He knew that. Knew all of that. And it didn’t help.
On the other end of the line, Ryan drew a breath. “Damien…”
“I saw an editorial online last night. Some columnist saying I should have GPS tagged my kids. Just a little implant at the back of the neck. No big deal at all. Idiot.”
“An implant? Fuck that. Theoretically feasible, but you’d need a power source, dedicated satellites, all sorts of shit. Even if you wanted to do it, it’s still sci-fi, and you and I both know it.”
“I do know it.” Ryan was right, of course. The man knew his stuff, after all. They’d met when Ryan had been investigating the possibility of taking his small but prestigious international security company public. Damien had caught wind of the company, investigated it, and had been impressed enough to seek out a personal meeting with Ryan.
He’d ended up buying Ryan out and setting up Ryan’s company as a Stark subsidiary. Ryan ran it for a few years, but as their friendship grew, so did Ryan’s placement in the overall Stark universe. Now he ran security for all of Stark International.
The man knew the world of security as well as Damien knew the world of tech. And they both knew that human GPS tracking wasn’t yet a viable option. Sure, it was technologically feasible, but current research suggested that unlike passive RFID implants that stored information such as name, birthdate, and social security numbers, GPS chips were active. They sent out a constant pulse and required power. And there was some evidence that they could generate cancerous growths. More than that, if the parents could track a child, then so could a kidnapper. Or the government. Or anybody else. All the fucking time.
And God knew the ethical considerations were manifold.
Even so, both his girls did have small trackers that dangled from their personal backpacks or could be attached to shoelaces. The devices were practical, after all, making it easier for parents to locate a child who got lost in a grocery store or mall. Or, in their case, got out of the house and started to wander the massive property.
Nikki’s company, Fairchild & Partners Development, was in the final stages of developing a similar tracker that would work in conjunction with their new Mommy’s Helper app. That system would have some impressive additional features. As soon as he saw the prototypes, Damien intended to present Nikki and her partner, Abby, with a formal proposal for a joint venture between the Stark and Fairchild companies that would give Fairchild Development enough capital to launch the kind of international campaign the product deserved. And, of course, they’d switch brands, so that it would be Mommy’s Helper trackers hanging from their girls’ backpacks.
The morning that Anne and her nanny Bree had been taken, however, Anne didn’t have her backpack. And even if she had, the devices weren’t designed to prevent or foil a kidnapping, and Rory would have undoubtedly dumped it in the parking lot along with Bree’s purse.
“Quit beating yourself up,” Ryan said gently. “You might be a kick-ass son-of-a-bitch, but you don’t control the universe. No matter how much you might wish you did.”
“I don’t want to. But I don’t think it’s too much to ask to control my little corner of it.”
He couldn’t, though. And that simple truth had been haunting him since Anne’s kidnapping. Was haunting him still, long after he’d hung up with Ryan.
He felt out of control. Ungrounded. And though he returned to the master bedroom intending to slide under the covers and draw his wife to him, he couldn’t make himself walk through the door. He just stood there, watching her moonlit form beneath the sheet and listening to the soft snoring of his two little girls and the purring of their cat, Sunshine, who’d settled in as well.
How could he get into that bed? How could he wallow in their love and trust knowing that he hadn’t earned it?
He couldn’t.
And as that wild, hard tension welled up again, he did the only thing he could do.
He turned, and he walked away.
Chapter Four
He didn’t bother to turn on the flood lights. It wasn’t necessary. The huge moon cast the tennis court in an eerie light, enhanced by the reflection off the nearby Pacific.
He moved in the shadows, shirtless and barefoot, wearing only thin athletic shorts, his arms and thighs aching as he moved across the court, returning the torrent of balls as fast as the machine could shoot them over the net.
He’d been at it for an hour, trying to pound himself into exhaustion. Trying to empty his head of the recrimination, the guilt. The feeling of being absolutely powerless despite the whole world believing he held all the cards.
He kept pushing and pushing. Taking his body to the limit. Trying to find the way over. Around. Under. He didn’t fucking care, he just needed to get past it. But he never made it. Never hit that wall. Because no matter how hard he pushed, it was never enough.
His muscles screamed. His feet burned. His back ached. But he couldn’t stop. It was still inside him, and no matter how much he chased it across the goddamn court, he’d never run it down.
Because he’d lost it. Lost her. His own daughter.
“Fuck.” His shoulder screamed in protest as he hurled his racquet with all his strength, sending it sailing over the backboard and out into the landscaped yard. “Fuck.” That time the word was a whisper, and he followed the sound of it down onto his knees, his hands on the cool acrylic surface of the hard court, then his forehead, as if he was praying for absolution, bowing down to a god or a universe that had turned its back on him.
“Damien.”
Her soft voice touched him like an angel’s kiss, sending sweet shivers up his spine. He lifted his head, looking up at her. The moon was at her back, illuminating her hair, making her glow. His lips parted. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. That she was everything.
That he was sorry.
But the words wouldn’t come.
She took a step toward him, then stopped, her expression intense. Strained. She carried a baby monitor in one hand, and through the small speaker, he could hear the soft, rhythmic breathing of his children.
He watched, entranced, as she bent over, putting the monitor on the ground. She wore a pink silk robe tied loosely at the waist. She tugged at the sash, loosening the bow, and the robe fell open, revealing the knee-length nightgown she wore when the kids joined them in bed.
She took one more step toward him, and he drew in a sharp breath, realizing that he’d forgotten to breathe.
&
nbsp; She lifted her hands to her shoulders, shrugged, and the robe slithered off her body, pooling behind her in a pile of silk.
His chest tightened, and he became suddenly aware of his beating heart. “Nikki…”
She said nothing, just shook her head as she hitched up her nightgown, the hem rising to reveal her bare thighs, her naked sex. His blood pounded in his ears, and he realized he was upright now, sitting on his heels, his knees on the hard surface of the court, his cock painfully hard.
When she pulled the gown over her head and tossed it behind her, it took every ounce of strength in his body not to grab her arm, yank her to the ground, and bury himself deep inside her.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Not like that. Not when he was this raw. This desperate. This goddamn fucking lost.
“Take what you need.” Her throat moved as she swallowed, her legs spread, her hand sliding down to stroke her beautiful waxed pussy.
“Do you think I don’t understand?” Her voice broke as she spoke. “Do you think I don’t see you? Do you think I don’t know? Dammit, Damien, take what you need. Take me.”
He shook his head. “No.” His voice was rough, barely more than the rasp of fingernails against sandpaper.
“No? Don’t you dare tell me no.” Her voice was as coarse as his, but not lost. And not pleading. On the contrary, her words were a challenge. A dare. And when she bent over to grab the waistband of his shorts and pull him up to his feet, he knew that her words were a command as well.
“Goddammit, Nikki.” Need pounded through him. For her, yes. For sex, absolutely. But it was more than that. So much more, and he knew that if he took that first step toward her—if he touched her—there would be no going back. He was holding on by a thread now, tight and taut. And damned if Nikki wasn’t holding the scissors.