“You included,” I snap.

“Not me. Not anymore. That’s why I’m here. I get it. I got the whole thing wrong and I screwed Damien and I screwed you. I’m saying I’m not the only one.”

“Who, then? And what shit?”

He shakes his head. “Just tell Stark that he may not see this one coming.” He makes a rough noise in his throat. “I was blown away when I learned who Padgett had lined up with an ax to grind against your boyfriend.”

I stand very still. He’s scaring me more than he probably knows. “You won’t tell me who?”

“I’ve said everything I’m going to. I’ve played my part, and now I’m getting out of this mess. Whatever happens isn’t coming from me, I can promise you that.”

“Then why did you come here at all?”

“Because telling you is like telling Stark. It’s a small world, and I burned a bridge I shouldn’t have.”

“And you think this is going to fix it?”

“No, but I think it’s a start.” He meets my eyes. “Tell Stark to watch his back.”

“I’ll tell him,” I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice from shaking. “But he always does.”

18

I am actually wishing for the paparazzi as I walk toward my car. At least then I could be pissed off at them instead of worried for Damien.

The second I get in my car, I reach into my glove compartment for my phone charger so that I can call Damien, but the damn thing isn’t there. I forgot to put one in my briefcase, so my phone hasn’t charged at all today, and it’s almost dead. I dial anyway, figuring I can talk fast, and am relieved when Damien picks up immediately.

“I ran into Carl,” I say without preamble.

“Ran into him?” His voice is low and measured and very, very ominous.

“As in he came to Innovative and waited for me in the lobby.”

“Are you okay? What did he do?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, because I can hear both the worry and the temper. “He wanted me to tell you to watch your back.”

“Did he? Tell me everything he said, exactly how he said it.”

I comply, relating the conversation in as much detail as I can manage.

“And he wouldn’t tell you any more?”

“No,” I say. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

I hold my breath, wondering if Damien will cite the thing going on in Germany. Or the tennis center. Or even the Eric Padgett settlement. There are so many things that this could be about, and though I haven’t got a clue, I am certain that Damien does.

But when he speaks, he tells me nothing. “I think this is Carl’s way of blowing smoke.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask.

“You said he wants to rebuild burned bridges. What better way to do that than to warn me about some upcoming danger?”

“Because there’s always some sort of danger for a man like you,” I say, picking up the direction of his thoughts.

“An angry competitor. A fired employee. A stolen patent. And then Carl comes along and tells me to be on guard, and when I next notice some nefarious deed, I will think, oh, isn’t it lucky that Carl warned me. I guess the little prick isn’t so bad after all.”

I laugh, because Carl is a little prick and nothing is going to change that. But the laughter doesn’t erase my worry. “So you’re really not worried?”

“I make it a point not to worry,” Damien says. “There’s no profit in it.”

“Damien—”

“Stop,” he says gently.

“Stop what?”

“Stop worrying about me. You’re wasting precious energy.”

“What else am I going to do with it?” I ask airily. “It’s not as if you’re here beside me.”

He laughs. “Good girl,” he says. “Where are you?”

“The parking lot. I’m going to hit the grocery store and go home.”

“Good. Can you do me a favor and pick up some—”

And that is when my phone decides to die. I curse it, but at least I got to talk to him about Carl.

Even though Damien isn’t troubled, I am, and it stays on my mind as I poke through Ralph’s, grabbing coffee and ice cream and other staples of living. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but as my list is on my dead phone, I’ll just have to wing it.

I end up with two plastic bags full of various essentials, and after I park my car at the condo, I leave the parking area and follow the sidewalk around to the front stairs. There’s a crowd gathered there, and it takes me a second to realize that they are waiting for me.

Shit.

I may have been in the mood to confront them earlier, but that has passed. All I want now is to get inside, eat ice cream, and wait for Damien.

I square my shoulders, make sure every trace of emotion is wiped off my face, and soldier on.

Immediately, they swarm me.

“Nikki! Nikki, look over here!”

“Was the portrait completely nude?”

“Does it have the usual Blaine elements like bondage?”

I’m breathing hard, and my body feels suddenly cold and clammy. I don’t understand where these questions are coming from, and I’m afraid—so very afraid—to think too hard about it.

“Why did you do it, Nikki? Was it for the money or the thrill?”

“Nikki! Can you confirm that you accepted a million dollars from Damien Stark to pose nude for an erotic painting?”

I freeze, too horrified to take another step, as camera flashes burst around me. I feel sick, and I am certain that any moment now I’m going to throw up.

“Have you ever posed nude before?”

“Is the painting a reflection of your sex life with Damien Stark?”

“Why did you agree to be tied up?”

They’re all around me, circling me, and I reach out for Damien’s hand, but of course he’s not there. My knees feel weak, and I have to force myself to stay upright. I will not fall, I will not react, I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve gotten to me.

But they have. And as variations of the same questions are thrown at me—as I try to get to the stairs but can barely move even an inch—I know that I’m going to scream soon, just for the shock of it. Just so I can get away.

A loud squeal cuts above the din, and for a moment I think that I have screamed, because suddenly the crowd is parting, and I look up and gasp.