lightly brushing over the back of my hand. Stroking and teasing. Then trailing lightly up and down my forearm.
I've never thought of an arm as particularly sensual--god knows no other man has set my body on fire by caressing such a utilitarian body part--but right now I'm actually having to bite my lip to keep my mouth closed so that I don't moan and whimper in the middle of this theater.
Stark, damn him, knows exactly the effect he's having on me, and since we have four hours together in this theater, he's taking it slowly. Torturously, wonderfully, deliciously slowly.
So slow, in fact, that he's only reached my shoulder by the time the gang's reached Vermont. And when he starts to slide his hand down--when he slips his fingers down the V-neck of the light sweater I'm wearing and then under the lace of my bra--he's moving so slowly and building so much of that damned anticipation, that I almost come simply from the touch of his finger on my nipple.
"Good girl," he says, and as he speaks, he takes my hand and places it in his lap. He's hard as steel, and this evidence of how turned on he is makes me even wetter, and I squirm a little, wanting satisfaction. Because I'm close now. So damn close, and it's very clear that he is going to drag this out.
He slides his hand free of my shirt, then strokes me over the rough linen of my skirt. Once again, he moves excruciatingly slowly as he tugs the skirt up. This time, however, I'm not getting more and more turned on with each subtle shift of his hand. On the contrary, I'm getting more and more tense. Because his fingers are brushing my knee. Then the inside of my thigh. Then creeping higher. And higher. And getting closer and closer to my secrets.
Secrets nobody knows. Just Ollie. Just Jamie.
And not Stark--I don't want a man like Damien Stark to know how weak I am. I don't want him to see me like that.
But he's right there, and he's going to feel the hard, raised scar tissue. He's going to know. He's going to--
I lurch to my feet, yanking my skirt down as I do and spilling the popcorn in the process. "I'm sorry," I say. "This is a mistake. I have to go."
I don't wait for him to reply, I just turn and rush toward the lobby, and then on out into the light without even slowing.
It's not until I reach the stars of the Hollywood Walk of Fame that I slow down, then bend over and press my hands to my knees and take big, deep gulps of air.
I'm hunched like that when I feel his hand on the small of my back. I close my eyes, expecting him to demand an explanation. Expecting him to tell me I'm not worth the trouble.
Expecting him to just leave so that I can go back to my calm and quiet routine with Ollie.
Instead, he says, "Walk with me."
"I--what?" I straighten and look at him, confused.
"It's too pretty a day to be cooped up in a theater. Let's walk." He extends his hand, and then just holds it out for me as I hesitate, unsure what to do. I know what I should do. I should run from him. He's dangerous.
And yet I can't make myself go.
Finally, I take his hand, then watch as slowly--ever so slowly--his smile reaches his eyes. "Come on," he says, as he starts walking down Hollywood Boulevard.
I don't know what I expected. Maybe an interrogation. Maybe small talk. But we walk in easy silence for a few blocks until he tugs me to a stop in front of a thrift store. "I once found a first edition Ray Bradbury here," he says. "Owner had no idea what he had."
"You like science fiction?"
"I do," he says, and those simple words seem to convey a lifelong passion.
I'm not sure what to say, so I let my eyes drift back toward the window, and that's when I see it. I gasp and squeal and point with an "Oh my god! It's my Looney Tunes lunchbox!"
"Lunchbox?"
"I've wanted that particular one since I was seven," I explain. "See? The Road Runner is on the front. Bugs Bunny's on the back. And there are Wile E. Coyotes on each of the sides. But I never got it. I asked every birthday and every Christmas, and I never got it."
"What did you get instead?"
"Clothes. Hair stuff. A Barbie Dreamhouse." I scowl. "My mom knew damn well I never liked Barbies. But that's what she wanted me to be. That's how you and I almost met once, actually. Did you know?" I can tell from his face that he doesn't, and so I go on. "You judged a pageant in Dallas, and I was supposed to be in it. But I'd gotten sick that morning and had to back out." I'd actually swallowed an entire bottle of ipecac syrup. I'd vomited all over my mother's expensive Oriental rug, which I'd considered a perk. And the violent stomach cramps were more than worth the day of absolute freedom.
"I remember that pageant," he says. "I had the feeling I was missing something special."
I think he's teasing me, of course, but there's such a serious expression on his face when he says the words that I'm actually confused. Because there's certainly no reason he would have missed me. Then again, the moment I saw him at Evelyn's party, I felt like I was missing an entire chunk of my life.
Deja vu, I think. So freaking weird.
The truth is that Damien Stark has wormed his way into my blood. And while that feels good up to a point, the overall effect is something far too dangerous.
Gently, I tug my hand free of his under the pretense of going to the door to check the hours. "Closed today, of course. It's Christmas. But maybe I'll come back tomorrow and get it. Then again, I probably won't. It's not the same buying it for yourself."
"Which is why I've never gotten him," he says, pointing to a stuffed teddy bear. It's the handcrafted kind, with soft fur and jointed arms and legs. It's wearing a little vest and there's a red kerchief peeking out of a pocket.
"Adorable. A new member of your board of directors?"
"Not a bad idea," he says. "But no. Pure sentiment. I had one just like him as a kid. Before I started playing tennis professionally. At some point my dad threw him out. I only realized once we started to travel for tournaments and I wanted to take Bob with me."
"Bob?" I grin. "Bob the bear."
"Hey, I was about seven. Give a guy a break." He takes my hand again, and I don't object as I fall in step beside him. And over the next few blocks the conversation deepens. He talks about the stress of playing tennis so young. He even talks about the gossip that surrounds him, though he doesn't give me any real details. But he acknowledges the rumors that a girlfriend died under suspicious circumstances. And the speculation that perhaps his coach's death was murder, not suicide. I reciprocate, telling him about how lonely I was after my sister died, and how my mother always pushed me into a pageant life that I really didn't want.
It's only the tip of the iceberg, and we both know it. We have secrets, he and I. But right at this moment, it's nice to know that we're not the only ones whose past weighs them down.
When I realize that the sun is about to set, I regretfully tell him that I need to go home.
He steps closer to me, his eyes full of heat and need. "Come home with me," he says, and those four simple words shift my mood again. Because if I go home with him, it's for one purpose. And I will panic again, just like I did in the theater.
I want it. I want him. But I don't want the tears and the shame and the regret.
Slowly--sadly--I shake my head. "I just need to go. Please, Damien. Don't push."
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he nods slowly. "I won't push, but I will tell you this, because you need to know where I'm coming from. I don't know what it is you're scared of, but I do know that I will always protect you."
"Dami--"
He presses a finger to my lips, quieting me.
"Always," he repeats. "No matter what. No strings attached. But here's the bigger truth. I want you, Nikki. I want you naked and wet and willing beneath me. I want you to bend to me, to melt for me."
I tug away from him, then look down at the sidewalk. "I can't. I'm dating someone. It's...it's getting serious."
"I believe you. But let me ask you this. Should it be serious?"
Slowly, I nod. "He knows me." My words are a whisper. "H
e knows my secrets."
Damien tucks a finger under my chin and lifts my head to face him. "Maybe he does. But I know your heart."
I shake my head. "You can't possibly."
"It's crazy, I'll admit. But when I look at you, I see something I didn't even know that I'd lost. But now that I recognize it, I don't think I can live without it. Without you. You feel it, too, Nikki. I know that you do."
I shake my head, even though it's a horrible, terrible lie.
He sighs, then nods and holds up his hand. A few moments later, the limo pulls up to the curb, and Damien opens the door for me. "Your ride," he says. "But think about it, okay? And think most about this--what exactly are you afraid of?"
I blink, the question shocking me. Because the truth is that when you get right down to the heart of it, I don't know what I'm afraid of except losing him.
And that fear, so unexpected--so damned inappropriate--is what really terrifies me.
Chapter 8
"Are you ever going to tell me what's up with you?" Jamie demands.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the couch trying to get the code right for a mobile restaurant app that is giving me fits. I frown at the screen, then transfer the frown up to Jamie. "There's nothing up with me," I say. "I'm just working. Who wouldn't be in a pissy mood working between Christmas and New Year?"
"You've been in a pissy mood since Christmas Day. And you weren't working then. For that matter, I have no idea what you were doing. All I know is that I came back from my round of holiday tidings with Gregory, and the place was empty but your car was in your slot. So I ask again. Where were you?"
"It's not a huge mystery," I say. "I went to see a Christmas double feature with a friend at the Chinese theater."
Tomorrow is New Year's Eve, so it's almost been a full week since I walked away from Damien, very firmly closing the door on that chapter of my life.
And, no, that decision did not make me happy. And despite what I've told Jamie, I know exactly how my pissy mood originated. "It's been days and days. Why is this still bugging you?" I demand.
"Honestly?" Jamie says, then flops down on the couch beside me. "I don't know why it's bugging me. Except maybe because you're keeping secrets from me. And because I caught you in your room with a blade. Hello? Isn't that reason enough?"
I close my eyes, regret filling me. "I'm sorry," I say. "I wasn't thinking. I get it. Really."