Release Me: A Novel Part 23

I let the camera hang from its strap as I raise my hands in mock surrender. "I'm a free agent today, remember."

His grin is positively devilish. "I may not be allowed to act on it," he says, "but that doesn't mean I can't keep a list for future reference."

"Oh, really?" I snap another picture of him. "If I'm going to be punished anyway, it might as well be worth it."

His expression is all heat and promise. "I a.s.sure you I'll be very thorough."

"Of course, I don't think you're being very equitable. I mean, fair is fair. You're going to have a portrait of me. I think I should have some photos of you."

"Nice try," he says. "But the punishment stands."

I ease in close to him and slide my arm around his neck. Only the bulk of the camera is keeping us apart, and I'm suddenly enveloped in the heat of him. I lift myself up on my tiptoes so that I can whisper in his ear. "What would you say if I told you I was looking forward to it?"

He stands completely still, but as I ease back, I see a single muscle in his cheek twitch. It's not much, but it's enough. I've surprised Damien Stark. More than that, I've turned him on.

With a light laugh, I skip back, overflowing with feminine self-satisfaction.

We've reached the wharf, but we don't go out onto it. Instead, we turn around and head back down the beach toward Bath Street and the hotel. As we walk, I take a few snaps of the Channel Islands, then manage to get an excellent shot of two seagulls flying so close together they look like one creature. We've almost returned back the length of the beach when Damien settles on a bench. I think I see a sand dollar and squat in the sand in front of him.

"I'm looking forward to tonight, Ms. Fairchild," he says, his voice ripe with quiet urgency. He's looking right at me, and I see the heat in his eyes that has become familiar to me. "It's hard to be so close to something so precious and know you don't yet possess it."

"Possess?" I repeat.

His grin is slow and confident. "Possess. Have. Hold. Enjoy. Control. Dominate. Pick your verb, Ms. Fairchild. I intend to explore so very many of them."

I lick my lips. "Now you're breaking the rules."

"Oh, I don't think so." He lifts his hands. "No touching. No demands. You're not mine yet." He glances at his watch. "Not for a few more hours," he adds, and I have to stand up. My legs are too weak, my body too tingly, to let me remain squatting in the sand.

"Totally free for now," I agree, but I'm thinking about those hours. About what will happen when they pa.s.s.

"So I have no authority now," he says, his eyes roaming over my body. "I can't tell you to touch yourself. I can't insist that you lie naked in the surf and slide your fingers over your c.u.n.t. I can't take you back to the pool and ease you in, then suck on your nipples while the water washes the sand from your body. I can't slide my fingers inside you and feel how slick you are, how much you want me."

His eyes are locked on mine, and my breathing has become shallow. My skin glistens with sweat, and not from the heat of the sun. I'm standing at least three feet from him, but it's as if he's right there. As if we're connected. As if his hands are moving over my body in time with his words. And, dammit, I do want to touch myself. It takes all my willpower to keep my hands at my sides. Even then, my thumb is brus.h.i.+ng the outside of my thigh, the motion slow and sensual. It's all I have, and I'm clinging to it even as I cling to his words.

"I can't take you into the hot tub and turn you around so that I can f.u.c.k you from behind while the water jet strokes your c.l.i.t. I can't clutch your b.r.e.a.s.t.s and f.u.c.k you harder while you come for me, exploding all around me. And I can't make love to you on a balcony under the stars."

Make love ...

My heart flutters.

"I can't, Nikki," he continues, "because you're not mine yet. But I can soon," he says. "Soon I can do whatever I want with you. I hope you're ready."

I swallow. I hope I am, too. Dear G.o.d, I hope I am.

When we exit the plane in Santa Monica, there are two cars waiting. Damien's sleek red expensive car with the unp.r.o.nounceable name and a Lincoln Town Car. A short man in a cap stands by the Town Car. He inclines his head when I glance at him.

Damien presses his palm to the small of my back and steers me toward the man. "This is Edward, one of my drivers. He'll be taking you home."

"You're going back to your office?"

"I'm so sorry to cut our afternoon short, but it can't be avoided."

"No, no. Obviously you have work to do. It's just that my car is in the parking garage. Why don't I ride back with you?"

He presses a kiss to my forehead as Edward opens the Town Car door for me. "I would love the company, but your car is at your apartment."

It takes me a second to process. "What? How did it get there?"

"I arranged it."

"You arranged it," I repeat. I'm not angry so much as baffled. No, actually, I'm angry. I feel the tension boiling up inside me. "You just did that without asking?"

He looks perplexed. "I thought you'd appreciate it."

"That's micromanaging my life and putting your sticky fingers all over my property." I can hear my voice rising and force myself to tamp it down.

"I think you're overreacting."

Am I? I think about my mother and how much her fingers in every aspect of my life irritated me. Am I projecting my issues with my mother onto Damien? Or has he actually crossed some line? I'm not sure, and it bugs me that Elizabeth Fairchild is still haunting me from fifteen hundred miles away.

I run my fingers through my hair. "Sorry," I finally say. I slide into the back of the Town Car and look back out at him. "You're probably right. Just ask first next time, okay?"

"I was trying to help," he says, another nonanswer, but he's closing the door and that's that.

Well, d.a.m.n.

Edward climbs into the driver's seat and takes off toward my apartment. But the truth is, I'm not ready to go home yet. "You can just drop me on the Promenade," I say, referring to the shopping street in Santa Monica. "I'll either catch a taxi home or have my roommate pick me up."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Fairchild," he says, guiding the car onto the entrance ramp to the 10. "My instructions are to take you straight home."

Oh, for Pete's sake!

"Instructions?" I echo. "Don't I get a say?"

Edward looks up, and I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. The answer is clear: No.

Dammit.

I pull out my cell phone and call Damien.

"Hey, baby." His voice is low and sensual and now I'm even more angry-this time at myself for letting the caress of his voice s.h.i.+ft me from my mission.

I rally and speak very firmly and clearly. "Would you please tell Edward that he doesn't have to take me straight home? He seems to be under the impression that you were giving orders and not just telling him a destination."

The pause before he answers is ominous. "You need to be ready at six. It's already past two. You need to rest."

"What the f.u.c.k?" I snap. "Are you my mother?"

"It's been a long day, baby. You're tired."

"The h.e.l.l I am." Except he's right. I am. Not that I'm about to admit it to him.

"No lying," he says. "Remember."

"Fine," I say sharply. "I am tired. I'm also p.i.s.sed. See you tonight, Mr. Stark." I click off without waiting for an answer, then flop back in my seat and cross my arms over my chest. I close my eyes just for a second, but when I open them again, it's because Edward has pulled up in front of my apartment. I must have been asleep for almost an hour.

I exhale, bemused and frustrated.

Edward opens the door for me, reminds me to be ready at six, and then gets back behind the wheel. He doesn't drive off, though, and I realize he's waiting for me to safely make it to my door. I stomp up the stairs, jam my key in the lock, and shove the door open-and am immediately confronted by the sight of a high-quality tote bag with Third Street Promenade silk-screened on the side, along with the logo for a local street fair. I know, of course, who sent it, but I can't imagine how he pulled it together so fast.

"It just came for you," a male voice says, and in the split second before I recognize that it's Ollie, I jump. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." He gets up from the armchair tucked in the far corner of the living room and comes toward me. I notice he's barefoot. He's left a magazine in the chair-Elle. Apparently he's been reduced to reading my and Jamie's coffee table fare.

"Just came?" I say.

"About five minutes ago. I put it on the table for you. It doesn't weigh a thing."

I've crossed to the table while he was talking, and I immediately see why it's so light. It's filled with nothing but crumpled tissue paper. On top is an envelope. I break the seal and pull out a card with words written in ornate calligraphy: I am jealous of your time away from me. I owe you a shopping trip. D.S.

My smile is as refres.h.i.+ng as a cool breeze. Somehow, he always knows the right thing to say-and manages to say it with incredibly efficiency. Once again, I can't help but wonder how he got this to me so fast. The man must have staff all over the city.

I slide the card back into the envelope and tuck it back into the tissue paper; I don't want Ollie to see.

"Who's it from?" he asks.

"Long story," I answer, then change the subject. "So what happened to you yesterday? Jamie said she invited you over."

"Yeah, well, you know. I had stuff to do around the house, and then Courtney came back early from the conference, so we did the engaged-couple-hang-out thing."

"What's she doing today?"

"Work," he says. "Same old, same old."

"Right." I put my bags down on the table and go into the kitchen for a bottle of water. As I'm taking a long swallow-I'm parched from alcohol and alt.i.tude-I realize what's wrong with Ollie's statement. "Why is she at work and you're not?" I ask as I head back into the living area.

"Deposition ended earlier than I expected," he says. "So I decided to come hang here."

"That's great. You didn't come to see me, did you? Sorry I wasn't here. Starting tomorrow, though, you might actually find me at home during the day." It's a hefty hint, but he doesn't take it.

"No, I popped by to see Jamie. You know, to make up for blowing off her invitation yesterday."

"Cool." I flop down on the couch next to him. "So where is she, anyway?"

"Um, the bathroom. She's taking a shower. I think she's going out in a bit. I told her I'd hang out for a while and watch some screen, but now I think I'm getting hungry." He stands. "Why don't we go grab something?"

I shake my head. "I'm stuffed. You go on."

"At least come sit with me. I'm just going around the corner to the Daily Grill."

He's already at the door. For someone who was casually vegging a moment ago, he's certainly eager to get food. "Do you want me to make you something? We have a ton of leftover pizza."

"Nah. I'm craving their burger. You coming?" He has the door open now.

I think about the camera and the pictures I want to dump into Photoshop. And then I think that Ollie is one of my best friends. "Sure," I say. "Just give me a sec."

I grab my sack and head toward my bedroom, but I pause long enough to tap on the bathroom door.

"Don't be coy," Jamie says. "Just come on in."

The shower's running, but Jamie's voice is clear, and I imagine she's probably got her leg propped up on the toilet seat as she shaves. Since we haven't been shy with each other since ninth grade, I open the door. I'm not at all surprised to see her leg slathered with shaving cream. I am surprised by the expression on her face. It's one of complete and total shock.

Everything clicks into place.

"Hey, Nik! Why are you home in the middle of the day?"

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?" I snap. "He's engaged. Off limits. Jesus, Jamie."

"I-" But she doesn't finish. Just grabs a towel and wraps it around herself.

"s.h.i.+t." The curse bursts out of me. "s.h.i.+t, d.a.m.n, f.u.c.k." I am not an expert curser, so that's pretty brutal for me. "Did you f.u.c.k him?"

Her lips are tight together, but she gives just the tiniest nod.

I leave the bathroom and slam the door behind me. Ollie is still standing by the door, and I can tell from his expression that he either overheard our conversation or is smart enough to have figured out the gist of it.

"Jesus, Ollie," I say.

He looks contrite. h.e.l.l, he looks beat up. "I f.u.c.ked up, Nik. What can I say?"

I exhale. I'm furious, but this is Ollie and I love him and I have to be there for him. For him, and for Jamie. Oh, G.o.d. Jamie. "It had to be Jamie? You couldn't have f.u.c.ked someone I don't love? You guys are my best friends-I don't want to be in the middle of this."

"I know. I do. I'm sorry. Look, come get some lunch with me. I'll-we can talk. Or not talk. Just come, okay?"

I nod. "I'll just have a tea or something. I had a huge lunch with Damien."

"Damien," he repeats, and I force myself not to wince. I hadn't meant to mention Damien's name. "Christ, Nik. He's bad news."

"Don't you dare," I say, and I have to work to keep tight control on my voice. "Don't you dare give me that s.h.i.+t. You can't stand here and tell me you don't like Damien Stark. You can't toss something like that at me and stand there like you've got the moral high ground beneath your feet, because you so do not."

"You're right-you're right." He runs his fingers through his already untidy hair. "Listen, I'm just gonna get a burger and head back to the office. We should talk tomorrow, okay? You can berate me about Jamie all you want. And maybe I'll even have some s.h.i.+t to tell you, too."

"About Damien?" I ask coldly.

He hooks his thumb at the door. "I'm going to just-I really am sorry."

I don't bother saying anything else. I watch him go, and then I take my stuff and stomp off to my room. My mood is vile, and twice I pick up the phone and think about calling Damien. But what would I say? Hi, you want to paint me and you're paying me to be your plaything and so I thought I'd call you and dump my friends' problems on you? Somehow, that just didn't seem right.

Jamie's still in the bathroom, most likely because she's either avoiding me or working up the courage to talk to me. Honestly, I'm not in any hurry.