“Besides,” Damien says, “no tabloid will pay for a picture of one of them. They want you. And because of that—because of me—you’ve lost a level of privacy.”

I shift in my seat to look more directly at him. Is this the source of his concern? Was that what the telephone call was about? His lawyers warning him about some new picture of us that will appear on the cover of a half dozen magazines next week? Mentally, I flip back through the last week, trying to think what image could be so mortifying that it would cause Damien so much consternation.

Already, the tabloids have gotten hold of a half dozen shots of me in a bathing suit, courtesy of the various pageants I’ve entered over the years. Seeing myself displayed at the grocery store checkout line had been a less-than-fun experience, but I’d taken about a million deep breaths and reminded myself that those pageants had been open to the public and at least two of them had even been televised.

I can’t think of anything else disturbing that could be printed about me or about the two of us together. Certainly there’s nothing that Damien and I have done in public that I’d be embarrassed for my mother to see. And as for in private—well, if the paparazzi have pictures of us in private, they would have to be very brave indeed to face Damien’s wrath and publish them.

But there is the balcony of the Malibu house.

Every day I’ve stood naked and bound in front of that open door, and although Damien owns acres and acres, and the distant beach is a private one, surely a resourceful photographer could—

I can’t even finish the thought. A wave of fear crashes over me, so palpable that I suddenly feel nauseated. And despite the cold that seems to settle over me, I realize that my armpits are damp with perspiration. “They don’t have anything new, do they?” I say, trying hard to make my voice sound normal. I can handle the attention that goes with being Damien’s girlfriend. But nude images of me splashed across papers and the Internet? Oh, dear God …

“It’s not like they’ve stepped it up a notch, right? I mean, it’s not like someone’s been aiming a long lens at the balcony. Have they?”

“Good God, no.” His response is so fast and full of such astonishment that I know my guess completely missed the mark.

I relax, the feeling returning to my body. “Good,” I say. “I thought—” I break off, because I need to take another deep breath. I realize my fingernails are digging into the flesh above my knees, and I release my grip and force myself to relax. I don’t need the pain to get through this; there’s nothing to get through except fear. And besides, I have Damien to hang on to.

“Nikki?”

When I speak, my voice actually sounds normal. “I just thought that since you brought up the paparazzi, that maybe that was what the call was about.”

“Call?”

“Earlier,” I say. “At the house. You looked so upset.”

His eyes widen with what I recognize as genuine surprise. “Did I?”

I lift a shoulder in concession. “I doubt Blaine noticed. But I know you.”

“Yes,” he says. “Apparently you do. But no, that call had nothing to do with those vultures.”

I can almost see a red haze of anger surrounding Damien, but I don’t know if he’s angry at the original caller or with me.

I clear my throat and continue the conversation as if I’d never even mentioned it. “Besides,” I say, “the paparazzi are not one of your acquisitions. More like an infestation. I don’t like them, but I’m learning to live with them.”

He glances at me, and I catch his worried expression. It had been too much to hope that Damien missed my minor freak-out moment a second ago. Damien, I’ve learned, misses nothing.

“Really,” I say, and I mean it, too. So long as no one has taken a nudie picture of me with a long lens, I am just fine. “They’re like fire ants in Texas. They swarm, but the trick is to just not get in the middle of them. And if you do get bit, the sting fades soon enough.” I am so firm that I almost convince myself. “Besides,” I add with a wicked grin, “your Santa Barbara hotel and your penthouse apartment make it all worthwhile.”

He remains silent for so long that I feel sure my ploy to change the subject has failed.

“Don’t forget the house in Hawaii,” he finally says.

I release a happy sigh. “You have a house in Hawaii?”

“And an apartment in Paris.”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to make me drool.”

“Have I mentioned that Stark International has several divisions in the food industry, as well as a significant share of a company that produces high-end Swiss chocolates?”

I cross my arms. If we’re playing Itemize Stark’s Assets, this game will go on forever. “You realize that the fact that you have never once offered me one of those Swiss chocolates is grounds for me to hold a grudge for at least two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” His hand hovers over the button on the steering wheel that operates the speakerphone. “And would you be withholding sex during that time, Ms. Fairchild?”

I manage a very unladylike snort. “Hardly. The idea is to punish you, not me.”

“I see.” He moves his hand away from the button. “No need to bother Sylvia this late, then. I’ll have her order your chocolates in the morning.”

I laugh. “So far the chocolates are in the lead in my assessment of your assets. But I’m also impressed by your fabulous taste in restaurants. That’s a hint, by the way.”

“I applaud your subtlety.”

“I try.”

“And I’ll reward you with the news that we’re almost there.”

“Really?” I’ve been ignoring the world outside the car, but now I look through the passenger side window. We’ve been on the road almost half an hour, the dark Pacific with the moon-crested waves rippling to my right as we head south. Now I see that we’ve arrived in Santa Monica, and after a few turns and stops at traffic lights, we are on Ocean Avenue between Santa Monica and Arizona.

Damien pulls up in front of a sleek white building that, as far as I can tell, has no hard angles, only sweeping curves. It’s several stories tall and mostly dark, but when I press my nose to the window and look up, I can see that the top floor is brightly lit.

There is a valet stand a few feet away, and a guy not much younger than Damien hurries to my door. Just as quickly, Damien presses the button that locks the car. I look at him curiously, but he provides no explanation. Just gets out from his side and walks around the Bugatti to where the valet stands helplessly.