“It does,” I agree, then turn so that he’s looking at my back, “But I’m not sure that’s the kind of unwinding I need anymore.”
As I speak, I unbutton the loose blouse that I’m wearing, then let it fall to the deck, revealing my bikini top.
“Nikki…”
“You shifted my mood, Damien. Wound me up even tighter. Got me craving a different kind of heat.” I reach back and unfasten the clasp that hits between my shoulder blades, then I use one hand to hold up my shoulder-length blond hair while the other tugs on one of the ties at the base of my neck. The bow comes loose, and I release the string, letting the bikini top flutter over the rail to the sand.
“Better,” I say, as Damien simply breathes. “But not good enough.” I’d intended to walk in the surf later, and I dressed accordingly. Now I untie the knot at my hip and let the scarf drop to the wooden deck.
“Nikki.” His voice is rough. Tight.
“Hmm?” In contrast, I’m all innocence as I wriggle out of my bikini bottoms, then step daintily out of the puddle of material that has collected at my feet. Now I face the ocean, completely nude, my back to the camera, the open sea in front of me. Not to mention yards of thankfully empty beach. That’s one of the benefits of this location. Lots and lots of privacy. “Isn’t this how you wanted me?”
“Christ, Nikki. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
I force myself not to smile as I turn to face the camera. “Slacks fitting a bit tight?” I ask, my voice full of earnest innocence as I slide my hand slowly down my abdomen until my fingers slip between my thighs. I’ve been thinking of Damien, and so of course I’m wet, and I can’t help the little gasp of pleasure that escapes my parted lips.
I close my eyes and dance my fingers over my slick core as I lift the forefinger of my other hand to my mouth. I suck gently, then skim my fingertip over my nipple. I’m already wildly aroused from the knowledge of what this show must be doing to Damien, but the sensation of the ocean breeze against my dampened areola sends shivers of pleasure coursing through me.
“I missed you,” I say. “And even though you’re back, you’re still too far away.”
“I can be home in forty minutes. Less if I take the helicopter.”
I laugh. “Tempting,” I say. “But I need to put some clothes on, then hit the road. Jamie’s expecting me.”
“How unfortunate,” he says. “I suppose I’ll have to wait.”
“Anticipation, Mr. Stark.”
“Tonight, baby.” The words are rough. Raw.
“Every night,” I counter.
“Yes.” He draws in a breath. “I’ll be home by six. Until then, imagine me, touching you.”
I close my eyes and nod as he clicks off.
I always do.
2
I hum to myself as I stroll the path that leads from the bungalow back to the main house. It’s almost eleven, so I’m going to have to change and put on makeup in a hurry if I have any chance of making it to my interview on time. But I can’t head out until I see the girls. So instead of taking the outdoor stairs all the way up to our third-floor bedroom, I enter the house on the first floor from the pool deck.
I circle around the floating marble staircase that is the focal point of our home’s entrance hall, then make my way to the second of the three guest suites located on this floor. Damien and I have already talked about letting both girls move into their own suite when they hit their teenage years. By that time, I figure we’ll appreciate having a little space between us and our teens.
Right now, though, the kids are coming on two and four respectively, and we’re content to have them share the bedroom located behind our master on the third floor. Originally intended as the smallest of our home’s four guest suites—five, if you count the actual guest house located beyond the tennis courts—it shares a wall with the master closet and is plenty big enough to house two little girls. Even little girls as rambunctious as ours.
In a nod toward keeping their room tidy—and because Damien has a habit of buying them sizable gifts—we decided to dedicate one of the first floor suites as a playroom, which better holds the walk-on keyboard, tumbling mat, and five foot tall plush elephant that Damien swears he couldn’t resist.
I’ve repeatedly told him he’s going to spoil the girls rotten, but he doesn’t seem too concerned. They’re his little princesses and spoiling them is a daddy’s job. Or so he tells me.
I hear them before I see them. Or, I hear Lara, anyway. Her drama-filled voice announcing, “No, no, Anne. I’ll show you.” And Anne’s soft giggles suggesting that she’ll eagerly do whatever her big sister orders.
Our nanny, Bree, flashes me a quick grin as I step into the room, then turns her attention back to the lunch she’s setting out on the low toddler table. Lara is oblivious to the PB&J sandwiches, apple slices, cookies, and milk. She perches her hands on her hips, then pulls her mouth into a pouting moue as she focuses on her blonde imp of a sister who stands wide-eyed beside a squat plastic table covered with crayons and half-finished drawings.
“You watch me, okay? Eyes on me,” Lara adds, mimicking one of my mommy-phrases in a tone so like my own that I almost lose it.
“See?” Her silky black hair is pulled into a pony tail that hits below her shoulder blades, and it bounces as she puts her hands over her head, then turns a wobbly circle on tippy-toes, her feet encased in tiny pink ballet slippers. Just seeing that brings tears to my eyes, because it wasn’t that long ago that she was post-surgery and forbidden to be on her feet at all, much less on tiptoes.
Lara was born with polydactylism, a condition we were aware of when we found her picture on the website of a Chinese adoption agency and started the process to bring her home. We adopted her at twenty months, and she still had the extra two toes, one on each foot, when we arrived in LA after the long trip back from China. Since the extra toes were large and positioned in such a way to prevent her from wearing shoes, one of our first challenges was the removal surgery.
We didn’t want her first memories of her new life with us to be shrouded in pain and fear, so we waited a few months before scheduling the procedure even though she was already past the recommended age for removal, as most kids with the anomaly have the extra digit removed before they start to walk.
We don’t regret waiting, but kids grow fast, and that meant she was older and more active right about the time the doctor insisted she be sedate. Hard enough for an adult, but a nightmare for an active toddler. Things were stressful for a while, what with balancing Lara’s post-op toddler tantrums with Anne’s baby needs.
Now Lara is fully recovered, Anne is an active toddler, and the exuberant chaos that fills this room never fails to put a smile on my face.
“Mama!” Anne calls, something else that always tugs at my heart. She’s wearing a fairy princess outfit and now she lifts her hands like Lara and twirls. “I dancing! I dancing!”
“Good, Anne!” Lara says seriously. “That’s real good.” She turns to me, her smile both wide and smug. “I taught her!”
“You did great,” I say, squatting down and opening up my arms to embrace my two little angels. “Both of you.”
“Missed you, Mama!” Anne clutches my leg, almost throwing me off-balance. I compensate by grabbing her around the waist and letting her hang upside down as I rise.
“Can we play Memory?” Lara begs. “Please, Mommy.” The card-matching memorization game is her current favorite. “Pretty please.”
“I can’t right now, precious,” I say, giving her my free hand as I flip Anne down so that her feet hit solid ground. I walk the rest of the way with both girls trotting alongside me. “I wanted to come in and see my girls, but now I have to go do a work thing and then meet Aunt Jamie for lunch.”
“Jamie
!” Anne claps her hands.
“You’ll see her soon, precious,” I promise. “In the meantime, I bet Miss Bree would play Memory after your lunch. It looks yummy. I’m jealous.” I really am, too. About the chocolate chip cookies, anyway. Since I’ve gotten more serious about working out, I’ve also been eating better. I’ve only dipped into my stash of frozen Milky Ways once this month. And that was when I was missing Damien.
“Memory?” Bree says absently from where she’s crouched on the floor. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”
“Bree?”
With the meal set out, she’d moved on to laying blue painter’s tape on the floor. Now the colorful line forms part of the perimeter of a rectangle that extends out about five feet from the wall, and I can’t help but wonder if this project—whatever it is—is what’s distracting her. Because she definitely seems distracted.
“Sorry,” she says, her familiar sweetness returning. “Mind wandering. And of course Miss Bree’s happy to provide lunch for all of the Stark women. Or just cookies for the adult Starks,” she adds with a grin for me.
“Tempting,” I admit. “But no.”
“Cookies!” Lara says, clapping wildly. Which, of course, encourages Anne to do exactly the same.
I get them settled at the table with stern instructions to eat the meal before the cookies, and they both dig in as Bree peels herself up off the floor, then shoves a lock of long dark hair out of her eyes. The daughter of a Cherokee mother and a Jewish father, Brianna Bernstein is stunning, with olive skin, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes that seem to reach back into infinity. Even on a day like today, when she’s smeared with colored chalk and has been crawling around on the floor, she looks put together and on top of things.
As far as nannies go, I’m convinced that Bree is as good as it gets. We lucked into her, and I dread the day when she leaves. A sad day that’s fast approaching. Exciting for her, as she’s going back to school. But it sucks for me. Bree’s not only brilliant with the kids, she also helps out around the house. Most important, she’s become a friend.