Anchor Me (Stark Trilogy 4)

"And there's more to him than meets the eye."

"So he has secrets," Syl says.

Jane nods. "Something that haunts him, I think."

"Something he wants to keep quiet," Syl adds, then sighs as the technician starts to massage her calves. "I can hardly fault him for that."

I think of my own secrets. "Amen," I say.

And then the three of us raise imaginary toasts in honor of Lyle and his secrets. Deep and dark though they might be, they're his own. And I hope that when his star power climbs after this movie--which everyone is saying will be a box office sensation--that his secrets will still be his own.

An hour later, we're all primped and ready. Jane's car has already whisked her away, and Sylvia and I are waiting for our drivers to arrive.

"Well?" she demands.

I blink. "Um?"

"Secrets," she says, in a tone that I'm sure she uses with Ronnie. "I saw the look on your face when we were talking with Jane. What's going on?"

"Nothing," I say.

"You're a terrible liar," she counters.

The truth is, I'm actually a pretty good liar. I've spent my life putting on and taking off a variety of masks. Social Nikki. Student Nikki. Pageant Nikki. And as a result, I'm adept at hiding my feelings.

Which means that Sylvia is either fishing--or I'm actually craving someone to talk to. In this case, there's really no question that it's the latter, and I explain to her my fear that Damien is keeping secrets because he thinks he's protecting me.

The corners of Syl's eyes crinkle as she smiles. "Well, then my advice to you is simple. Deal with it."

I laugh. "Seriously? That's the best you've got?"

She shrugs. "Certainly the simplest. Come on, Nik. He's always going to try to protect you. And now you're pregnant. That means all that protective male DNA is in overdrive. And you and I both know that Stark men got served an extra dose at birth."

I laugh because she's so damn right. "It's still annoying as hell."

"Not arguing," she says. "But it's sweet, too."

I have to grudgingly concede the point, although sweet and infuriating are not so often intertwined.

"Just go with it," she says, obviously reading my expression. "And by the way, you should come over this weekend. The entire spare closet is full of things that Jeffery's outgrown or doesn't play with anymore. We can dig through it and see what you want."

"Perfect," I say as my car pulls up. "Maybe I'll follow you back to your house after brunch on Sunday."

We plan on that, and I settle into the backseat for the ride from Beverly Hills to Malibu, feeling relaxed and pampered and guilty about having spent an entire day not even thinking about work.

At the very least, I can check my emails. I pull out the new phone that I'd found on the bathroom counter this morning, just casually waiting for me, thanks to my wonderful--and as Sylvia said, wonderfully protective--husband.

Now I open the email app and smile again, because not only did he replace my phone at the speed of light, but he also set up my email accounts.

I switch to the messaging app and send him a quick thank you.

His answer is swift and to the point: I'd do anything for you.

I know. I missed you today.

I amuse myself by counting the seconds until he replies. Only seven.

Missed you more. I'm at the house. The limo's coming at 5. How long do you need to get dressed?

I check the time, and it's not yet three.

Not two hours, I type. If you have some idea of how to fill the time . . .

His reply makes me smile: I'm full of ideas. Tell your driver to hurry. And in the meantime, imagine me, touching you.

I laugh as I send one final message: I always do.

I've just re-opened my email app when I notice a new email from youradoringhusband at an email server I'm not familiar with. I purse my lips in amusement, wondering what Damien's up to now.

But when I open the email to see what he sent this time, my smile freezes on my face, and the message makes me queasy.

Did you really think you could have both?

Below the words is a picture of Sofia, her head on Damien's shoulder.

And not just one picture, but several. And in each and every one, they're standing right in front of the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel.

17

By the time I arrive home, my tears have completely destroyed my freshly applied makeup and I'm an angry, hurt, hormonal mess. I order the driver to wait, then hurry to the front door and punch in my key code.

The lock clicks open, and I push the door, anxious to get inside and get my things for the premiere tonight. I'm so hurt and twisted up and hormonal that all I want to do is get out of here. Because I see a huge fight looming, and I can't deal with that right now.

I don't believe the email's suggestion that Damien's cheating on me--honestly, I can't imagine a world in which I could ever believe he cheated on me--but he did keep this huge, hurtful secret from me. And not only did he keep a secret, he actually lied when I asked him why he'd gone to Santa Barbara. He'd lied about Sofia. Sofia.

The woman who tried to take Damien. Who tried to destroy me. And, honestly, almost succeeded.

So I need time. To get my thoughts together. To calm my raging hormones. To figure out what I'm going to say to him.

Mostly, to stop this explosion building inside me before I lash out at him and completely destroy an evening that means so much to so many of my friends.

That's my plan, anyway, but as soon as I enter the house, I'm stopped by the sight before me--hundreds of r

ed and pink rose petals scattered over the floor of the entrance hall and trailing up the massive staircase.

A lump forms in my throat, and though it's hard to believe I have any more tears to shed, when I blink, warm liquid trails down my cheeks. When I draw in a stuttering breath, I taste the salt of my tears. This is what I want. Tenderness and love and romance. Not secrets and deceit and lies.

I swallow hard as I cast my gaze around, looking at the romantic setting he's created with the petals and soft candlelight. For a moment, my resolve wavers, and I think that I need to hurry and find him.

But then I remember the pictures on my phone. Work problem? I mentally scoff at Damien's explanation of why he'd gone to Santa Barbara. Sofia is a lot of things, but she sure as hell isn't a work problem.

The cloying scent of the roses surrounds me as I crush petals beneath my ballet-style flats in my hurry up the stairs. I wrinkle my nose, fighting nausea, then I force myself to focus on getting my things and getting the hell out of there.

I expect to see Damien on the third floor, which is where we spend most of our time, but he's not there, and I realize that he's probably in the cabana by the pool, waiting with chilled fruit juice for me to find him.

Normally, I'd be tempted.

Today, I'm grateful that I can get in and get out. I'm not ready for a fight--my wounds feel too raw. All I really want to do is find someplace to hide away, curled up into a ball until I can gather the strength to have it out with my husband.

I'd be there right now--locked away in some out of the way motel--if it weren't for tonight's premiere. But there's no way I'm going to skip Jane's movie or the fundraiser. The foundation is too important to me--too important to all those kids.

So I'll be there. And with any luck, I'll have pulled myself together before I have to step from a limo onto that red carpet.

My closet is huge, approximately the size of the bedroom I used to have in Jamie's condo, and one entire wall is devoted to formal wear. Ironic, considering that once I walked away from the pageant life, I swore that if I never saw another sequin, it would be too soon. But, somehow, dressing up isn't painful when you're on the arm of someone you love, and as I look at my gowns, I feel a little stab in my heart.

I want Damien here--I do.

I'm just not ready to face him yet.