“But you want more.”
“No, I don’t want more. I want all. All of you.”
“You already have me.”
“I know,” I say happily. “And that’s why I’m not afraid.”
Chapter Nine
“Are you sure you don’t want to join us, Tony?” I ask, using the nickname that Antonio Santos requested when we were introduced. I, of course, invited him to call me Nikki.
He smiles at me, but shakes his head. About thirty-five, he has the dark hair and warm brown skin that reflects his Mexican heritage. He also has the fresh, clean-cut appearance of a young businessman, a façade that camouflages all the rough edges that Damien swears make him such a viable candidate for Stark Security.
“I appreciate the offer, but I believe I’m otherwise engaged.”
I turn, following the direction of his gaze, and note the leggy redhead who’s been eyeing him throughout the entire meal. Damien and I share an amused glance before I turn back to Tony. “Looks like it,” I say, and his eyes dance with amusement.
“I’m very happy we had the chance to meet. Your husband is excellent company, but you definitely brightened up the afternoon.”
“Flirting?” Damien says, his voice laced with humor.
“With Damien Stark’s wife? Would you be trying to hire me if I was that stupid?”
Damien chuckles. “Good point.”
Damien and I met Tony for lunch at the hotel’s restaurant as part of Damien’s continuing effort to get the former Deliverance member to join the Stark Security team. Now, lunch is over, and Damien and I head through the lobby to our waiting car so that we can squeeze in a quick visit to the Rodin Museum before his final meeting of the day.
As we climb in, I see a tall man with a familiar shock of white-blond hair. I can’t place him, but he snarls something at the doorman who’s speaking to him, shoots a harsh glance toward our car, and then stalks off down the sidewalk.
“What?” I ask, realizing Damien has said something.
“I asked what you thought of Tony.”
“I like him. And he seems to like you. Why is he hesitating?” The lunch was casual, a chance to interact informally, and we barely discussed business at all.
“Let’s just say he’s on a personal mission.”
“But he worked with Deliverance,” I point out.
“He did. His mission lined up well with Dallas’s.” Dallas Sykes started Deliverance to find the men who had kidnapped him and his sister as teenagers.
“Tony was kidnapped,” I guess. “And he wanted to find his kidnapper.”
“Not exactly. He was kidnapped, but he knew by whom. His father kidnapped him when he was seven and took him to Mexico City.”
“His poor mother. Did she get him back?”
“She killed herself,” Damien says and I shiver. “At least, that’s what Tony’s father told him.”
“He doesn’t believe that?”
Damien shrugs. “I don’t think he wants to.”
I take Damien’s hand and squeeze, thinking of Anne, and how I might have lost her forever. “So he grew up with a father who kidnapped him. When did he learn the truth?”
“Actually, he was rescued and adopted by his uncle when he was ten. And apparently, rescued is accurate. His father sounds worse than mine.”
“I’m glad he got away.”
“As am I. He hasn’t specifically told me as much, but I think he’s investigating his mother’s death. And I know he’s trying to find the man who gunned down his uncle.”
My hand goes to my mouth, and I think of how much Antonio Santos has endured. And how focused he is now. How ready and able to face the world despite seeing so much horror in the world. “I hope he finds answers,” I say. “But more, I hope he’s able to move on.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Damien agrees.
It’s not a long ride to the museum, and I think that I might come back later with my camera. The building itself is gorgeous, a former mansion where Rodin worked when he was in the city. Apparently, he donated much of his work and the artwork he collected, and now it fills the gardens and the interior of the rococo mansion.
We go inside first and wander leisurely. I love seeing the various pieces, including the famous The Kiss. But it’s the art students that litter the floor that draw my attention. They seem to come in two varieties —lone wolves or those that travel in packs with their teacher as the leader. Armed with sketchpads, they are everywhere, leaning against walls, seated on the floor around statues. Their pencils move over pads as their eyes move back and forth between their own work and the genius that is Rodin. They’ve come here to be close to talent. To genius. To soak it in, to study, to analyze. And, yes, to envy.
There’s a look in their eyes I recognize, because I’ve seen it in the eyes of the young men and women who work with Damien. With Jackson, too. The passion and talent of those two men is electrifying, and people are drawn to them like moths to a burning flame.
I glance sideways at my husband, seeing him instead of the art. And in that moment, I know that I am the luckiest woman on earth.
“Nikki?” The teasing tone draws me from my thoughts, and I look up to find Damien smiling at me. “You look mesmerized.”
I study his face and nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
He takes my arm, oblivious to the full meaning of my words, and leads me outside. It’s as if we’ve stepped into a magical world, with the stunning landscaping beneath the blue Parisian sky.
The Thinker sits in the garden to the right of the building, the massive Gates of Hell to the left, beautiful and fascinating despite the dark subject. Damien and I spend some time getting close to those famous doors, looking at the intricate detail of this intricate and disturbing piece.
But it’s when we move behind the mansion that I really fall in love. There’s sculpture in the garden, of course, but it is the simplicity of the manicured lawn that sings to my soul. A stunning grassy rectangle leading from the back stone patio all the way down to a small pond.
“Can you imagine the lawn parties this house must have seen?” I ask Damien. “Or the weddings.” I imagine the bride coming down the stairs, then walking a rolled-out carpeted path to her groom at the pond. “Wouldn’t that be magnificent?”
He says nothing, but an odd expression colors his face.
“Damien?”
“You’re right,” he says. “It’s an incredible venue.”
“I wish we had longer.”
“I can send the car back for you,” he tells me, but I decline. Instead, I join him as the car takes us on to the office building where Damien has his meeting, then returns me to the h
otel.
Since I’m now in the mood to take pictures, I hurry inside. I grab my camera and return to the sidewalk, intending to walk the short distance to the Tuileries.
I don’t get that far. As soon as I’ve rounded the corner, I’m slammed from behind. Fear and confusion crash through me, but I don’t even have time to react before my attacker spins me around and slams my back against a wall. It’s broad daylight, but no one stops, and I think it’s because my attacker is right in my face, so close we could be lovers.
It’s the white-blond man, and his face is full of hate. “Your husband thinks he is better than everyone,” he says in heavily accented English. “He thinks I am not good enough to work at his fucking hotel. Damien Stark with all his pretty things. Maybe I should make his wife a little bit less pretty. Do you think?”
My heard is pounding, but despite all my adrenaline, I can’t struggle out of his grasp. I can think, though, and it’s Damien who fills my mind as I jerk a knee up, aiming for his crotch.
He dodges, a deadly fury building in his eyes, and I fear that I just made a deadly mistake.
He snarls, and as he lunges forward, cold terror courses through me.
I have only a split second, and I force my panic down. I don’t have time for fear; I only have time to fight. I clench my fist, then lash out, gaining momentum as I thrust up the way Damien does in our gym. My hand explodes with pain as I make contact with the underside of his chin, knocking his head back as he stumbles away from me.
I don’t hesitate, just take off running, expecting to hear his footsteps behind me. Anticipating the sudden stop when he grabs the back of my shirt just inches before I reach the corner.
But there is no tug. And as I careen around the corner, I realize I’m free. I did it. I got away.
“Mrs. Stark!”
I barely register the distant words and keep on running.
“Nikki!” The voice is closer. “Wait!”
Tony.
Confused, I stop and turn, only to see him rounding the corner, too, my attacker held in a head lock.