“Of course, I do.” I search is face, and for a moment I think I see a flicker in his eyes, as if there’s something troubling him. “Damien?”
He reaches out, then slides a strand of my hair through his fingers. “You should have called me.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, and it must show on my face, because he continues. “The reporter. The security buzzer. Nikki, dammit, why the hell didn’t you call?”
His voice has gone from soft to urgent, and my stomach twists as I understand his fear. Of course, he receives alerts when our security system goes off. That hadn’t even occurred to me.
“It was nothing,” I say. “You must have called the guardhouse. You know I was fine. It was no big deal.”
He searches my eyes, but says nothing.
“I’m fine, Damien,” I assure him. “But, yes, I was a little shaken. That’s why I went to the office. Just leaving you that note calmed me down.” I rise up and brush a kiss over his lips. “I’m fine,” I repeat. “Truly.”
He draws me to him and wraps his arms around me, one hand cupping my head as I press my cheek against his chest. I hear the steady beat of his heart and close my eyes, wishing I could reassure him even more.
Except it’s not my reassurance he needs. He already knows I was fine. Knows that I would have called him first thing if I weren’t. This is about something else entirely.
I ease away, then tilt my head up to look at him, my expression like a question mark. He answers with a kiss, hard and deep and so deliciously intimate that I moan and move closer, ignoring the passersby on the sidewalk. Ignoring everything, even the certain knowledge that I’ll see a picture of this moment if I log onto social media later today.
But I don’t care. He needs this. Needs to touch me. To hold me. Our moments in the gallery were for play, a follow-up to the present I’d left on his desk. This is for him. For reassurance that all is well. That I’m here. That I’m his.
I don’t know why he needs that now, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll always give Damien what he needs.
My knees are weak when he finally releases me, and as I step back, I notice the gawkers nearby. I focus entirely on my husband as they pass on, realizing that the show is over. “Careful, Mr. Stark,” I say, lacing my voice with a tease. “I have to get to Santa Monica to meet my team. We don’t have time to rush over to the Beverly Wilshire for a quickie.”
The corners of his mouth tug into an amused smile, but a shadow remains. Something dark and impenetrable. Something I’m certain has nothing to do with me.
Something I don’t understand.
Not yet.
But I will. Because I’m going to make it a point to find out.
8
My phone rings as I’m turning onto Wilshire Boulevard, a few miles from my new office space. I hit the button to connect the call, then hear my sister-in-law’s voice over Coop’s speaker system.
“Where are you?” Sylvia asks.
“Santa Monica,” I say. “What’s up?”
“You’re heading to the walk-through and final punch list, right? Do you want me to come?”
Since I’m not leasing space in a Stark building, Sylvia wasn’t involved in finding the office or finalizing the deal. But real estate’s her business, and she’s family, so I know she’s sincere in the offer. Even so, I decline. “I appreciate it, but I think we’re in good shape.”
“Fair enough, but if you hit any snags, just text me. I’m all done at The Domino, so I can be there in fifteen minutes, tops.”
“What happened there? Rachel said there was some big crisis.”
“She got that right. Hang on.” I can make out voices, some shuffling, then I hear her swallow. “Sorry,” she says when she comes back. “I’m trying to cut down on caffeine, but this is one of those days.”
I imagine that she’s sipping a coffee at The Domino Cafe, a kiosk with outdoor seating that’s already opened on site. It’s a breezy, sunny day, and she’s probably settled into one of the colorful plastic chairs. She’ll be wearing sunglasses that hide her whiskey-colored eyes, and the ends of her short brown hair will be fluttering in the breeze, giving her an elegant, but carefree look.
“I’m having a day, too,” I say. “Tell me yours and make me feel better. Plus, I want the Stark office gossip.”
As I’d hoped, she laughs.
“Today was supposed to be no big deal. I had a few onsite meetings about the new phase, and that was all. But then all of a sudden Richard Breckenridge was there, and he’s shouting at me and telling me that he’s getting an injunction to block construction and freeze occupancy and that he’s going to destroy The Domino and Damien and me and anybody else who stands in his way.”
“Shit,” I say, which really doesn’t sum up the situation. Breckenridge is a local businessman with international holdings, and he was one of the original investors in The Domino. He seemed perfectly nice when I met him for a business dinner with Damien one night. A little self-involved, but easy enough to talk to.
Not that long ago, however, he got caught up in a #metoo scandal that had all the signs of being not only legitimate, but pretty damn nasty. And rather than stay in business with the man, Damien—or rather the company—utilized an escape clause in the deal to buy out Breckenridge’s investment, cutting him out entirely. Good for Stark International, but Breckenridge was royally pissed.
“Damien and Jackson came right over, of course, and security had to escort Breckenridge off the property. Honestly, I thought our guys were going to have to call the cops. And I didn’t hear what Breckenridge said to Damien when they were talking, but if Damien’s face was any indication, it wasn’t good.”
“No,” I say thoughtfully, as I recall his shadowed expression, “I don’t think it was.”
“It’s over now, though. Damien and Jackson headed back downtown ages ago. I’ve been here playing catch-up on other stuff. So, like I said, I can meet you if you need me. But if you really don’t, I’m going to head home early and cuddle my kids. It’s been a day.”
“I hear you,” I say, thinking that as soon as I’m done at the office, I’m going to do the exact same thing. “We’re still set for tomorrow, right?”
“Totally. Ronnie’s beside herself,” she says, referring to her precocious daughter. “She’s already rearranged the playroom. She says they’re going to play school. I think she’s mostly giddy for an opportunity to boss around her brother and cousins.”
“Well, the girls won’t mind. They idolize her.” Jackson’s daughter was three when he and Sylvia met, and after they married, Sylvia adopted little Veronica Steele. Now Syl and Jackson have a son as well, and the four cousins are best friends despite the staggered ages. We’ve all been so busy that it’s been a while since the kids got together, though. So tomorrow, since all the adults are going to the Foundation brunch, the kids are staying in the Palisades at Jackson and Sylvia’s house.
“Who’d you end up getting to watch them?” I ask as I slow down for a right turn. I’d originally intended to ask Bree to watch all the kids, but when she asked if she could come to the brunch to hear me speak, I had to revise that plan.
“Moira’s on deck,” Sylvia says, referring to Ryan’s little sister. She might be my best friend’s sister-in-law, but since she’s in grad school at UCLA, I don’t see her that often. But she’s responsible and sweet, and she’s babysat for both me and Sylvia before, so I know she can handle the kids.
“S
he’s not coming to the brunch?” While I’m fine with not having all my friends and family watch as I share my deepest secrets with the world, I am surprised that she’s not coming. After all, both Jamie and Ryan are deeply involved in the organization, serving on several committees and sponsoring two kids.
“She wants to, but she’s got something due to her advisor on Monday. She said she’d bring her laptop and work while she watches the kids.”
“So Ronnie’s school day theme is on-point.”
Syl laughs. “I guess so.”
“I just got here, so I’m going to let you go.” I slide into a sweet parking place in front of the building, not bothering to head into the parking structure. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. Fingers crossed you don’t hit a snag on the property.”
I second that, then kill the ignition. I’m leaning over to grab my purse when I shiver, a sudden sensation of being watched rolling over me. I jerk up in time to see the glass doors into the lobby swing shut. Someone’s just stepped inside, and once again a familiar glimpse of short blond hair jerks me to attention. A man, I think, and I lean forward, trying to focus. But the reflection on the doors prevents me from seeing through the glass. And though I hurry out of the car and into the building, there’s no one in the lobby when I get there.
The eight-story building is half a block off Wilshire in a mixed-use area of Santa Monica with offices, storefronts, and plenty of restaurants. Fairchild & Partners Development now occupies the northwestern corner of the top floor. I enter, expecting to see the mystery man, but there’s no one in the lobby. Just four chairs surrounding a low coffee table to form a waiting area.
I glance toward the elevator bank and look up, but there’s no display to show me which floor either of the two cars are on. The button, however, is not lit. Presumably the man has already reached his floor. Either that, or he left through the delivery entrance in the rear.