to get ugly fast. I'm having Edward pull the limo around."
"We're leaving?"
He meets the eyes of the other men. "If you two don't mind, I think it would be a good idea to get out of here. And to take Dallas and his date with us."
Oh.
Wyatt and Frank both nod agreement, and I have to concede that it's not only a good plan, but one that Dallas will surely appreciate. Especially since as I watch, Francesca loses the battle to control her temper and slaps the blonde hard across the face.
Immediately, Dallas starts to hustle her toward the exit as the two harried-looking waiters try to urge the blonde to leave through the kitchen. Damien stands to flank Francesca's other side as Dallas passes, keeping me beside him the whole time.
He tells Dallas that we have a car waiting, then murmurs something to the flustered owner as we pass, the man nods sympathetically and then smiles broadly when Dallas assures him that he'll come by in the morning to cover any damages.
I fully believe him, but the owner and I both know that Dallas has brought more cache to Q than the most expensive publicity and marketing campaign could ever hope to rally. Frankly, the owner should be paying Dallas.
Wyatt and Frank follow, and I can't help but be a little mortified. None of this was my or Damien's fault--and it really wasn't Dallas's, either--but I still feel like a terrible hostess.
One of Q's young valets is holding the limo door open, and Damien ushers Dallas and Francesca inside, then motions to Wyatt, who shakes his head.
"You go ahead. I only live a block away, and you have plenty on your hands. But we should talk more," he adds, turning to Frank. "Can you come by my studio tomorrow around ten-thirty? Nikki has the address."
"Of course," Frank says.
As Wyatt walks off, Damien and I follow Frank into the limo, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the valet closes the door after us and Edward pulls out into traffic.
"Wow," I say.
Damien twines his fingers with mine. "At least it sounds like Frank's found a studio space," he says, looking between me and Frank. "So I say we count the evening as a success."
"For you, maybe," Francesca says with a little sniff. "My dress is ruined. Not to mention my evening."
Dallas has been watching Frank, but now he turns his attention back to Francesca and slides his hand along her thigh. "Baby, I was going to ruin this dress anyway. And as for your evening, just think of how much press you're going to get out of tonight."
Her mouth curves into a pretty pout. "My managers will be furious."
"The hell they will. I predict you're going to be the top trending story on Facebook and Twitter within the hour."
The thought clearly pleases her. "Really?"
"Hell yes."
She presses her hand over his, then slides it higher up her leg before she turns to smile at Damien. "Will you take us to Dallas's hotel?"
I lower my head to hide my grin as Damien assures her we will.
"How about you, Frank?" he asks. "Where are you staying?"
"The Beverly Terrace," he says. "It's on Doheny. Is that out of your way?"
"Not at all," Damien says. In fact, Frank's hotel is only about ten minutes from the Stark Century Hotel, the newly acquired and remodeled hotel where Dallas is staying.
Traffic is light, and it doesn't take long to get from Santa Monica to Century City, which is a good thing, because Francesca seems so thrilled by the possibility of press coverage of her cat fight that she clearly can't wait to get Dallas into bed. And while I'm actually a fan of limo sex, I'm really only partial to it if I'm a participant and not a spectator. And only if Damien is the only other participant with me.
It's a relief when the limo pulls into the circular drive and the valet opens the door.
"Thanks for the lift," Dallas says, then grins. "You saved my ass. Or Francesca's, anyway."
She rolls her eyes. "I could have totally taken the bitch."
"Come on, baby," Dallas says, and helps her out of the limo. As the door closes behind them and Edward pulls out again, I glance at Damien, amused.
Just a few minutes later, we're at Frank's hotel in West Hollywood.
"I'll say thanks, too," he says. "For the evening and the, um, entertainment. I haven't seen that much excitement since I photographed the running of the bulls in Pamplona."
I laugh, then make Frank promise to call me tomorrow after he sees the studio; I want to know what he thinks.
And then, finally, I'm alone with Damien, and it feels as though the weight of the world has just lifted from my shoulders.
"Wow," I say. "That was crazy town even by our standards. How do you think he stands it?"
"I think Dallas embraces the philosophy that there's no such thing as too much publicity. Or bad publicity for that matter."
I shudder. That is so not my philosophy
"Come here." From the heat in his voice, I know exactly what he wants. Hell, I want it, too. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to play a little first.
"Here?" I ask innocently. "I'm already sitting right next to you."
"So you are." As he speaks, he runs his hand up my leg. I'm wearing a silk dress that skims my legs just above the knees, and I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensation of soft silk and his gentle hands stroking my skin as he slowly edges the skirt higher and higher.
Lightly, he grazes his fingertip over the scars that mar my inner thighs. Once upon a time, I would have clamped my legs shut or run screaming from any man who got close to my secrets. Who caught even the slightest glimpse into my pain.
But Damien's not just any man, and it's not regret or fear or hesitation I'm feeling now. It's desire, pure and simple. And not just sexual desire. No, I long for him. For the core of the man--a man who knows me as well as I know myself, and loves all of me, both my strengths and my weaknesses. A man who cherishes and protects me. Who understands me. And who I know without a shadow of a doubt will always stand beside me.
"Damien," I murmur, both wanting and needing his touch.
"I know, baby." He's breathing hard, too, and when I open my eyes and glance over, I can see his erection straining against his trousers. I move my hand, intending to stroke him, but he shakes his head. "No," he whispers. "Just this."
We're sitting close together, but our hips are barely touching. The only real contact is his fingertip on my skin, and it is as if I only exist right there in the spot he's stroking. All my pleasure, all my desire, all my need is contained in that tiny patch of skin, and it's too much. Too intense. Too incredible.
Slowly, he draws closer to the juncture of my thighs--closer to my core--and I know that when he finally touches my clit I won't be able to hold back. I'm going to explode, to shatter, to lose myself completely.
I'm gasping now, trying to draw in breath as my body burns with need beneath his finger. As he strokes lightly along the edge of my panties, then slips under, just a little.
I bite my lip, determined not to beg for more no matter how much I want to. And he's close--so close--and any second now he's going to stroke my clit.
Any moment I'm going to explode. I'm going to--
What the fuck?
A sharp knock on the limo's window startles both Damien and me, and he pulls his hand back as I reflexively yank my skirt down.
Damien catches my eye for a millisecond before jamming his hand onto the intercom button. "Edward, what the hell is going on?"
There's no response, and Damien curses. Then curses again when he realizes that the volume is turned all the way down. "Say again?"
"I said, we've arrived, Mr. Stark."
"Arrived?" He glances out the window, and I follow his gaze. We're back at the Stark Century Hotel.
I meet Damien's eyes and shrug with confusion.
I can tell he's ab
out to demand an explanation when Edward says, "Shall I open the door for Mr. Sykes?"
It clearly takes a supreme effort for Damien to maintain control, but he does. "No. I'll open it." He shuts down the intercom, then looks at me. "He must have told us he was turning around, and neither one of us heard the intercom beep."
"My head was elsewhere," I admit, then scowl. "Dallas owes me. Big-time."
Damien laughs. "He owes us both. Shall I tell him as much?"
I narrow my eyes. "Don't you dare."
Damien opens the door, and Dallas climbs in, and from the way he looks at both of us, I'm certain he knows exactly what he's interrupted. I feel the blush rising on my cheeks and force myself to ignore it as Damien demands, "What the hell, Dallas?"
"Sorry," he says. "I couldn't say any of this with the others around so I called Edward back."
For an instant, I wonder how he managed that, then realize that he's worked enough with Damien and Stark International that he was surely given access to the limo--and to Edward's cell number so that he can contact the driver.
"What's going on?" Damien asks, voicing the bigger question.
"It's about Frank." Even though Damien asked the question, Dallas is looking at me. "This is going to sound crazy, but he's the guy who was watching you on the island."
A cold chill races up my spine, and I try to find words but only manage a gasp. Damien is not nearly as tongue-tied.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Exactly that," Dallas says. "He's the man who spooked Nikki."