I grimace. Goddamn him for leaving me.

“You’re saying that Damien thinks you’re going to start up with the cutting again?”

I could kiss her for being so focused, so direct. “Yes,” I say. “I haven’t—not since I’ve been in LA. But I’ve come close.”

“The paparazzi?” She puts a glass of water in front of me, and I sip from it gratefully.

“And all this craziness about the painting. It—well, it got to me.”

“Hell, that kind of crap would get to anyone.”

“Now the press is saying all sorts of shit about me sleeping with a murderer, and Damien thinks—”

“That he’s got to be the hero and walk away. Goddamn the boy, you two aren’t supposed to be a tragedy.”

“Trust me,” I say wryly. “I’m not crazy about the last-minute script change, either. So what can I do?”

“You can haul your ass to Germany and get the boy back.”

“But he’ll just send me home again. He thinks he’s being chivalrous, remember? I have to prove to him I can handle it, but how? It’s not like I can go a year without cutting, and then say ‘I told you so.’ So what can I do to prove to him right now that I’ll be okay?”

“Ah, now here’s why you came to the right place. Because this is exactly the kind of sneaky shit you pick up after a lifetime in Hollywood. You just need to give the press nowhere else to go.”

“I’m not following.”

“They’re interested in you as a story. So make the story go away.”

I blink, trying to process what she’s saying. And then it all clicks into place. I leap out of my chair and throw my arms around Evelyn. “You’re brilliant.”

“Damn right, I am. Why do you think I’m a legend in this town?”

“Do you know someone who can handle the press side of things?”

Evelyn’s smile is as wide as I’ve ever seen it. “Just leave it to me.”

I do, and I watch in wonder as the pieces come together. Not two hours later, everything is on track for the first press conference of my life.

“And what makes it really unique,” Evelyn says with a guffaw, “is that everything you’re going to say is one hundred percent true.”

I spend the next hour organizing my thoughts. I’m not shy about speaking in front of a camera—I have my mother’s pageant obsession to thank for that—but I am nervous about making sure I’m clear and quotable. With lots of juicy sound bites.

When the knock at the door finally comes, and Evelyn opens it to the camera crew, I am ready. “You sure about this, Texas?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of to get him back,” I say. “And more important, I need to do it for me.”

She nods. “Okay, then. Let’s make you even more famous.”

I laugh, but have to acknowledge that she’s probably right. I also have to admit that this may not work, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that the princess is going out to kill the dragon instead of hiding in the tower.

The crew consists of a cameraman, a reporter, and a producer. I’m not interested in being interviewed, so the reporter says she’ll tape the intro later at the studio. This is just me, and I should take my time. I stand in the spot they’ve lit, wait for the cameraman to signal me, and start talking.

“My name is Nikki Fairchild, and I recently accepted one million dollars as a modeling fee for a nude Blaine original. The completed portrait now hangs in Mr. Damien Stark’s Malibu home, and it is an exceptional piece of art. It is both tasteful and erotic. And it does not show my face.”

I pause to collect my thoughts. The reporter nods encouragement, and I smile. We’ve only spoken a few words, but I like her.

“I agreed to the painting, and to the million, because I needed the money. It has not been spent, nor will it be until I am ready. But I also insisted that the arrangement be confidential and that no one except Mr. Stark and the artist know that it was me in the portrait. Somehow, though, my identity has been revealed, and Mr. Stark and I have been harassed nonstop by reporters and photographers who apparently have nothing better to do with their time. And the truth is, now I have regrets.”

I wonder, as I say that, if Damien will see this tape.

I soldier on. “Not about the painting. Not about the money. No, my regret is that I asked Blaine and Mr. Stark to keep my identity confidential in the first place. I will admit that there was a time when I was ashamed of my body, but that time has passed. I think the portrait is outstanding. And I think the modeling fee was fair. Then again, what is a fair price to paint a woman’s body? If Mr. Stark had paid me ten dollars, would the press now be calling me a cheap harlot?”

I glance at Evelyn, who is grinning. “To be honest, I think Mr. Stark got off easy. If he wants a second nude portrait, he’ll have to pay me two million dollars. At least.”

Near me, the reporter nods encouragingly. “As of this morning, the gossip about me has shifted. Apparently now I’m a woman who would sleep with a murderer to get ahead. Let’s think about that. Do I sleep with Damien Stark? I do, and gladly, but not to get ahead. Instead, I am honored and humbled that he wants me in his life and in his bed.”

I realize suddenly that I am not nervous at all. I feel strong. This—these words—feel right. “As for the allegation that Damien Stark is a murderer, I can only say that I do not believe it. The evidence will acquit him. But if by some horrific fault in the universe he is convicted, then that will change nothing. I will not and would not leave his side.”

I draw a breath and move on to my wrap-up. “I do not intend to make any more statements to the press, so I will add one final thing for the record. I am in love with Damien Stark, and I am leaving for Germany in an hour to support him through his trial. He is an innocent man, and he has been wrongly accused. Thank you.”

I stand in front of the presidential suite at the scarily luxurious Kempinski hotel in Munich and draw in a breath. I owe a huge debt to Sylvia, who could lose her job if Damien decides to be angry that his assistant told me where he was staying.

I’m not sure how he’s going to react to seeing me here, and I have no way of knowing if he saw my interview. And even if he did, I have no way of knowing if it moved him.

As for that interview, when I was in the taxi from the airport to my hotel, I read through Jamie’s half-dozen emails describing how the press was going wild. Apparently I am no longer a harlot and Damien is no longer a murderer. Now we are star-crossed lovers.