Anchor Me (Stark Trilogy 4)

The dress I've selected for tonight hangs at the front, still in protective plastic from the few minor alterations. I use the library style ladder to retrieve my garment bag from a top shelf, then slide the dress inside. I zip it securely and fold the bag over to carry like a soft-sided suitcase. There's a shoe pocket on the outside, and I find the black stiletto sandals I'd picked for the evening and put them inside, then grab my travel cosmetics case, because I'm going to need to do some makeup repair before I'm picture-ready.

Finally, I open the jewelry safe and pull out the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet that Damien bought me when we first started dating. It will be hidden under the dress, but that doesn't matter. I've worn it to every event we've attended together, and I'm not going to stop tonight.

I set it in its box on the granite island in the center of the closet, then consider how best to carry it. I know I'm overthinking--it's not like I'm going to lose it just going to the car and then a motel, but I can't help but be paranoid. The thing probably cost more than Air Force One--and it has a hell of a lot more sentimental value.

Since I'd foolishly left my purse in the car, I decide to tuck it into the outside, zippered pocket on the garment bag. I'm about to do that when I realize I'm not alone. I turn--and there he is.

"What the hell, Nikki?"

He's standing in the closet doorway in khaki shorts and a white henley that accentuates his tan. Over the last couple of years, he's started playing tennis again, and he's all muscle and sinew, the material of the shirt straining against his broad shoulders and strong upper arms.

"I'll see you at the premiere," I say, wishing I didn't want to touch him. "I've arranged for my own limo." That's true enough--on the way home from the spa, I had my driver contact dispatch to make all the arrangements.

His head tilts just slightly, as if I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve. "All right," he says slowly. "Where are you going in the meantime?"

"I don't know." I hook the strap of the garment bag over one shoulder and hold onto my cosmetics case with both hands, squeezing so tightly that I'm certain my knuckles are going to turn white. "A hotel. Sylvia's. I'll figure it out."

I can see only the question in his eyes. Other than that, his expression is like stone, revealing nothing. I have to fight the sudden urge to slap him. I have so many masks that I show to the world, and Damien has always been able to see through all of them. And yet here he stands, revealing nothing, when I'm standing before him, bloody and broken.

"You son-of-a-bitch," I snap, everything just suddenly getting to me. "You goddamn son-of-a-bitch."

"Nikki--"

"No." I hold up a hand to stop him. "Trust you?" I say. "The entire time you were asking me to trust you this morning, you had your finger on a goddamn nuclear trigger."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sofia. You. Santa Barbara. Ring any bells?"

I can see from his face that it's ringing a lot of them.

"Fuck," I say. For a moment, I'd foolishly hoped I was wrong.

I tighten my grip on my case. "Call me when you learn that trust doesn't mean keeping secrets when it's convenient for you, okay? I thought we'd come farther than this, Damien. I thought--"

But I can't finish. I don't even know what I thought. That everything was perfect? That all the bumps that had plagued our early relationship had been smoothed out? That we would be bringing a child into a family without drama and secrets and skeletons hiding in closets.

I don't know. I don't care. I just know that I need to leave, and so I turn and run from him with no real idea of where I'm going or what I'll do when I get there.

I'd meant it when I told Damien I didn't know where I was going. But now that I'm in the back of the car and maneuvering through the twisting Malibu roads as we head down toward the Coast Highway, I figure I need some sort of plan. And since Jamie has always been my first and best go-to in all my relationship-related emergencies, I automatically dial her number.

"Hey!" she says, answering on the first ring. "Guess where I am--in a chair in network makeup. How cool is that?"

"Exceptionally cool," I concede, then bite back a cringe--I'd been so wrapped up in my own drama, I'd actually forgotten that this was Jamie's big day. Obviously, I'm the worst friend ever.

"What's up?" she says.

"Not a thing," I trill. "I just called to wish you good luck."

"Oh, please," she retorts. "Who needs luck when you have all my talent."

I bark out a laugh. "Can't argue with that. Love you, James."

"Back at you, Nicholas. See you on the red carpet."

"Absolutely," I say, then end the call with a sigh. Because now where the hell am I going to go?

I'm about to lean forward to tell the driver we're heading to the Pacific Palisades and Sylvia's house, when I realize there's someplace else I'd rather be. Because the truth is, right now I want a full-on, maternal-style hug. And since no matter how hard I wish otherwise, I'm sure as hell not getting that from my own mother, so I tell the driver to head for Evelyn's Malibu beach house.

Five minutes later, I'm standing on her small front porch, my garment bag in hand, hoping like hell that she's actually home. I'm about to regret not calling first when I hear footsteps and then see her peer out through the peephole.

Immediately, the door opens, and she's standing there in all her effervescent glory, ushering me into the house with, "Well, what the hell, Texas, you always are full of surprises."

She takes my bags from me, then waves the car away before shutting the door behind me. "Let me guess. Trouble in paradise?"

I start to answer, then find myself crying instead. Immediately, she pulls me into a momma bear-style hug, and I cling to her, feeling lost and found and mortified all at the same time.

When I can breathe normally, I back away, then smile wryly. "I shouldn't have bothered with the spa this morning. I'm going to have to completely re-do my makeup."

"Unless you want to go to the premiere looking like a raccoon, I'm going to agree with you."

I laugh, and the last of my tears dry up. That's why I love her. Evelyn Dodge is brassy and bold and says exactly what she thinks. She's a breath of fresh air in this town, and is one of the first friends I made when I moved here.

She's been in the business forever, and was actually Damien's agent back when he was on the tennis circuit. She's held every job in the industry, retired for about five minutes, and is now back doing the agenting thing. She actually represents Jamie. And, unless I'm misremembering, she represents Lyle Tarpin, too.

"I do, indeed," she acknowledges when I ask her. "I'm going to be his date for the evening, actually."

"Really?" Evelyn's usual date is her live-in younger boyfriend, Blaine, but lately he's been spending a lot of time on tour with his paintings. But what I don't understand is why Lyle is going with his agent and not an up-and-coming actress. I've had my fill of gossip for the day, though, so I don't bother asking. "Then I guess you don't want to share my limo," I say instead. "But is it okay if I stay here until it's time to go?"

"I'd love the company. And I've got a girl coming in half an hour to do my hair and makeup. I'm sure we can squeeze you in, too. There's only so much damage control I can do at this point."

I snort. I'm guessing Evelyn's in her late fifties, but she looks absolutely amazing, and I tell her as much.

"And there's another reason I like you, Texas." She glances down at my luggage. "You just leave that there and follow me. We'll get juice for you and something more nutritious for me, and we'll sit on the balcony and exchange sob stories until it's time for hair and makeup. How are you feeling, anyway?"

"Physically? I feel okay right now. The nausea comes and goes." I'd told her I was pregnant by phone the other day when I called to invite her to Sunday brunch, but this is the first time I've seen her in person. "Emotionally, I'm a little under the weather."

"We'll get you fixed up," she says, and I follow her into the kitchen, fee

ling a bit like a grateful puppy.

Less than five minutes later, we're on her balcony looking out over the Pacific. I'm sipping sparkling cider and eating shortbread cookies, and she's drinking scotch and drawing on an unlit cigarette. "I could find the lighter, but what with you being pregnant, I'm going to at least pretend like I have manners."

"Thanks," I say, forcing myself not to laugh. "I'm glad I came by. Thank you so much for not tossing me out on my ass."

"Oh, please. Misery loves company."

I frown, remembering her earlier "sob story" comment. "Are you and Blaine okay?"

She takes a long swallow of scotch, then refills the glass, forgoing ice this time. "Well, things aren't dead. Let's just say they're on life support."

"I'm really sorry to hear that." I'd met Evelyn in this house when she hosted a show for Blaine, who's a talented artist whose work has a decidedly erotic edge. In fact, Blaine was the artist Damien hired to paint the nude portrait of me. So it's fair to say that I feel something of a personal connection to both Blaine and Evelyn.

"He's a good man, my Blaine. A talented man. But we've been living in two different worlds for a while now. Not age--well, maybe it's partly age. He's barely thirty, and I've crossed the half a century mark. He wants to get out in the world and build his reputation. I've done my homesteading. Now, I want to sit back in my castle and play in the world I've built. I'm not slowing down--well, maybe a little--but I am playing closer to home."

"I'm sorry," I say.

She shakes her head. "No, no, there's no malice here. Just sadness. But there usually is with change. So," she continues, stubbing out her unlit cigarette on the tabletop, "lots of changes on your end, eh, Texas?"

"Damien and I are fine," I say automatically and forcefully.

She laughs. "You're not, or you wouldn't be with me before a premiere party. But you can be not fine without the world crashing down."

I scowl. "It feels like the world's crashing down," I admit as the tears start to flow again.

"Aw, hell, Texas, it's okay. Get the waterworks over with now before we get you fixed all up like a movie star again."