He does, and soon we’re inching out through the sea of reporters and paparazzi. The windows aren’t tinted, and Damien pulls me toward him, obviously with the intent of hiding my face in his chest. But I jerk away and bend over, my head in my hands and my eyes screwed tightly closed.
“Nikki…” He puts a tentative hand on my back, but I don’t respond. I can’t. My mind’s on overload, and it’s taking every ounce of my concentration to simply keep from screaming.
A child?
Damien has another child?
The words slice through my head, as cold and sharp as a steel blade. I stay hunched over, tucked into myself until the Town Car finally makes it into the valet garage. I hear the door open and a man’s voice fills the car.
“Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry. I have no idea how anyone even knew you were coming. Your wife made the arrangements and we assured her complete confidentiality. I promise you, I will personally get to the bottom of this and terminate whoever is responsible for this leak.”
“We’ll talk,” Damien says in a voice I’ve only rarely heard. One that contains a controlled explosion. “In the meantime, my wife and I would like to go to our room.”
“Of course. I have your key right here.”
“Nikki.” All harshness has left his voice. It’s as gentle as I’ve ever heard it. As gentle as it was when he found me on my floor years ago after I’d hacked off all my hair in a last ditch effort to keep myself from cutting.
I draw a breath, then look into my husband’s eyes. A child. How could he not tell me he had a child?
“Come on out of the car,” he says. “Let’s go up.”
One more breath. Then another. I straighten, then hold out my hand. “Give me the key,” I say, my voice raw. “I need time.”
I watch as his face shatters, as visibly as if I’d shoved my fist into a mirror. “Nikki.” It’s my name and his voice, but it’s almost unrecognizable under the weight of all his pain.
A child.
Dear God, has he slept with another woman?
My stomach lurches, and I fear that I’ll be sick.
No. No. A thousand times, no.
Not Damien. Not that.
But even with that certainty pounding in my head, I can’t bear the thought of going with him to the room. I look away, not meeting his eyes as I slide out of the car, then hold my hand out to the manager. “I’d like to go to my room now.”
The man’s eyes dart over my shoulder, his expression like a scared rabbit. Damien must nod, because suddenly relief paints the man’s face and his lips curve into a professional smile. “Of course. Jacob can show you up. Your luggage will be along shortly.”
He signals to one of the bellmen lingering by the door, and Jacob and I start walking toward the service elevator. I know that Damien is watching me go, willing me to turn around, to extend my hand and tell him to come with me.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
And so I face the wall until the elevator begins to ascend. Then I slowly turn, stare hard at the back of Jacob’s neck, and will myself not to cry.
* * * *
The penthouse is amazing, just as I’d known it would be. Three walls of mostly glass and a stunning view of San Francisco. But I barely even notice.
I pace the room, my thoughts roiling with every step, and in a room this large, I can take a lot of steps.
He did this to us.
Damien.
This is all on his shoulders. All of it. The press assault. Being blindsided. The whole rotten, miserable experience.
And as for the child … well, maybe he did that to us, too. Who the hell even knows?
Except I do, of course. Or, at least, I know enough to know that he didn’t have an affair. No matter what else, I know that for certain. Damien would never cheat on me. His devotion is my true north.
His name is still echoing in my thoughts when the door opens and a bellman rolls a cart in, Damien right behind him. I stiffen, then sit ramrod straight on the edge of the couch while Damien gives the guy a tip, then puts out the Do Not Disturb sign and locks the door.
When he comes back to me, I see the resolve and the apology on his face.
“I haven’t touched another woman since you, Nikki,” he says, and I shock us both by bursting out laughing.
I laugh so hard I actually slide off the couch and end up on the floor. So hard that my chest hurts and I have to force air into my lungs. It’s hysteria, of course, but in a way it feels good. It’s pain, and goddamn me, I need that now.
But I need to talk to Damien, too, and so I force myself into control, then breathe deep until I get my voice back. “Good God, Damien, do you think I don’t know that?”
I push myself up off the floor so that I’m standing right in front of him, my head tilted back, my eyes locked on his, all his pain and regret reflecting right back at me. But I have no pity. Not now. Not after everything.
“You’ve known this was coming, haven’t you? You’ve known that there was a bomb buried right between us. You’ve known for days. Days, Damien. And when I asked you about it, you lied.”
He opens his mouth, but I lift a finger, cutting him off.
“Trouble at work? Why would you tell me that? Why wouldn’t you just tell me the truth?” I taste salt and realize that tears have been streaming down my face. My vision is blurred and I wipe them away, then sigh as I sit again. “Tell me now, Damien. Tell me everything.”
For a moment, he just stands there. Then he drags his fingers through his coal black hair, nods, and begins.
“I went out with Marianna a few times the year before you moved to LA. A friend introduced us. She wasn’t looking for anything serious—or so she said—and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I nod, remembering what Damien said when he first pursued me—that before me, he didn’t date. He fucked.
They were careful, he said. He used a condom. She said she was on the pill. But neither method is infallible—Anne is proof of that—and so it’s theoretically possible that the little boy really is Damien’s.
“I’ve seen pictures of him,” Damien admits. “Dark hair. Blue eyes. It’s possible.”
I nod. Damien’s eyes aren’t blue, but Jackson’s are. And since Jackson is his half-brother, Damien could have that recessive gene, too.
In other words, based on looks alone, the little boy—Nate—could really be Damien’s. “Is he?” I ask. “Is the boy yours?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I demanded a paternity test. She declined. Maybe that means I’m not. Or maybe it just means that her attorney isn’t willing to take a chance until he has a hefty settlement from me.”
“Attorney?”
Damien nods. “The bastard demanded I set up a trust for Marianna and the child or else he’d leak everything to the press.” His mouth twists wryly. “I wasn’t expecting it quite this soon.”
“And Charles?” I ask, referring to Damien’s attorney.
“I’ve talked to him. He advised me not to petition the court for a paternity test since that would surely end up in the press. Like I said, we weren’t expecting this. Not now.”
“Well, what were you expecting?” I snap.
“To handle it.” His voice is pretty snappy, too. “To get the whole goddamn mess resolved.”
“And what? Then I wouldn’t even have to know about it?”
“Christ, Nikki. You know me better than that.”
“Do I? Because honestly, I’m not sure. I mean, you didn’t tell me any of this.”
“No,” he says simply. “I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
He hesitates, opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then he shakes his head and drags his fingers through his already-mussed hair. “I don’t know.”
The answer is like a stab through my heart. “I see.” I push myself to my feet. “I need some time,” I say, then start to head for the door.
I feel lost. Vulnerable. But wh
en Damien reaches for me, I shake him off, which only makes fresh tears prick in my eyes. Because Damien is my rock; he’s the one I go to when I’m vulnerable. Only now he’s turned our world upside down.
“Nikki—”