“And that’s another reason that we are perfect together,” Damien says. “I want exactly the same thing.”

Chapter Ten

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Stark, Ms. Fairchild. Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, taking the glass gratefully. Damien and I are seated side by side in the rich leather recliners. There’s a polished table in front of us and equally shiny wood trim throughout the interior of the very large cabin. The seats are so comfortable I’d happily have them at home. The flight attendant is tall and slim, with a mass of curls piled on her head in a way that manages to look both cute and professional.

I sip the champagne, sigh, and have to admit that there’s something to be said for the billionaire lifestyle.

“What happened to the other plane?” I ask Damien. We’d flown from Munich to London in a small jet, similar to the one he keeps hangared in Santa Monica. While comfortable, it pales in comparison to this one.

“This is the Lear Bombardier Global 8000,” he says. “We’re crossing the Atlantic, remember? Not to mention all of the United States. I thought traveling in a plane with sufficient fuel capacity made sense. Plus it’s easier to get work done with an actual office. And sleep in an actual bed,” he adds, trailing his finger lightly up my leg and giving me shivers.

“This thing has an office and a bed?”

“There’s a bed in the stateroom,” he says.

“Wow.” I want to get up and explore, but the attendant has already asked that we fasten our seat belts as the plane is now taxiing toward the runway.

Now, she’s standing next to the jump seat. She’s speaking into a headset, presumably communicating with the pilot. A moment later, she hangs up, then walks toward Damien and me. “Mr. Stark, you’ve had a telephone call from Mr. Maynard. He tried to reach your cell, but apparently the call didn’t connect. When he realized you were on board, he called the tower and asked that we get a message to you to call him at your earliest convenience.”

“Can we hold on the runway?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll call him now,” he says, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. I watch from beside him, frowning as he’s put through to Charles. I can’t imagine why Maynard would be calling—could the court have changed its mind? Is it even allowed to do that?

I study Damien’s face, but his expression gives me no clues. It’s gone completely blank and totally unreadable. A boardroom expression designed to give nothing away to competitors—or to me.

After a moment, Damien stands, and though I reach for his hand, he doesn’t reach back. Neither does he meet my eyes. He heads to the back of the plane and disappears into what I assume is the office.

I try to focus on my book, but it’s impossible, and after I’ve read the same page over at least three dozen times, Damien finally returns. He nods at the attendant, who radios the cockpit, and by the time Damien has fastened his seat belt again we are once again readying for takeoff.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing to worry about.” He stills wears that bland, corporate mask and I feel my heart constrict, as if a giant fist is squeezing it tight.

“But I am worrying. Charles wouldn’t radio the tower unless it was important.”

He smiles, but it seems forced, and I see no corresponding humor in his eyes. “You’re right. He wouldn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“There’ve been some time-sensitive developments on a couple of matters that I’ve been chipping away at.” His voice is level, his words perfectly reasonable. I, however, don’t believe a word of it.

“Don’t shut me out again, Damien.”

“I’m not,” he says firmly. “Not everything is about us.”

I tense, the sting of his words as potent as a slap. “I see.” I finger the book in my lap. “Well, never mind.”

“Nikki . . . ” His voice is no longer cold.

I tilt my head to look at him, my own mask firmly in place. “It’s fine,” I say.

His eyes search mine, the near-black one seeming to see so deep into me that it is almost dizzying. I hold his gaze for as long as I can before I have to look away or else risk him seeing too clearly that I’m certain his words are all bullshit. What I don’t understand is why.

I turn my head, ostensibly to look out the window as the plane gathers speed, rushing forward to its inevitable climb. And as the wheels lift off, I can’t help but think that we have reached the point of no return, Damien and I. Like this plane, we will either continue to move forward, or we will crash.

There are no other options.

And as I glance sideways at Damien with his papers spread out and his face a mask of secrets and fears, I cannot help but be very, very afraid.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed in the stateroom, feeling hollow. I brought the empty champagne flute back with me, and now I hold it like a baton—one hand on the base, and one hand on the rim, the fragile stem stretched out between my hands.

It would be so simple, I think. Just a contraction of muscles. One quick movement and—snap.

One second, maybe less, and I’d have the stem in my hand, its top raw, the edge of broken glass as sharp as a knife.

My skirt is hitched up so that I can sit like this, and beneath the material that is stretched taut across my legs, I can see the marred flesh of my inner thighs. I can imagine tracing the stem along the edge of the most jagged one. The pain as I press the glass into soft flesh. The release as I tug it down, my skin yielding and the horrible pressure in my chest finally lessening as the valve is open and all this shit that has been building can finally explode out of me.

I want it—oh, God, I want it.

No.

I squeeze my eyes tight, desperate for Damien’s hand. But he is not here, and it is just me, and I am not certain that I can do this alone.

Slowly, I run the rounded rim of the flute against my thigh. Just one snap—just a little pressure—

No, no, goddammit, no.

I will not do this, and I lift the glass, prepared to hurl it away from me, but a firm tap on the door startles me and I jump guiltily. I don’t expect it to be Damien—he returned to the jet’s office as soon as we reached altitude two hours ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Instead, I assume it’s Katie, the flight attendant, who promised to wake me when dinner was served.

“I’m not hungry,” I call. “I’m going to sleep a little longer.”