“I’m proud of you, Texas,” Evelyn says, then reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I don’t know what your competition is like, but I do know they’d be a fool not to take you seriously. I’m proud of you, and if that sounds patronizing, that’s just too damn bad.”
I laugh, my chest tight with emotions. “It doesn’t sound patronizing at all.” My own mother would probably tell me not to even bother, because I don’t have a shot in hell.
I suck in a hard breath, trying to ward off weepiness. “I’m going to put the final touches on it, and then get Damien to read it tomorrow. He’s so busy, I almost hate asking him, but—”
“Nonsense,” she says. “For one thing, that boy would do anything for you. For another, it’s nice to be needed.” She sighs. “I used to be right in the thick of helping Blaine get ready for a show. But he’s so tightly scheduled now and traveling so much, I just never—”
She cuts herself off with a shrug and a wave. “Doesn’t matter. He’s doing just fine without me.”
“I—” I stop, afraid I’m crossing a line. But then I start over because I adore Evelyn, and where my friends are concerned, I don’t back off. “Are you and Blaine okay?”
“Oh, hell, Texas, we’re fine. He’s taking off. It’s what I’ve wanted for him for years. Honestly. I couldn’t be happier.”
“I’m glad,” I say. But I’m not entirely sure I believe her.
“I swear to god, I will kill that fucker,” Ryan says, as he paces in front of the huge window in Damien’s office.
“If that is the plan,” Carmela trills, “I do not object.”
I’ve just finished summing up everything Carmela told me to Damien and Ryan.
Damien’s on a couch in the sitting area, and kicks his feet up on the coffee table, his attention solely on me. “Carmela told you all of this yesterday?”
“We had a chat,” I admit.
“And you’re just now telling us this?”
“There wasn’t an immediate threat that the pictures would get out,” I say, looking to Carmela who nods in support. “And we wanted to have a plan.”
“You didn’t think to come to Ryan and me first? It’s my ass out there—literally—and Ryan does have that handy Security Chief title. Not to mention a vested interest since his girlfriend’s ass is equally exposed.”
“Carmela and I already had an idea, and you were in Palm Springs with Jackson yesterday afternoon, and. . .” I trail off with a shrug, knowing I sound lame. The truth is that I would have brought Damien in on developing a plan if I wasn’t trying to juggle two plans at once. One of which has to stay secret from him.
He rubs his temples. “Nikki—” He cuts himself off, looking perplexed. Not surprisingly; he knows me well enough to know this isn’t the kind of thing I’d keep from him. Not without a good reason.
I really don’t want him to figure out what my good reason is.
“Do not be cross with your wife, Damie. I begged her to help me come up with an idea to get the pictures from Bertrand and to make sure that he does not bother me—or any of us—again.”
Damien exhales, then turns to Ryan, who shrugs casually. “Hey, fine by me. If they already have a plan in mind for shutting this guy down, let’s hear it.”
I smile gratefully at him, and he gives me the slightest nod in return. Jamie’s told him the situation, of course, so he’s playing along. And doing a damn good job, frankly.
“All right, then,” says Damien. “Lay it out for me.”
I stand and start organizing my thoughts.
“The idea is to get him to Santa Barbara thinking that Carmela’s got a shoot for her couture line and that he’s about to have a huge pay day. We have a photographer, an agent, and a magazine all set up already.”
Damien’s brows lift. “Do you?”
“Evelyn’s pretty excited about cutting the balls off this asshole.”
“I’ll bet she is,” he says, but his lips twitch, and I’m grateful he’s amused and not pissed.
“We have an attorney, too. He’s going to come with contracts that Bertrand supposedly has to review. Everyone goes through his suite, making arrangements and kissing his ass. And everyone we use is someone with serious clout in the industry.”
“Let me guess,” Damien says. “Evelyn’s pulling Charles in. And Wyatt’s in on the game, too.”
“That’s why you make the big bucks. You’re so damn smart.”
He lifts a finger and points it at me, and I know damn well what it means—just wait until we’re alone.
I glance down at the floor to hide my grin. “Anyway,” I conclude, “once Bertrand realizes it’s all gone south, he’ll also know that some heavy-duty names know who he is and what he’s done. That’s when you and Ryan do your thing. Lay out the ground rules and tell him that he either turns over the photos and leaves Carmela alone or the weight of all these people in your orbit will bear down on him.”
“No police?” Ryan asks, presumably so that Damien knows we’ve thought this through.
“Too risky,” I say. “The photos might get released to the press during the investigation.”
“Agreed.” He takes a seat opposite Damien. “I gotta say, I’m impressed. Maybe I should offer Nikki and Carmela a spot on my security team.”
“Mmm,” Damien says, in a way that makes me think that he may have already seen through all my maneuvering. I hope not. I want this party to be special. I want it to be a true surprise.
After a moment, he stands and goes to the window where Ryan had been only moments before. He looks out, then nods. “All right,” he says, turning back to face the room. “We’ll go with your plan. Evelyn is going to make the call to him, I assume?”
I nod. “She’ll get him to Santa Barbara Friday morning, ostensibly for a sunset shoot. Friday’s the earliest everyone can come together, and if we wait, we may run into more scheduling fiascos.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry about Vancouver. We’ll have to cancel.”
He looks at Ryan and then at Carmela. “Not a problem. Anything for my friends. I’m pretty sure Vancouver’s not going anywhere.”
“Damie, my pet, you are a prince.” Carmela rises and glides across the room to him, then presses soft kisses to both corners of his mouth.
She pauses in front of me. “Nikki, darling, it is not personal,” she purrs as I fight a laugh. “I am Italian, you know.”
She heads toward the door with Ryan, and Damien and I follow. He closes the door behind them, then turns to me, his mouth opening to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance. I’m right there, my mouth hard against his. His lips part, possibly in surprise, and I take full advantage, tasting and teasing and feeling the depth of the kiss right down to my toes.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he says when I finally pull away, breathing hard. “I hope that was a reflection of your deep and constant lust for me, and not an indication that you have any lingering jealousy whatsoever about Carmela.”
“Not jealous,” I say, rising up on my tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “I’m just glad that we’re helping them. And,” I add with a tiny little smile, “I want to make sure that when you walk out that door, it’s me who’s on your mind.”
“Sweetheart, you’re always on my mind.”
Chapter Eight
I watch—a little nervous, a little excited—as Damien flips through the pages of my proposal, a red pen in his hand. It’s eighty-three pages with the appendix, and Damien is going through it as slowly as a college professor reviewing a student’s dissertation proposal.
I’m grateful for the attention to detail, but I’m also nervous as hell. Because I’ve poured my heart, my talent, and my experience into those pages, and what if Damien tells me it sucks?
Granted, he’ll say it more politely, but in the end, crap is crap.
And—for better or for worse—Damien loves and respect me enough to tell me the truth.
Which explains why I’m fidgeting.
Which explains why Damien shoots me a look that very clearly says I should calm down.
And which also explains why I end up in the kitchen pouring myself a glass of wine even though it’s barely past lunch.
I putter around the kitchen, contemplating my frozen Milky Way stash and trying to think about anything other than his red pen, for at least half an hour, during which time my wine magically disappears.
The apartment is an open plan, but kitchen is at an angle such that I can’t see the sofa that Damien is sitting on, so I have no idea how much he’s marked up those pages or if he’s anywhere close to the end.
I’m seriously considering pouring another glass, when Damien steps into view and I suddenly feel like a schoolgirl about to be evaluated by the teacher.
He says nothing, and there’s not even a hint of expression on his face. I can read this man so well, and yet in this moment I have no clue whatsoever what he is thinking.
The breakfast bar is between us, and I stand by the sink, my hands on the counter, and my first thought is that if he comes around to me, then it’s bad news. Because that would mean he’s coming to comfort me.