Take Me: A Stark E-Novella, Page 5

  “Sure,” I say, though what I really want is to scream that there is no way in hell I want her in my head as I try on my wedding dress. “That would be great.”

  Damien is looking at me questioningly, and I shrug in reply. Part of me wants him to step in and send her packing. But she is my mother, and another part of me—the secret, buried part that I don’t like to take out and examine too closely—wants to have her at my wedding. Wants to have her hold me and tell me she’s sorry for all the years of horror and drama.

  I want it, but I do not expect it. Yet still that flame of hope is alive, and I feel it flickering inside me.

  “Ryan will take you,” Damien says to my mother. I glance at Ryan and watch as he turns his attention away from Jamie to this new assignment. I turn to look at my best friend. Her expression suggests that she’s oblivious to Ryan’s attention, but there’s an unfamiliar color to her cheeks, and as she watches him lead my mother out the door, I can’t help but wonder.

  Jamie crosses the room to join me at the table, then picks up the red velvet cake with her fingers and takes a huge bite. “You realize that there’s no way I’m sharing a suite with your mother.”

  I laugh. “Neither of you would survive.”

  “I had Tony pack your things when he delivered Mrs. Fairchild’s car,” Damien says. “You’re staying in Malibu with us.”

  Jamie does a fist pump. “Score!”

  My smile is so wide it almost hurts. “Thanks for having my back,” I say to Damien.

  “Always.” The softness in his eyes hardens a bit. “Do you want me to send her back to Texas?”

  I almost say yes, but then shake my head. “No. I’m getting married, and she is my mother. I’m strong enough to handle it,” I say, in response to his reproachful look.

  “You are,” he agrees.

  “And there was a moment—” I shake my head, thinking about the way she’d talked about Ashley’s wedding, and the vulnerability that I’d seen in her eyes.

  “What?” Damien is looking at me intently.

  “I just think that, despite all the Elizabeth Fairchild nonsense, part of her really does want to be here for me on my wedding day.”

  For a moment, Damien only looks at me, his hands on my shoulders. Then he leans forward and captures my mouth with the sweetest of kisses. When he pulls away, I expect an argument. I expect him to recite an itemized list of every horrible thing my mother has done to me, to us. I expect him to point to his own father, whom neither of us want at this wedding. Hell, I expect him to talk some sense into me.

  Instead, he says simply, “Be careful.”

  I swallow and nod, because I know that he’s right to be concerned.

  Once again, the door chimes, but this time I do not know the man who enters. He is drop-dead gorgeous, with dark hair highlighted by gold and red. He carries himself with a Damien Stark kind of confidence, and when his gaze sweeps the room, I see both calculation and intelligence in his sharp, gray eyes.

  “We should finish up with Sally and get going,” I say to Damien. “She’s got other customers to deal with.”

  “I’m sure she does,” he replies, “but Evan isn’t one of them. He’s with me.”

  “Holy crap,” Jamie says, “do you travel in packs?”

  Damien frowns, and I almost laugh. There aren’t many people who can knock him off kilter. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

  “Never mind,” Jamie says, waving her hand as if wiping the words away. But she turns her attention to me, and I nod slightly. I have understood her perfectly, because this guy is hot. Maybe not Damien Stark hot, I think loyally, but he’s got some serious sizzle going on.

  “Evan Black, let me introduce you to my fiancée, Nikki Fairchild, and her best friend, Jamie Archer.”

  Evan strides across the room to join us. He shakes my hand, then Jamie’s. I can’t help but notice that she holds on a moment longer than is necessary.

  “Congratulations,” Evan says to me. “I knew the first time he talked about you that one day you two would be married. I wish you all the best.”

  “Thank you,” I say, looking curiously at Damien. He’s never mentioned this man before.

  “I’ve known Evan for years,” Damien says. “He lives in Chicago—we had a drink when I flew out there a few months ago,” he adds.

  “We met when we were both looking to acquire a failing business,” Evan adds.

  “Who got it?” I ask.

  “Damien,” Evan says, without regret. “But today it’s my turn.”

  That I don’t know what he means must be obvious by my expression. “Evan’s acquiring the galleries,” Damien says, referring to the art galleries that Giselle Reynard recently transferred over to him. “We were in Palm Springs examining the items in storage, and Evan’s going to come to Malibu tomorrow to take a look at the main property.”

  “I have a few other things to take care of while I’m here,” Evan says, “but I’m honored to have been invited to the wedding. I’m very happy for both of you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, noticing that Jamie is still peering at him with interest. This is something that needs to be nipped in the bud. Not only is Jamie supposed to be backing away from men, but considering Evan is Chicago-bound, he could be nothing more than a fast fuck. And that is so not what my best friend needs.

  Jamie pulls out her phone and makes a face, then looks at me. “We need to hurry,” she says. “We’re going to be late.”

  “Late? For what?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I told you. We’re meeting the girls at Raven,” she says, referring to a male strip club in Hollywood.

  “Raven,” Damien says, his brows lifting.

  “Um, hello?” Jamie says. “Bachelorette party. Alcohol. Mostly naked gorgeous men.” She looks him up and down. “Not that she doesn’t already have that in her life, but still. This is the night to be naughty.”

  “It’s only barely past lunchtime,” I say stupidly.

  “I know,” Jamie says. “That’s when there’s less of a crowd. More attention for us.”

  Oh my.

  I glance toward Damien, but this is one of the few times when I cannot read his expression. My gaze shifts toward Evan. He is easier to read, as he’s not even trying to hide his amusement.

  “I told you I didn’t want a bachelorette party,” I say. “And I have stuff to do today. The music. The photographer,” I remind her, then grimace when I see Damien’s brows rise again. Damn. My little lie earlier has been soundly caught out.

  “And I need to make sure the flowers are confirmed,” I add, rushing on. “I need—”

  “To chill with your friends,” Jamie says. “Come on, Nick. Music or not, pictures or not, come Saturday night you’re going to be married. You’ll never, ever, ever get to go out as a hot single girl again. So we’re doing this. I’m your maid of honor and I’m insisting.” She glances at Damien. “Sorry, dude. It’s in the best friends rule book.”

  “I’m certain it is.” He turns to me, his expression implacable. “I need to speak with you alone.”

  I shoot Jamie the kind of look that could bring down an army, then follow Damien to the far corner of the showroom. We’re standing beside a case filled with gorgeous, decorative wedding cakes. I glance at them, then wish that I hadn’t, because all they do is remind me of how quickly Saturday night is barreling down on us. And while Damien’s entry only moments ago might have felt like the cavalry, now those prickles of stress and nerves are starting up again. Because Jamie is right—this is my last chance to cut loose with my girlfriends.

  But I don’t want to irritate Damien, and though it has never actually come up between us, I feel confident he is not going to graciously accept the idea of another guy getting up close and personal. And we both know that even if we insist on ground rules, Jamie will make sure that they are soundly ignored.

  “It’s not my idea,” I say.

  “But you want to go.” His voice is low, sensual—
and it’s making me nervous, because I can’t figure out his angle.

  “I didn’t even know about it,” I say.

  He twines a strand of my hair through his fingers, then releases it as he brushes his thumb over the curve of my jaw, then over my lower lip.

  My mouth parts, and I feel my body go soft and needy. There is no one in the world who has ever had the effect on me that Damien does, and right then I want nothing more than to fold myself into his embrace and lose myself in his kisses.

  That, however, isn’t where the moment is going.

  “Go,” he says. “Have fun with your friends.”

  I blink. “Really?”

  He chuckles. “Would I deny you the full wedding experience?”

  “I—well, no, but Raven . . .” I trail off, because really, what is there to say about buff men dancing in thongs?

  “Mmm, yes, about that.” He moves closer, his heat so palpable I feel the sizzle. “You go. You have fun. And you come back and tell me all about it.”

  I lick my lips. “All about it?”

  He leans forward so that his lips brush my ear. “Every last thing, baby. Have as good a time as you want. And when you get home,” he adds, his hand sliding down to cup my ass, “I’ll decide whether I need to simply spank this beautiful ass, or whether you need a more thorough punishment so that you remember just how much—how thoroughly, completely, and irrevocably—you belong to me.” He pulls back so that he is looking straight into my eyes, and the desire I see there almost makes me come on the spot.

  “Do we understand each other?”

  I nod.

  “What’s that?”

  “Yes,” I say, and then meet his eyes defiantly. “Yes, sir.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. He takes my hand and pulls me close, then brushes a gentle kiss over my lips. “Just so you know, Ms. Fairchild,” he whispers, “I’m secretly hoping you spend this afternoon with your friends being very, very naughty.”

  Chapter Six

  Jamie lets out a laugh as a guy in nothing but a thong and a cowboy hat gets up close and personal in her face. I’m sitting right beside her and am listing toward the left—away from him—but Jamie is eating it up, gleefully tucking ones and fives into the elastic band of his thong. Elastic that, from the stretched out look of it, is going to snap at any moment.

  Which probably wouldn’t bother Jamie at all.

  But even though the guy’s not bad-looking, the only naked man I’m interested in anymore is Damien. And this guy is no Damien.

  Jamie pulls out a fifty, and I roll my eyes, thinking that I’m about to witness a new level of hip-gyrating entertainment. That’s when Jamie hooks her thumb toward me, nods, and very deliberately sticks the fifty right over the guy’s package.

  “Jamie!” I squeal, but I’m laughing now, because she’s laughing and so are Lisa and Evelyn and Sylvia. I try to squirm away, but Jamie holds me in place, grinning wickedly.

  Beside me, Evelyn takes a shot of straight Scotch. “Honey, you know I love your boy—and I am quite fond of my own man’s attributes, too—but you need to relax and appreciate this from an artistic perspective.” As if in illustration, she leans back, takes another drink, attaches her eyes firmly on the cowboy, and sighs.

  Evelyn Dodge is brassy, opinionated, and often inappropriate. She says what she thinks, takes no shit off anyone, and has conquered Hollywood and then some. A former-actress-turned-agent-turned-patron-of-the-arts, Evelyn has been friends with Damien since his early days on the tennis circuit. She’s known his secrets for longer than I have, and she loves him as much as I do. Damien lost his mom when he was just a kid, and I’ve always been grateful that Evelyn was in his life. Now I’m grateful that she’s in mine.

  But this isn’t the time to be sappy, and I flash her the kind of smile that would make my mother proud. “Evelyn,” I say sweetly, “you are so full of shit.”

  “It’s the years in Hollywood, Texas.” She cocks her head at Jamie. “At least this one already has the mouth for it.”

  “Fuck, yeah,” Jamie says. Then she waves another bill and points at me. “Come on, John Wayne,” she says. “Don’t stop now.”

  The dancer obviously knows which of us is shoving bills down his pants, because he does as she says, gyrating closer and closer, and I’m squirming out of reach and laughing so hard that I almost pee my pants.

  And all the while I’m wearing a fake diamond tiara that says Virgin Bride in equally fake red gemstones.

  “It’s no use,” Jamie finally announces, then waves the dancer away, but not before giving him one more fifty. “She only has eyes for Damien.”

  “Can you blame her?” Sylvia says. I turn to her, eyebrows raised. Sylvia is Damien’s assistant, and we’ve spent so much time together as I’ve planned the wedding that we’ve become pretty good friends. “What?” she says, holding her hands up in a sign of innocence. “Just because I work for him doesn’t mean I’m blind to him.”

  “What happens in Raven stays in Raven,” Jamie says wisely, then points a finger at me. “And don’t even pretend to be jealous of her. You’d have to be jealous of the whole world, because every straight female out there thinks he’s the most fuckalicious thing on two legs. Besides, you know Damien’s only got eyes for you.”

  “I do,” I say happily. At the moment, I’m very happy. It may not even be five yet, but I’ve had a Happy Hour buzz going for the last couple of hours, and have imbibed more than my fair share of Manhattans, because Jamie says that the little cherry garnish is appropriate for a bachelorette party, even though my cherry was popped long ago.

  My best friend has a way with words.

  The waiter comes with another round of drinks, but before I can snag a fresh Manhattan, Lisa snatches it off the tray. “I think it’s about time we get you home to Damien,” she says. “You’re getting glassy-eyed.”

  I squint at her. “No way.”

  She laughs. “He will be so mad at all of us if we send you back tonight only to pass out. Especially since you’re going home with a goodie bag.”

  “I am?” I’m beginning to think that Lisa’s right and I’m a little wasted, because even if she’s talking in euphemisms, I have no idea what she means by a goodie bag.

  “Instead of each of us buying you a present, we went in together and got you a Bag O’ Fun from Come Again,” Jamie explains, referencing a local sex toy shop.

  “You didn’t,” I say, not sure if I should be amused or mortified. “What’s in it?”

  “You’re just going to have to wait and see,” Jamie says, while the rest of them grin.

  “I promise it’s good,” Lisa says. “I may have to recreate a bag for Preston and me.” Lisa is a business consultant who has done some work with me, and her fiancé, Preston, is one of the top executives at Stark Applied Technology.

  “You’re supposed to save it for your wedding night,” Sylvia adds.

  “But we won’t think less of you if you dig in tonight,” Jamie says. She shares a mischievous grin with Evelyn. “She’s going home to Damien, after all, so how could we blame her?”

  The limo parked outside of Raven is one of Damien’s insane stretch numbers that the company keeps primarily for impressing competitors and rewarding employees. Since this isn’t the greatest neighborhood in the world, a crowd of gawkers have gathered. I think some of them are drooling. A few must recognize me, because about ten feet from the car I start to hear my name called out. I see phones being thrust into the air, and a flurry of shouts and camera flashes surround me.

  I walk faster, flanked by my friends.

  I’m surprised that Edward isn’t on the sidewalk holding the door open for me, but it doesn’t matter, because Jamie and Evelyn have taken the lead, and they bundle me into the limo, tell me that they hope I had a great time with them and that I have an even greater one with Damien—wink, wink—and then slam the door, effectively blocking the paparazzi and tourists who are determined to get in my face.

&
nbsp; I lean back against the soft leather and take deep breaths. Dealing with the paparazzi is part and parcel of dating and marrying a multi-bazillionaire who owns half the world, and I know that. But once the press got hold of the fact that Damien had paid me a million dollars to pose for a nude portrait—and once Damien was indicted for murder—the press went a little nuts. Now it’s a good day if we go out in public with only a small swarm.

  I’ve learned to live with it, but I don’t like it. It makes me tense and uncomfortable, and if there was a way to avoid it, I would.

  What I hate the most is that I know they will be out in full force for the wedding. Although all of the Stark International security force will be at the house to make sure we don’t have party crashers on the perimeter, the beach itself is public—and I’m certain that it will be crowded with paparazzi with long lenses and lots of determination.

  Since I can’t do anything about that except move the wedding inside or to another location altogether, neither of which are options that appeal to me, I have come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to simply deal with the paparazzi and all the pictures that will surface afterward.

  Yay.

  That realization was one of the reasons we fired the photographer that we’d hired to do our wedding day portraits. I really didn’t need one more underhanded person trying to snap a picture of someone who is having just a little bit too good a time at the champagne fountain after the wedding.

  I frown, remembering that I still have to find a photographer, and it’s already Thursday and the wedding is Saturday. Shit. If it weren’t my own wedding, I could take the pictures myself. For that matter, I suppose I could take my Leica to the ceremony . . .

  I shake off the ridiculous thought. Honestly, the black camera strap would totally clash with my dress.

  Still, I should use this time in the limo to be productive. Maybe call some of the folks on my initial list of maybes and see if they’re booked for the day. But my head is too light from my Manhattan indulgence, and all I want to do is sit back, enjoy the ride, and think about seeing Damien again in just a few minutes.