Inside, my apartment looks exactly the same, right down to the huge iron bed that dominates the living room and the white cat that blends in with the pile of pillows on the couch. Lady Meow-Meow lifts her head as we enter, then stands, stretches, and leaps daintily to the floor. I expect her to come over for a scratch and cuddle, but instead she just blinks her huge, accusing eyes at me, then turns around and strolls to the back of the apartment, tail lifted high, butt in the air. She pads up the stairs, turns into Jamie’s room, and disappears.

“I guess she told you,” Damien says, amusement lacing his voice.

“At least she looks well fed.” Jamie told me she left Kevin, our cute but spacey neighbor, in charge of feeding the cat. Considering I sometimes wonder how Kevin makes it through the day, I can’t say that I fully endorsed her choice of pet sitter.

I drop my bag on the floor and toss the mail onto the bed. “I can’t believe she left it here,” I say, though of course I can. If left up to Jamie, the bed will become a permanent fixture, much like the pile of clothes at the bottom of her closet or the science project that is undoubtedly growing in the fridge since I wasn’t around to detox the condo every few days.

Damien has left the suitcase by my bag, and now I unzip it, then rock back on my heels with a frown. This is the part about traveling I really don’t like. It’s crammed full, and I am not looking forward to sorting through everything—to wash, to hang, to iron. I fall back on the time-honored ploy of procrastination, ignoring my luggage while I sort through the mail. Bills, bills, junk, magazines. While I’m doing that, Damien stalks my apartment, checking out the newly installed motion sensors and other gizmos that his team has hooked up throughout the place.

As he returns from my bedroom, I notice one letter that stands out from the pile. Its return address catches my attention—Stark International. I smile and glance up at Damien, expecting a knowing grin. He is focused on his phone, however, tapping out a response to yet another text message that has recently pinged.

Since I’m not inclined to wait, I slide my finger under the flap, unsealing the envelope. As I do, I notice that Damien is returning his phone to his pocket, which I take as a sign that he’s finally done. Ryan, I think, must be relieved.

I tug the single sheet of paper from the envelope and unfold it. I expect sensual words and decadent language. What I find makes my blood run cold.

HIS PAST WILL ALWAYS HURT YOU

I gasp and drop the paper to the floor.

“Nikki?” Damien is at my side immediately, but he has approached from the opposite side of the bed, climbing on and clutching my shoulders. “What is it?”

I take a deep breath and force myself to get my shit together. Someone is playing with me—the text, my car, now this. But it’s only a piece of paper. Just a goddamn piece of paper. A frisson of fear snakes through me, but I force it under. I can deal with this. I can handle it.

“Nikki.”

“There.” I point to the floor, then slide off the bed to retrieve it, but Damien is too fast, and he snatches it up before I am able.

He holds the paper between two fingers, his fingertips and nails turning white from the pressure of his grip. I look more closely at the message, maybe expecting some sort of clue to leap out at me. But there is nothing on the sheet but those words, which look like they were actually typed by an old-fashioned manual machine.

“Where did you get this?” His voice is calm and even. I point to the envelope that is still on the bed, and Damien uses a nearby catalog to flip it over. I see his expression and know he’s seen the return address. “Son of a bitch,” he snarls, then lashes out against the bedpost so hard the whole thing shakes.

I wait a moment, then keep my voice even as I ask, “Someone got hold of your stationery?”

“No,” he says. “The motherfucker just wanted you to think it was from me. Look closely—don’t touch,” he adds as I lean in. “It’s printed with a regular laser printer. Our envelopes are professionally embossed. Shit.” He runs his fingers through his hair and takes a breath, then he focuses his attention on me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say truthfully. “I was freaked at first, but that was just shock. Really,” I say, because he is still looking hard at me, and I can see the concern in his eyes. “I’m okay now. Honest. I’m more pissed than scared.”

He nods slowly, as if weighing the veracity of my words. “All right,” he says. “Get me a freezer bag. I’ll get this to Ryan in the morning.”

I hurry to the kitchen, a bit surprised he isn’t summoning Ryan right then. But considering the note came through the mail, I suppose time isn’t of the essence.

When I return with the bag, I find him pacing the room. He comes to meet me, takes the bag, and then uses his shirttail to slide the note and the envelope inside. He drops it on the bed, and then turns to pull me into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment.

I pull back enough to face him. “What the hell for? You’re not the one sending me nasty notes or dumping fish in my car.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But it would appear that I’m the reason.”

“That’s hardly breaking news.” We both know that without Damien, I’m not interesting enough to attract the attention of either the media or a stalker. But if that’s the price of being with Damien, then I’m willing to pay it.

“No. I suppose it’s not.” He is silent for a moment, then, “I want you to move in with me.”

Oh. I take a step backward and sit on the edge of the bed again. I can’t deny that I’ve wanted to hear those words for a while. Yes, I know that there are still shadows clinging to this man—that there are secrets that he may never reveal. But we have overcome so much already, and being with him feels so right. Already I wake up in his arms most mornings, and on the days when we sleep apart, I feel bereft.

There have been hints before that he wants me to move in, but this is the first time he has spoken it outright. Under different circumstances, my heart would be fluttering with glee. But as I glance at the plastic bag with that vile letter, all I feel is a chill.

Slowly, I lift my head and look at Damien. His expression is firm and business like. This is the face of an executive, not a lover, and my answer comes quickly to my tongue. “No.”

“What?”

I stand. It’s hard enough to win a battle of wills with Damien Stark; I sure as hell can’t do it on my ass. “I said no.”