Lost With Me (Stark Trilogy 5)

I’d already started cutting by then, needing to be in control of something, and finding satisfaction only by being in control of my own pain. But I’d been cutting in secret, my blade marring areas on my body that were hidden. Invisible to my mother’s prying eyes. And when I couldn’t take being paraded around like a pretty little paper princess, I let the blade I’d come to trust work a new kind of freedom for me.

So, yes. I can handle being on stage. But that doesn’t mean I want to be in the spotlight.

“Nicholas,” she says, lowering her voice and taking my hand as she steps closer. “I’ll back off if you want me to, but you know it’s going to be me or someone else. And considering what you’re about to share with the class, I figured you’d rather it be me.”

I nod and squeeze her hand. “You’re right.”

She studies my face. “So we’re cool?”

“Totally,” I assure her.

We fall into step together, and Jamie starts rattling off everyone else she’s going to be interviewing during the course of the brunch. Lyle, of course. But she’s also hoping to grab a minute with Damien and Jackson and a long list of actors, musicians, and other celebrities.

“Haven’t heard of half of them,” I tell her with a grin.

“You’re such a liar,” she chides, and I have to laugh. The truth is that I haven’t heard of several of them, but most of them I’ve either met or have at least heard their name. Which is weird, because until I started dating Damien, I was clueless about any film star who graced the screen after, oh, Sean Connery’s debut as James Bond.

Now, though, it’s hard to avoid celebrity gossip. My best friend is an entertainment reporter and my husband ranks up there on the gossip radar. And, by default, so do I.

I don’t love it, but I do love Damien. And that makes it all okay.

“Mrs. Stark! Mrs. Stark!” I turn around to see a broad-shouldered man hurrying toward me, a little boy of about six or seven in tow. There’s something familiar about both of them, and it’s not until they’re almost in front of me that I realize that both the man and the boy bear a resemblance to Damien, with their dark hair and strong jaw. The boy’s eyes are different, though. They’re cool blue, not warm amber.

I’m certain I’ve never seen either before, but I pause and smile in anticipation of an introduction. “Daniel Bryson,” the man says, extending his hand in greeting. “And my son, Nate.”

“It’s a pleasure to—oh!” I meet Mr. Bryson’s eyes and see the spark of humor there. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “It took me a moment to place the name.”

“No apology necessary,” he says. “I just spoke to your husband, and I wanted to find you and thank you personally as well. I know both you and Mr. Stark put up with a lot from Marianna. You had no obligation to help me or my boy. I just—I just want to say that your help meant the world to me.”

“Mr. Bryson, you don’t have to thank us at all. We’re just happy that you and Nate are together.”

He cups the back of the boy’s head, then points to a small petting zoo set up on the other side of the path. “Looks like they’re handing out feed for the goats. Why don’t you go see if you can make a furry friend?”

The boy glances warily at me and Jamie, then at his dad, who nods. Then he flashes a tentative smile before scampering across the path toward the volunteer who is doling out feed to the kids.

“Got the ruling from the judge two weeks ago,” Mr. Bryson says. “I now have full custody of Nate, and thank God for that. Marianna started spiraling down rapidly after Mr. Stark’s people tracked me down. Ranting and raving and swearing that she’d destroy me.” He casts a worried glance toward the boy. “I almost didn’t come down today. But my mother lives here, and Nate wanted to see Grandma. And, obviously, we wanted to be here for the brunch. The grants from the foundation have helped more than you can imagine.”

“I’m so glad you’re both doing so well. Thank you for coming and for letting me know.”

“Of course. And anything you ever need, Mrs. Stark. You or your husband. I don’t know what I could ever do for you, but if there is anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

I assure him that we won’t, and he hurries over to the petting area to gather up his son.

“That’s the little boy who’s not Damien’s, right?”

I shoot her a sidelong glance as we fall in step together and continue toward the main building.

“What? I’m right, aren’t I? He’s that nutcase bitch’s son. From a few months back. The woman who tried to say that Damien was the father, even though she knew perfectly well that he wasn’t.”

I nod, conceding the point. Not that long ago, Marianna Kingsley had come out of the woodwork claiming that Damien was the father of her young son. “Thank goodness Quincy tracked down the real father. Mr. Bryson seems nice. And sane.”

Damien had enlisted the help of Quincy Radcliffe, a ridiculously sexy but somewhat mysterious British intelligence officer who moonlights for a vigilante group called Deliverance that I’m supposed to know very little about. Quincy, thankfully, had been able to track down the real father, revealing in the process that Marianna had known the truth all along, but had set her sights on Damien’s bank account, legitimate paternity be damned.

“What was he talking about with the grant?”

“Damien and I thought that the poor kid had been through a lot, what with Marianna using him as a negotiating tool. So we arranged a scholarship fund for when he’s older. And it turns out the kid tests high, but with his dad being a single school teacher in San Francisco, there’s not a lot of money for education or extracurriculars.”

“Which means the kid would have probably gotten help even without you and Damien pushing his name through.”

“Assuming anyone thought to apply on his behalf,” I say.

“And now he’s living in the Bay area with his dad? Marianna was okay with that?”

“Bryson sued for custody,” I remind her. “I told you about it back then, remember? Damien had Charles help him out,” I add, referring to Charles Maynard, Damien’s attorney.

“Right, right. I’d forgotten.” We’ve reached the entrance, and she pulls open the door for me.

“You coming in?”

She shakes her head, then checks her watch. “I’ve got an interview with Lyle in ten. Then I’m doing some one-on-ones with the kids. But I’ll be back in time for your speech.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “I’m really proud of you. I know I already told you that, but it’s true.”

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nbsp; My stomach twists with nerves, but I nod, then give her a hug. “See you soon,” I say, then head inside. I wave to the staff members I know, the ones who are supervising the catering set up, then say hi to a group of teens—young grant recipients—who are helping to set up the last of the tables for the brunch.

“Getting ready for the farce?” The voice is cold and familiar, and I turn to find myself facing Mary Lee.

My entire body goes tense. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Her brows rise. “Maybe I have a press pass.”

“We’ll see about that.” I glance around, looking for the foundation’s press liaison. I know I saw him when I came in, and I raise my hand, planning to signal to one of the volunteers who can go track him down for me.

Before I manage that, Marianna continues. “Do you ever look at him and wonder what he sees in you?” Her low, dangerous voice freezes me in my tracks. “Someone weak,” she continues. “Just a little pageant princess. Someone so disrespectful of herself that she’d take money so that some man could paint her and another could ogle her.” She takes a step toward me, and my heart pounds against my ribs. “Weak, stupid, little bitch who has no business raising kids.”

“Get away from me.” Somehow, I keep my voice from shaking. “Just get the hell away from me.”

“Nikki.”

I hear Damien in the same moment that his hand closes over my upper arm, and when I turn to look at him, I see pure rage on his face.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands of Mary Lee, stepping in front of me, his body a physical barrier between me and my tormentor.

“Wait.” I turn away from her and focus entirely on Damien. “You know her?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Nikki, meet Marianna Kingsley,” he says in a voice laced with rage. “Nate Bryson’s mother.”

14

“You can’t make me leave,” Marianna says after Damien tells her exactly that. “My son is a grant recipient. I have a right to be here.”

“No,” Damien says. “You don’t.”