"Mrs. Stark?"
I jump, so startled by the driver's words that I actually yelp. "What? What is it?"
He's turned around in his seat, facing me, and though he's working hard to keep a professional demeanor, he can't hide the concern on his face. He doesn't comment on my distress, however, and I'm grateful for that kindness. "We've arrived," he says as he gestures to the cemetery outside the car. "If you need me for anything at all, I'll be waiting right here."
I smile in thanks, understanding the depth of his unspoken offer. Then I draw in a breath, grab my satchel, and step out of the car and into the Dallas heat.
The cemetery covers several acres, but I know where I'm going, and I hurry along the stone path through the manicured lawn with an almost desperate determination. I don't know why I'm so compelled to be here; all I know is that right now I need to be near my sister.
I don't realize I'm crying until I finally reach her grave and discover that I can't read her headstone because my tears have blurred my vision. I brutally wipe them away, then collapse onto the damp grass right in front of her tombstone. Ashley Anne Fairchild, Beloved Daughter.
I trace my fingertip over the words, a familiar frustration rising in me. I'd wanted the stone to say Beloved Sister, too, but my mother had flatly refused, saying it wasn't appropriate. So that even now, after her death, my mother has come between my sister and me.
"I miss you, Ash," I say, as hot tears cut tracks down my cheeks. "I miss you so damn much."
I lean back, trying to control my breathing. "I'm pregnant," I tell her. "Damien and I are going to have a baby. And you should be here, Ash. You should be with me when she's born. You should be here to help me decorate the nursery and pick out maternity clothes for me, and tiny little baby outfits for her." I choke on a sob. "You should be here," I say again, my throat thick with tears.
I turn away from the stone to wipe my tears, as if I don't want her to witness the depth of my misery. And as I do, I see Damien walking between the graves toward me, his stride long and full of purpose. I say nothing. Just sit there, amazed and relieved, until he's just inches away, kneeling on the grass in front of me. I know the driver must have contacted him, but even knowing that, his presence here feels like a miracle.
"You're here," I say.
"Where else would I be?" He brushes my tears away with his thumb. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." I lean against him so that his chest supports me. His arms around me give me strength, and my eyes on my sister's grave give me purpose. And then, with a sigh, I tell him about what happened at the interview. "It was great," I conclude. "Or it was great until they started asking me about the baby."
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry." He kisses the top of my head, and I shift in his arms and lean back, wanting to see his face as I try to explain all the thoughts and emotions that are crashing around inside of me.
"The thing is, when I left their office, I felt all twisted up. Like I was exactly where Mother wanted me to be." I think about the text message and its suggestion that I'm not capable of handling anything now that I'm pregnant. I haven't told Damien about it yet, partly because I don't want him to worry, but mostly because I simply want to flush it from my mind. But the message is like something my mother would say.
"Barefoot and pregnant," I murmur. "That's all she wanted for me. All she wanted for Ashley, too. No career. Just a husband to pamper, two kids, and a dog. So long as everything is picture-perfect on the outside, to her, the inside doesn't much matter. All Mother cared about was the shine."
"I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but you're not your mother."
"No," I agree fiercely. "I'm damn sure not. And more than that, I really don't care what she thinks."
"But Ashley did."
I keep my eyes on the tombstone as I nod. "I loved her," I whisper. "And I looked up to her. But she let the voice in her head get to her. She didn't have the strength to fight it." I turn back to face him. "I'm going to fight, Damien," I say firmly, putting his hand on my belly. "I'm going to fight for us. For you and me and our little peanut."
"Peanut?" he repeats, obviously amused.
I laugh, realizing this is the first time I've thought of the baby as a real person growing inside me. "Yeah," I say. "Our sweet little peanut."
His tender smile tugs at my heart, and he pulls me close "Baby, I love you."
I sigh, content to lose myself in the comfort of his embrace. "You don't have to worry about me," I murmur against his chest. "Whatever it is you're not telling me, you need to know I can handle it."
I feel his body grow tense, his reaction confirming my suspicions that he hasn't told me everything about Sofia.
"Damien, please."
But all he does is smile gently at me. "There's nothing else, sweetheart. Really."
My stomach twists with disappointment. I know that's not true. And I want to scream at him. Accuse him of being a damn hypocrite, because how can he say I'm strong when he's still going out of his way to protect me? When he won't let me share my strength with him.
But I force it back. Time, I think. I just need to give him more time. And I need to get the hell away from this place. "Can we leave today?" I ask. "I want to be home. There are too many ghosts in this town."
"Of course," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "But there are ghosts everywhere. And we're both going to have to get used to fighting them."
9
I wake to the sound of running water, and roll over, groggy, to Damien's side of the bed. It's cold, and I sit up slowly as my fuzzy mind kicks into gear.
We're in the penthouse apartment at Stark Tower, one of our two main residences. We'd arrived home last night in time for dinner, and though I'd fully intended to help in the kitchen, I'd ended up on the sofa while Damien made us omelets and went over his weekend schedule while his assistant, Rachel, perched on a bar stool.
Damien is a man of many talents, but I think what surprised me the most about him was his prowess in the kitchen, and last night, he managed to turn a simple mushroom and cheese omelet into a gourmet delight.
"I'd be perkier if I could have coffee," I'd griped, but he'd only chuckled and offered me orange juice.
After Rachel left, we'd sprawled on the sofa, my feet in his lap. As old episodes of Law & Order played in the background, Damien reviewed notes for his morning meetings, and I worked on my laptop. I'd had every intention of scanning through the work emails that had piled up over the last few days, but I kept getting distracted by pregnancy websites. And why not? Until I have my first full-on doctor's appointment next Monday, I'm all about educating myself. Even so, I managed to cull at least fifty emails--and order a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting.
All in all, it was a wonderful, domestic, comfortable evening at home. The kind of easy-going night with Damien that usually makes me smile, and then hug myself because I feel warm and safe and loved.
The kind of night that usually leads to slow, easy love-making before falling asleep in each other's arms.
Not last night, though. Because sometime between the law and order parts of the program, I'd passed out completely, the bone-deep fatigue that comes with pregnancy drawing me down like a stone into a deep, dark sea.
I remember Damien's arms holding me, my body tucked against his chest as he gently carried me to bed. I'd snuggled closer, my desire to slip back under warring with my desire for this man. "Make love to me," I'd whispered, my words slurred in exhaustion.
"Sleep, baby," he'd murmured. "I'll find you in your dreams."
I'd curled up with my pillow, satisfied at the time with his answer. Then, it had made perfect sense. I was lost and content in this dreamy netherworld; of course, I would want Damien there with me.
Now, though, I feel as though I've been cheated. I'm awake and alone and what had been a vague desire last night is now a raging, burning need. I want the feel of his hands on me. His mouth crushing against mine. I want
him to tear off my thin nightgown and take me hard on the floor.
I crave the feel of his weight upon me as he pounds inside me, taking me higher and higher until I explode in his arms, my orgasm so wild and violent it rips me apart.
I need it--need him. And I have no idea if it's because there has never been a moment when I don't want Damien's touch. Or if my hormones are making me so damn horny, I'm going to burst if he doesn't fuck me hard right now.
I don't know, and I don't care. All I know is that he's not beside me. And all I want is Damien.
I toss the sheet aside and get out of bed, then pad barefoot to the bathroom.
The shower stall is probably my favorite feature of the entire apartment. For one thing, it's huge. But it stays warm and steamy because the glass goes all the way up the ceiling. Right now, Damien's inside, but the glass is so fogged that I can only see a vague outline of him.
I stand there for a moment, enjoy the view and letting my imagination fill in the blanks. But I want more than imagination, and so I peel off the nightgown and let it drop onto the floor. I don't usually sleep in one unless there are guests in the house, but I'd been wearing it on the couch last night, and Damien hadn't undressed me when he put me to bed.
Now, I stand naked and watch the shape of him move in the steam. I'd been aroused even before I entered this room, simply from the thought of him. But now, seeing him in this wet heat, my body is on overdrive. My nipples are hard, my sex clenching with need. I want his touch--and I damn well intend to have it.
His back is to me when I open the door, his face in the pounding water. I've let a wash of cool air in, though, and he turns to face me. As he does, I see the heat flare in his eyes. More interesting, though, is the way his cock hardens, the immediacy of his reaction making absolutely clear that Damien has no objections to my joining him here this morning.
He opens his mouth to say something, but I press a finger over his lips, then step closer. He's almost finished his shower, so his body is no longer slick with soap. I consider that a good thing, because as I kiss his chest, he tastes fresh and clean.