“No.” I press a finger over his lips. “I love Paris,” I said. “And dear god, Damien, I loved going to À la Lune with you.” I remember the way he’d touched me, the over-the-top eroticism of feeling Damien inside me while we watched those strangers and knowing that we were just as exposed. “And there was no way you could predict that some asshole with a camera—”

“Couldn’t I? There’s always some asshole with a camera, Nikki. It’s part of the package. The cameras and all the shit in my past. It’s all there, and I’m so goddamn sorry that it’s part of your life now.”

“Damien, it’s okay,” I say fiercely. “I don’t want to be cloistered, and I don’t need to be. You take me places—in the world, inside myself—and I don’t want you to stop.”

I see something that looks like hope on his face, but then it fades, replaced by both anger and regret. “At the very least I should be able to give you a respite on our honeymoon.”

“No.” My voice is hard. Firm. “Dammit, Damien, don’t you get it? I don’t want to escape your life. I love you. All of that shit, it’s just part of the man you became.”

“Fertilizer?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. You’re a whole package, Damien. And maybe I don’t have warm and fuzzy feelings for the paparazzi, but I do love you. And that makes it easier to put up with them. You know that,” I add, feeling just a little panicked, because he does know that. “I’ve told you that over and over. Don’t you know I mean it?”

Damien, however, doesn’t answer, and my throat is thick with tears as I look into his eyes. This is about more than the paparazzi, I realize. I may not like them, but I’m getting used to them, and Damien damn well knows it.

I frown at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He is silent for a moment, and when he does speak, my chest is so tight that I am certain I have forgotten how to breathe.

“Sofia,” he says. “She’s the one behind the bullshit lawsuit.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“My lawyers managed to trace it back. That’s what Sylvia texted to tell me earlier. I was going to tell you later. I didn’t want to spoil Paris.” He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat. “So much for that.”

He runs his fingers through his hair. “At any rate, it’s been shut down, and her attorney knows how he was duped. But she started it. She’s behind it. Because she wanted to fuck with you.”

I’m still trying to take it all in. “I—I don’t understand.”

“WiseApp? Try WiseAss.” There’s anger and hurt in his voice. “Goddamn her.”

“She’s messed up,” I say, though the words are hard to choke out. I can’t help but remember what she said to me—that Damien didn’t love me, that I should give him up and turn to a blade to ease my pain.

I force myself to bite back the fury. It’s useless now. Because she is sick, and all her antics are doing is hurting Damien now. Damien, and me.

I rest my hand on his leg. “It’s not your fault.”

“She should be in a facility that doesn’t allow her access to the internet or telephones. She’s got someone pulling strings for her. She’s too damn smart; too damn manipulative.”

“It was only a nuisance,” I say, though it was a hell of a lot more than that. “You’ve put an end to that bullshit lawsuit before it could get really bad.”

He turns to face me square on. “And how bad is too bad, Nikki? Everywhere we turn, my past is reaching out to hurt you.” He twines his fingers in my hair, and I wince, remembering when I took the scissors and violently chopped it off. He slides his hand down to cup my thigh, and I force myself not to cry as I think of the scars—of the times when the paparazzi, the shit with Sofia, and all the other crap has brought me so close to cutting. I shiver, but I shake my head.

“But I haven’t,” I whisper. “I haven’t because of you. You’re my strength, Damien. You know that.”

“And your dream?” he asks, and I have to force myself not to shudder with the memory of it.

Instead, I manage a shrug. “Everyone has nightmares. Not everyone is as lucky as I am to have a man like you to soothe them.”

His hand closes around my upper arm, his eyes boring straight into mine with the kind of heated ferocity that makes me breathless. “There is no fire I wouldn’t walk through for you, Nikki. But that doesn’t mean I want you to burn, too.”

“I already burn for you, Damien. Of course I’ll burn with you, too.”

For a moment, his grip tightens so much that I almost wince. Then he pulls me violently toward him, and his mouth is hard against mine. His palm is at the back of my head, his fingers twined tight in my hair. Our teeth clash, his tongue invades my mouth, and I want this—this heat, this wildness. I need him to know that I can take it. Him, this life, this place. All of it.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he asks as the taxi pulls to a stop in front of the hotel.

“At least as much as I love you,” I reply.

I start to edge toward the door, but Damien’s hand stops me. I follow his glance through the window and see the gathering of paparazzi near the entrance, their cameras aimed at us.

Well, hell.

“Go,” Damien says, with a firm smack of his palm to the glass divider between us and the driver.

To his credit, our driver continues on, leaving the vultures gaping. He takes us around back and delivers us to the service entrance. The decor is significantly less stunning as we walk through the kitchen and past the laundry, but at least it’s a photography-free zone.

We head for the service elevator to take us up to the penthouse, and as we’re waiting for it to arrive, Damien pulls out his phone and checks a text message. “Goddammit.”

“What?” I ask, but he is too busy opening apps and checking something.

I edge closer to see, and come face-to-face with the image of Damien’s hand on my breast, his other inside my skirt. And thank goodness for the shadows, because nothing beneath my skirt is visible. Not that anyone needs to see what we’re doing; it’s pretty obvious. My face is alight with passion, after all, and the very clear sign for À la Lune glows neon orange behind us. I recognize the image—it’s from before we entered the club.