“Four,” I say, even as I type the numeral into the box. I glance at Jamie, hit enter, and cross my fingers.

A moment later, the screen changes, and I feel a little tug of glee:

Welcome, Nikki Stark

Please Enter Password

My glee fades when I realize there is yet another hurdle.

Once again, I meet Jamie’s eyes, but she’s already on it. She’s snatched the box and is examining every last inch of it and the muffin cup. “Nothing,” she says. “Do you think we ate it?”

I don’t answer. I’m too busy typing a four into the box. I hold my breath, hit enter, then both laugh and curse when I hear Damien’s voice saying, “Try again, sweetheart.”

“Oh my god,” Jamie says. “You so have to figure this out. Like right now.”

I agree. I can picture Damien at work today, doing whatever master-of-the-universe thing is on his agenda. But even while he’s buying Argentina, he’s secretly smirking about the fact that he has befuddled his wife.

The image only makes me more determined to figure this out. And fast.

“Paris?” Jamie suggests.

I try. Nothing.

I try “Stark,” “Wife,” and “Malibu.”

And then, I realize.

“I know what it is,” I say, then type in “Sunset,” the safe word that I picked my first night with Damien. That’s sort of like a key, after all.

I hold my breath—and then smile with satisfaction when the log-in screen disappears and text fills the screen.

Congratulations, Nikki, you solved clue number two,

Interpreted the hint just right

Now that you know what to do,

I’ll tell you that this clue,

Is only available at night.

Are you enjoying this game, please say that you do,

And know that I’m exceptionally fond of you.

“Fond of you?” Jamie wiggles her eyebrows at me. “That’s got to be the key. Because that man is so beyond ‘fond’ it isn’t even funny.”

I don’t disagree, but neither have I got an inkling about where this clue leads. And a solid minute spent staring at the screen isn’t helping any.

I’m about to close my laptop and offer to walk Jamie to Starbucks for a good-luck-at-the-audition latte, when my email pings.

“I bet he knows you got in,” Jamie says, looking over my shoulder at the name of the sender: Damien J. Stark.

I realize it must be a new account, because Damien has never used his middle initial on his emails, and I assume it’s one he set up for this game.

I open the email—and immediately go cold.

The subject line reads Mine.

And under that, filling the body of the email, is a grainy photograph of my husband with his mouth on Italian supermodel Carmela D’Amato’s breast. They are both naked, and the look of ecstasy on Carmela’s face is one that I have seen and felt on my own.

I clap my hand over my mouth, certain I’m going to be sick.

“Hey,” Jamie says. “Hey. He didn’t send this. You know he didn’t send this.”

I nod, numb, as Jamie closes my laptop.

“She’s that supermodel, right? The one Damien screwed around with back in the day?”

I nod. “I saw her again not too long ago.”

“Really?” Surprise laces Jamie’s voice. “Where?”

“Damien’s hotel room in Munich.”

“Wait. What?”

I shrug, going for nonchalant. In truth, just the memory makes me edgy. “We came back to the room and she was waiting there. All ready to get down and dirty with Damien again. Apparently, she was on a standby list when he traveled to Europe.”

“Nikki …” Her voice trails off into sympathy.

“I know. I’m fine.” And I am. I’m not even jealous. Not really. Except I am. I’m jealous of every woman who had time with Damien. Not because I think he still wants them, but because I covet those lost hours that could have been mine.

I mutter a curse and reach to open the laptop again, but Jamie stops me. “Dammit, Nikki, don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not.” My voice is shaky, and I take a deep breath to steel myself. “You’re right—Damien didn’t send this. I want to know who did.”

“And looking at that fucking picture is going to tell you?”

I shake my head, then open the lid and maneuver my finger on the trackpad to click on the sender. “There,” I say, when the full email address pops up. It’s his name, all right. But it’s not from Stark International or any of Damien’s companies.

No, the domain that this email came from is WiseApps.

Jamie lets out a low whistle, and I nod my head in agreement. WiseApps Development is the name of a company that threatened me with litigation just a few weeks ago, effectively putting a nasty gray cloud over my honeymoon. As it turned out, the company—and the lawsuit—were bullshit. A stunt pulled by Damien’s batshit crazy childhood friend, Sofia.

“I thought she lost internet privileges,” Jamie says.

“I thought so, too.” When I say “batshit crazy,” I mean it in the literal sense. Sofia is currently locked away in an institution outside of London, and after the fiasco with the threatened lawsuit, the security around her was amped up and her privileges were knocked down. But Sofia is as brilliant as she is crazy, and if anyone could figure a way around an internet ban, she’d be the girl.

“This picture must be years old,” Jamie says, as if to console me.

“I know. Don’t worry, James. I can handle this.”

“Damn straight you can, Nicholas. But you don’t have to handle it alone. For that matter, you shouldn’t. Someone is fucking with you. You need to tell Damien. Hell, you need to tell Ryan.”

I tilt my head up to look at her. “Ryan?”

“He’s Damien’s top-dog security dude, right?”

I nod.

“I may not know Damien as well as you do—”

“I certainly hope not.”

She snorts, but otherwise doesn’t falter. “But I do know that Damien’s not the kind of guy who would consent to that sort of picture. And I doubt that he would have been any different half a dozen years ago.”

I nod. She makes an excellent point. “Someone hid a camera, and then bided their time for years. Sofia?”

“She’s in London, right? And has been for a while? Look at the coffee table.”

Needless to say, I hadn’t noticed the furnishings on first glance. Now I see that she’s right. A copy of the London-based Financial Times is on the table, along with a magazine called London Today that looks like an in-house hotel publication.