Marcy tenses up so immediately it looks painful. "No. He just gets mad. And I get better. And I'm not making excuses, really. But it's not like there's any proof. No doctors. I didn't tell anyone. Nothing."
"What about a counselor? You should talk to someone."
She shakes her head. "I should, I know. But I'm not ready."
I glance at Jamie, who nods almost imperceptibly.
"Do you still want to run?"
Marcy nods her head. "Yes. So much. I want to go home."
"Then run now. I'll give you some cash--no, don't argue. I want to," I say when she starts to protest. "And I can arrange a car to take you wherever you want to go. So tell me, Marcy, where do you want to go? Where would you be safe?"
"I want to go home," she says. "I want to go to Texas."
"Done." I smile at her.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." I stand up. "But we shouldn't wait around. Let's get you out of here before he gets out of the trade show. Is there anything in your room you have to have?"
She shakes her head. "No. I've got my purse."
"Good. He'll see the stuff and figure you're in the hotel somewhere."
She blinks at me, her eyes wide and trusting. "This is really happening?"
"If you want it to."
"Yes." The relief in her voice cuts through me like a thousand sharp knives. "God, yes."
"Then let's go."
We dress quickly, and as we're walking out of the spa, I call down to the desk, then explain who I am and what I want. And, with typical Stark efficiency, everything is ready when we arrive at the main entrance--an SUV to take Marcy home with two drivers so that they can drive straight through to Dallas, and an envelope with two thousand dollars in cash.
Marcy stares at the SUV like it's Moses's burning bush. And as I look at her, I can't help but think of Damien. Our romance had been whirlwind, too. He had seduced me so thoroughly, sweeping me off my feet, showing me a whole new world. Just like Marcy's romance, it had been hypnotic and wonderful and like something out of a fairy tale.
But dear god, what different endings. Because now Marcy cowers when Jay is near, whereas I open like a flower for Damien.
He scares her, hurts her.
And as for me, there is nothing that I would not trust with Damien. My property, my soul, my heart. My life.
They are his, and I know that he will treat them well.
I reach over and give her a hug. "You're making the right decision. You deserve to be happy, not hurt."
Marcy's lips are pressed together tight, but she nods, and I'm certain she's fighting back tears.
"They'll really take me all the way home?"
"They really will," I say. "Here," I add, handing her my card. "Call me if you need anything. That's my cell on the back. And let us know when you're home."
"I will." She hugs me hard, then throws her arms around Jamie. "Thank you both," she says, her voice raw and breathless. "I'll text you when I get to Dallas."
"Do," I say. Then I give her one last hug and watch as she gets in the back of the SUV. I tip both the drivers ahead of time and tell them to drive straight through. They nod, then get in the car.
And as Jamie and I stand watching, Marcy disappears around the bend in the drive, past the fountain, and out into the Nevada afternoon.
Safe, finally. And that is a very good thing.
Chapter 8
I'm in an exceptional mood when Jamie and I return to the suite after seeing Marcy off in the SUV. Not that having a torrid weekend affair with my husband-lover isn't deliciously satisfying, but there's something about knowing that I really made a difference in Marcy's life that has me flying high.
I part ways with Jamie in the living room of our suite, and she goes off to her bedroom to take a nap. Frankly, I think she's sexting with Ryan, who took advantage of the fact that he was on site to schedule a meeting with the hotel's head of security.
I head into my room, and when I see the box on my bed, my mood goes from spectacular to fantabulous, especially when I open it and see the slinky, sexy dress and matching shoes that Damien has bought for me.
There's a note, too: Looking forward to seeing you in (and out) of this dress - D
I grin. I'm looking forward to that myself.
I spend the next hour getting ready. Since Mission Marcy took up my spa time, I have to do my own hair and makeup, but that's okay, and I finish with a good fifteen minutes to spare before I'm supposed to meet Damien in front of the restaurant.
I do a last-minute turn in front of the mirror, and have to admit that he picked out an excellent dress. It's sophisticated, yet comfortable. Sexy, but not slutty. And it's a wrap style, so there is a high slit over my right thigh, which adds an extra level of sultriness.
Then I'm out the door and hurrying to Periscope, a new seafood restaurant that has opened inside the hotel. It's located on the second floor of the hotel just over the reception area and across from the spa. What's intriguing, though, is that the ceiling in the reception area is three stories high. So Periscope is located along two sides of the perimeter, and has viewing screens that allow guests to see what is going on down below. Thus the name.
Damien and I are in a secluded booth right over the main entrance, so our view encompasses the entire lobby and even a bit of the casino. It's an interesting perspective, and makes you feel a little bit godlike, or at least like royalty. As if you are floating on a throne above the little people.
The booth is shaped like a C, and I am seated right next to Damien, my thigh brushing against his.
"I've been looking forward to this for a very long time, Ms. Fairchild," he says.
"Dinner?" I ask innocently.
"You, next to me. Me, touching you."
I lick my lips. "It seems to me that you've touched me plenty over the last few days."
"I've been looking forward to experiencing the reality, not the fantasy. Because as spectacular as the fantasy of you is, the reality is so much better."
I start to shift so that I can face him better, but he closes his hand over my thigh, holding me very firmly in place. "No," he says. "I like you right where you are."
"Do you? Why's that?"
He starts to answer, then stops when the waiter comes with our wine and appetizers. And all the while that Damien is using his right hand to lift the wine and taste it, his left is
sliding very cleverly through the slit in my dress--and I am trying very hard to breathe normally. To not tremble in anticipation or longing. To not cry out with need.
But I want to do all those things. I have had the feel of his hands upon my skin so firmly burned in my imagination for the last two days that this new reality is shocking, and all I want to do is close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of his fingertips stroking my bare thigh.
"I think I like reality," I admit as soon as the waiter has gone away.
"Good," he says. "So do I."
As I watch, he dips his finger into the wine, then brushes his fingertip along my lower lip. I taste it, light and fruity, and though I haven't yet had even one sip, I already feel light-headed.
"Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Stark?"
"Of course."
I raise a brow. "So you can have your way with me?"
"Do you need to be drunk for that?"
"No," I whisper. "Anytime. Anywhere."
"I'm very glad you feel that way, Ms. Fairchild. Because I'm thinking here, and I'm thinking now."
"I--" I'm about to ask just what exactly he has in mind when his hand stroking lightly up my thigh makes his intent sweetly, perfectly clear.
"Damien."
"Hush. No one will know. No one can see."
He's right, of course. Our booth is secluded. But it's still decadent. Naughty.
And such a delicious turn-on.
"Close your eyes," he says.
I hesitate, but comply. I expect him to continue his fingers' inexorable trek up my thigh, but his hand has stopped just inches from the juncture of my thigh and pelvis. I swallow, hyperaware of the pressure of his fingertips against my skin. I'm wet, and I want to squirm. I want to silently urge him to move higher. To stop this tease.
But, of course, that is the whole point.
Damien will make me suffer--and that will make my ultimate satisfaction that much sweeter.
In the meantime, of course, I am silently cursing him.
"Open," he says, brushing something oily over my mouth. I part my lips, and he feeds me a piece of bread dipped in oil. Then a bit of shrimp cocktail. And then an olive from the antipasto plate. All delicious. All fire to my senses.
None are the touch I truly want.
"Damien."
That's all I say, but I sense the shift in him immediately. I have broken. I have begged.
And now I will get my reward.
That hand that has been so patiently waiting on my thigh, burning a hole in my skin, now slides up, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.