“Lost me?” They lay together on the chaise facing each other, and he held her close in defense against the chill from the ocean breeze. “What are you talking about?”
She kissed his chin, then tilted her head so that she was looking into his eyes. “Do you remember the girls’ party? When it was wrapping up? How we made love in the library?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I remember.” She’d amazed him that day. She’d shown him a video that Jamie had helped her make. A video that had since been released to the press, and which had drawn uniformly positive comments and a flood of support.
In the video, she talked about being a cutter. About how she hoped that sharing her struggle would help others, especially teens who were battling self-harm.
More than that, she talked about him. About how Damien had been her rock through the years. How he still was even though she’d gone over the edge and cut during the kidnapping. About how he’d pulled her back. Anchored her.
And about how she knew that he would always be there for her, and how that knowledge gave her strength.
Her words had lifted him up, and he’d pulled her to him. They’d made love on the mezzanine, hidden from view from the last of the party guests.
“You held me as if I was fragile that night,” she told him now.
He swallowed. “So now tenderness is verboten?”
“Don’t play games with me,” she said, her voice firm, but her tone gentle. “Anyone else, but not me. You’ve spent the entirety of our marriage—of our relationship—telling me I’m not fragile. Which means that when you start treating me like I’m made of glass, I know something’s wrong. Damien,” she added, her voice breaking, “that’s the only time we’ve made love since we got Anne back.”
He closed his eyes, shocked by the realization that she was right.
“Talk to me,” she demanded. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
He wanted to. God help him, he wanted to spill out the words. But how could he confess so much weakness when she needed him to be strong? “I’m fine now,” he said, tracing the outline of her body with his fingertip. “Really. I was lost in the dark, but you guided me back.” He met her eyes, then kissed her gently. “Don’t you know that you’ll always be my path back into the light?”
She blinked, tears pooling in her eyes, then leaned forward to rest her forehead on his. “Damien.” His name was barely a breath, but it ricocheted through him, full of love and longing. He closed his eyes, his heart pounding. She’d told the world that he was her anchor? The hell with that. She was his—and she always would be.
“Damien,” she said again, and this time when she pulled back, he heard the core of steel in her voice. He opened his eyes, and saw that the tears were gone, replaced by a firm determination. For a moment, she studied his face. Then she slid off the chaise lounge and stood as he sat up, surprised.
“I will always guide you back,” she said, moving the short distance to pick up the robe, then wrapping herself in it. “And you’ll do the same for me.”
She picked up his shorts and her nightgown, then brought them to the chaise and dropped them on the cushion beside him while she remained standing. “That’s what we are to each other.”
“We are,” he agreed.
She sat. “Which is why if you won’t tell me what’s wrong, I will.”
He said nothing, but his heart skipped a beat.
“You think you failed.” She opened the robe and trailed her finger over the still-raw wound on her thigh. “You look at what I did and you see failure, and no video is going to change that. Do you think I don’t know you well enough to understand that?”
He stayed silent, barely breathing, but her words hung like hope in the moonlit sky. And he listened.
“You think you failed, but you didn’t. And maybe if it had just been me, you would have seen that. But the universe has been a bitch, and the world that you see is skewed.”
She took his hand into hers. “We can’t ever erase what happened. And I would give anything—anything—to have spared Anne, you, all of us. But it wasn’t your fault.” She cupped his cheek and held his gaze. “It was not your fault,” she repeated, her voice as soft as a lullaby.
“It was horrible and terrifying and awful, and when she was gone I didn’t know if I could survive. But I did, Damien. We did. And Anne is okay. Were you even with us today? We played in the pool. We sang stupid songs and cooked burgers on the grill and made a birthday cake. And she wore her yellow floaties and she smiled and laughed and splashed water on her daddy.”
She was crying again, tears glistening like diamonds. “Weren’t you there with us? Didn’t you see the joy today?”
“You know I did.” His voice sounded hollow, as if it came from a long way away.
“Then let yourself feel it, too,” she said. “Because today didn’t feel like failure to me. Today felt like love.”
He wanted to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.
“Please, Damien. I’m not discounting what happened to our baby girl, but it wasn’t your fault.” She lifted a hand to his lips when he opened his mouth to protest. “No. You didn’t fail. Don’t you see that? You can’t control the world, Damien. But you did what you could. And sweetheart, what you did was wonderful.”
She clutched his hands so tightly it felt as though she would crush his bones. “You’re the one who realized it was Rory. Who led the way back to him.” Her voice hitched with emotion. “And now that asshole is in jail. Because of you, Damien. He’s behind bars because you made it happen. That’s not failure. That’s wonderful.”
He closed his eyes, her hands held tight in his. He wanted to weep. And finally—finally—he let himself surrender to the knowledge that she loved him. And he let himself glory in the knowledge that she trusted him. That she saw beyond his flaws.
The thought made him smile.
“I like seeing that,” she said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Just that I love you.”
She laughed, and the sound filled him with joy. “You mean that I’m right.”
He sighed, reveling in the warm rush that came with the return of his equilibrium. He hated what had happened. Hated how powerless he’d felt. Hated that he hadn’t been able to reach out his hand and fix everything that was broken in his world. More than that, he knew he would continue hating it.
But maybe it didn’t all mean that he was a failure.
More important, he knew that Nikki didn’t believe him to be one.
“Yes,” he told his wife. “You’re right.”
“That means a lot,” she teased. “Especially from the great Damien Stark.”
“Careful, Ms. Fairchild,” he countered, shifting on the chaise so he
could tumble her down onto her back. He bent over her, kissing her softly. “It’s late. Shall we go back in and see if there’s room in our bed to sleep?”
“Yes, but not yet.” She took his hand and pressed it over her heart. “I know we’re together here. But I need to feel it here, too,” she insisted, now taking his hand and sliding it between her legs, making his entire body thrum with renewed need.
“Christ, Nikki.”
“Make love to me gently this time, Mr. Stark. Never stop making love to me.”
He looked at her, bathed in moonlight. He wanted to exalt her to the heavens. To paint her portrait in the stars. But he didn’t know how. So he did the only thing he could do. He kissed her and touched her and buried himself deep inside her. And when she cried his name and begged him to never, ever stop, all he could think was that maybe—just maybe—she’d beaten back the demons that had plagued him.
Chapter Six
Damien frowned as he paced the length of the mezzanine. Part of the Malibu home’s second floor, the mezzanine overlooked the entrance and the floating staircase that led up to the third floor. Unlike the public area of the second floor, this portion was accessible only by a private elevator or a hidden staircase. It was Damien’s refuge. His library and home office. It was where he kept the glass cases that held his memories. Cherished first editions. The awards and accolades that truly mattered to him. Photos of Nikki and the children.
He used the area for work, yes, but that didn’t change the fact that he considered it a sanctuary.
Today, Richard Breckenridge had wormed his way into the peace.
Once again, he looked at his computer monitor and the itinerary that Rachel, his executive assistant, had finalized for him that morning. As he’d requested, she’d kept it light. While home with Nikki and the kids, he was handling only the bare minimum. But there were things that needed his attention. And as unpleasant as the reality might be, Breckenridge was definitely on that list.
Fuck.
“Daddy! Breakfast! Can you hear me, Daddy? I don’t think he heard me, Mommy.”