She flops back down on the couch. “So when are y’all going in?”
“Carmela’s supposed to call here, pretending to call room service.” I glance at my watch. “Should be soon,” I say, and the words are barely out of my mouth when the phone rings and Carmela places her fake order for a pitcher of martinis.
“Show time,” Ryan says, and Damien takes my hand.
Bertrand’s suite is one floor up, and we take the stairs. Carmela opens the door, her eyes wide, and leads us back into the parlor where Wyatt stands by the window, and Bertrand—a pudgy-faced man with a sour expression—sits at the desk, though he stands the moment he sees us.
“What the hell?” He whips around to find Carmela, who’s moved near Wyatt. “What the fucking hell are you doing bringing that asshat and his little bitch here?” he rants, gesturing toward me and Damien. “And who the fuck is the flunky?”
Ryan steps forward. “The flunky can kick your ass without breaking a sweat,” he says. “And the flunky is here to make sure none of these pictures—or any other similar pictures you might have squirreled away—get released.”
He tosses a folder onto the desk, the impact causing the photos inside to slide partially out. They’re the original blackmail photos we’d received back when this nightmare had originally started. “Those see the light of day,” Ryan says, “and you’ll learn the meaning of regret the hard way.”
To her credit, Carmela stands up straighter. “You see? They’re here to help me, Bertrand. You wouldn’t listen to me. Maybe you’ll listen to them.”
“What? You think I don’t listen? How do I not listen? You tell me you want a career? Haven’t I gotten you a career? I made you—and this is how you repay me?” He points suddenly to Wyatt. “You—Jimmy Olsen—get your ass out of here. You think I want this little confab recorded on film?”
Wyatt glances at Damien, who nods, then quietly leaves the room.
“The lady’s interested in terminating her relationship with you,” Damien says as soon as Wyatt’s out of the room. His voice is calm, but I can see the tension.
“That true, baby?” he asks, turning to Carmela. “I didn’t know you meant it. How could I have known?”
“Cut her loose, and we walk away right now,” Damien says. “But if those pictures get out, you’ll not only learn how miserable this particular asshat can make your life, but you’ll never work anywhere near this business again. Every person who came through this room today knows exactly what kind of man you are.”
“That so?” He pushes his chair back and kicks his feet up on the desk. “The way rumors fly in this business, sounds to me like I won’t be getting much work after today no matter how this turns out. Seems to me that if I’m getting forced into retirement, I ought to at least walk away with a little nest egg.”
He swivels in his chair and looks at Carmela. “No skin off your nose if those pictures are out there, baby. You look gorgeous, and a little sex scandal never hurt anyone in your line of work.”
I frown, because those are almost exactly the words Carmela has said to me, and I’m not sure where Bertrand is going with this.
Bertrand points to Damien. “He’s the one who doesn’t want them released. I say he should pay for that privilege. And we split the money fifty-fifty. Nice little paycheck for you, baby, especially considering the going rate for those pics.”
I see a muscle tighten in Carmela’s cheek, but then I see something else—a spark of what looks like interest in her eyes. Bertrand sees it too. “Ah! Ah-ha! What did I say? You’re a fighter, baby, just like me. A street fighter, who knows when to get in and play dirty.”
“I am a fighter, yes,” she says, moving closer to him. As she does, she tilts her head and looks straight at me, and my stomach twists into knots. I can’t believe I’ve misjudged her, that I ever backed off my original opinion that she was a narcissistic bitch from hell.
“And you are right,” Carmela continues as she reaches across the desk for the folder. “These are quite flattering to me.” I expect her to pick up the folder. What she does instead is grab the hotel phone off the desk, then hurl it around so that it smashes into Bertrand’s face.
I’m not sure which emotion is stronger—joy that she smashed the asshole’s face in, or relief that she wasn’t actually considering conspiring with him.
I don’t have time to analyze that question, though, because Carmela did the one thing all those self-defense classes for women warn against—she didn’t cause enough damage.
Bertrand’s nose is bleeding, but that’s not enough to stop him, and in almost the same instant that his head bounces back, he lashes out, grabs Carmela by the hair, and starts to slam her face toward the desk—bad enough for any woman, but the next split second could truly destroy Carmela’s career.
I hear myself scream—and at the same time, the top of the floor lamp intersects with Bertrand’s head, narrowly missing Carmela. He’s knocked backward, and in the process lets go of Carmela, who scurries off into a corner.
I’m gasping, unsure what happened, until I see Damien toss the lamp aside even as Ryan vaults the desk and slams Bertrand up against the wall, his grip tight against the vile man’s throat as Bertrand continues to struggle, his eyes on Carmela as he screams curses at her.
I realize in that moment that Damien did the only thing he could do to save Carmela from a broken nose—and worse. He was too far away to throw himself in the middle of the fray, and so he did the only thing he could to keep Bertrand from hurting her—he snatched up the lamp the second he saw trouble brewing. And with a skill borne of years playing professional tennis, he aimed and swung and hit the rat bastard square on the head, missing Carmela by mere inches in what was undoubtedly an assault on Bertrand calculated down to the last millisecond.
I want to run to him, but right now, his attention is laser-focused on Bertrand. He’s only inches from the man, still held in place by Ryan’s concrete grip.
“Do not even think of playing hardball with me,” Damien says. “You think you know the extent of my resources? Money, power, influence? You don’t have a clue how far my reach goes. But I’ll tell you this,” he adds, getting in even closer, “I damn sure have the resources and connections to bury a worm like you. You want to test me? Release those photos. But be prepared for your world to go to shit if you do. Are we clear?”
Bertrand’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“Are we clear?” Damien repeats, and the man nods, looking miserable and just a little sick.
“Let him go,” Damien says to Ryan. “Nikki, Carmela. We’re leaving.”
Carmela has my arm in a vise-grip as we leave the room. We pause in the hallway, and she releases me, then throws her arms around me and then around Damien. “Thank you, Damie. Thank you both.”
Damien lets her linger for a moment, then gently extricates himself. He comes to me and folds me into his arms. “You were brilliant,” I say.
“Hopefully that’s the last of him. He’d be a fool to release those photos now.” He kisses me lightly, then brushes his lips across my ear. “Let’s go check in with Evelyn and Charles. And then, my darling wife, I want to celebrate our victory.”
“That sounds great,” I say sincerely, even though I know that he has a completely different type of celebration in mind.
Chapter Ten
Damien’s hand slides down from my waist to cup my rear as we approach the door to our suite. He tilts my chin up as he bends to brush a kiss over my lips. “Do you know what I want to do now?”
“Tell me,” I say, my nipples tightening as I think of his description of how he wanted to take me on the rooftop, and for the first time since I started planning his party, I’m wishing it was some other day.
“I want to celebrate.”
“Let’s do it,” I say, though I know that each of us has a different celebration in mind.
I’d lingered with Damien in the hall before coming back to the room, accidentally-on-purpose hitti
ng the button for the lobby when I insisted we take the elevator, then popping into the gift store for some mints. Now, it’s been at least ten minutes since we left Bertrand’s room, and I’m hoping that’s enough time for Carmela and the others to have gotten inside.
I’ll know soon enough, I realize, because Damien has his key out and he’s swiping the lock. I hear the click, see him push down the handle.
Then the door is opening and we step into the darkened room. I hear Damien’s surprised, “hmm,” because we never leave the blinds down or the light off, but before he can think too much about it, I reach for the switch.
The room lights up, and at the same time, smiling faces appear from all over the massive living area, a chorus of “Surprise!” ringing out, the word still echoing when Ronnie bolts pellmell toward Damien.
“Were you surprised, Uncle Damie? Were you? Were you?”
“I sure was, Monkey,” he says, his expression something I don’t usually see on Damien’s face as he looks out over the crowd—he looks not only surprised, but humbled.
With a quick grin in my direction, he swings Ronnie up onto his hip, then steps further into the room to greet the dozens of guests who’ve helped manage to pull this off. Syl and Jackson, Evelyn and Charles, Carmela and Wyatt, Jamie and Ryan. And more. Folks from work like Preston and Lisa and Rachel, new friends like Cass and Siobhan, and Dallas and Jane, and on and on and on.
Soon enough, the guests disperse—some in the living room, some in the kitchen, most going up to the rooftop. I’m heading over to the bar to make Damien and I drinks, when I see Evelyn pull him into a warm, maternal hug. “Your wife pulled off a doozy.”
Damien laughs and swings his arm affectionately around her shoulder as he turns to took at me. “She did. But I know she had help. So thank you.”
“Anything for you, kiddo. You know that.”