"Oh, please! I should have told you I knew. I was just--doesn't matter. I'm so freaking excited for you." She props her elbows on the table and peers hard at me. "You're excited, too, right?"
There's genuine concern under the question, and it reminds me of just how well she knows me.
"I was freaked at first," I admit. "But I'm over it. Now, I'm excited. Still nervous about--well, everything--but it's a good kind of nervous."
Even as I talk, I realize that I'm more confident than I was yesterday. "Morning sickness isn't my friend," I continue. "But it's part of the experience. And I'm even okay with not drinking coffee," I add, then take a sip of water.
"Oh, shit. I wasn't thinking." She drags my coffee to her side of the table, then adds cream. "I'll just take that temptation away."
"How about you?" I ask. "Are you excited or nervous or both?"
I expect her to bounce in her seat with typical Jamie exuberance, but all she does is stir the coffee. "You mean about the red carpet thing? It's cool. Exciting, you know?"
"Um, yeah. Hugely exciting." The waitress slides the sandwich we're sharing into the middle of the table, and I grab a French fry, then use it to point at her. "What's going on?"
"Oh, hell. It's just that I thought the gig was the start of a promotion. It turns out it was the start of an audition. And I'm already failing, which means that the premiere is going to be my first and last time to walk a red carpet or do celebrity interviews or any of that stuff. And then I'm back to an anchor desk--which is a great job, don't get me wrong, but now that they've dangled the entertainment reporter carrot . . ."
She trails off with a frustrated sigh while I try to filter through everything she's just rattled off and make some sense of it.
"I've already asked Jane and Lyle."
"Asked them?"
"To do an interview with me," she explains.
"They said no?" That doesn't seem like something either one of them would do.
"They said yes. The studio said no. I can catch them on the red carpet to chat about their outfits and how excited they are about the movie, but no one-on-one interview. Apparently, the studio's already set up exclusives with another network."
"So you're telling me that you have to go out and set up your own interviews? That sucks."
"Tell me about it." She looks more morose than I've ever seen her.
"Jackson knows Graham Elliott," I say, referring to another A-lister.
"I thought of that," Jamie confesses. "But he's in Vancouver on a shoot. I thought about asking Bryan," she adds, referring to her ex-boyfriend, Bryan Raine, "but just the thought gave me hives."
"Besides," I say, "you don't want to give that asshole any free publicity."
"True that." She sips her coffee. "We should have done happy hour. I could use a shot of bourbon in this. But I guess you're a no-go on happy hour these days anyway." She sighs. "I'm so fucked."
"The whole thing makes no sense. Do they think you can just pluck celebrities off a tree? And aren't you the talent? Isn't there someone behind the scenes whose job it is to line up the interviews for you?"
"That's the way it works once you land the job. Right now, I think it's all about proving how much I want it. How spunky I am," she adds with a very non-spunky snarl.
"So we just need to find you one juicy story that gets their attention?"
"I think so." She shrugs. "I hope so."
I nod slowly, realizing now why she'd really called when I was in Dallas. And why it had sounded like she had my resume in front of her--because she'd been preparing interview questions.
I reach for another French fry as I consider. Because while I hate the idea of putting the spotlight on Damien and me and the baby, I'm not naive enough to think we can avoid it forever. So maybe it's better to jump right in and take control of the conversation from the get-go?
I draw a breath, then jump into the deep end. "What about me?" I ask as she lifts a section of club sandwich to her mouth. "Or, actually, what about Damien?" Because goodness knows I'm not that interesting. But Damien has been in the public eye for decades.
She drops the sandwich back to the plate, but her mouth stays open.
"James?"
"Are you serious? An interview with you and Damien? If you mean it, that would be amazing."
"I mean it," I say. "And you could have asked when you called me in Dallas."
She sags, looking a bit sheepish. "I thought about it, obviously. But I know how much you hate interviews, and you were freaked about your mom, and--look, Nicholas, are you sure?"
"Totally. I'd rather do an interview with you than have rumors floating around out there."
"And Damien?"
"It'll be fine," I say, and she just nods. We both know that if I ask him, he'll do the interview.
"We'll do it on the red carpet," she says.
"And you'll keep it short?"
"Hey, it's fine by me," she says. "I figure short is one hell of a lot more than any other reporter will get, right?"
I laugh. "Only you, James," I promise. "Only you."
She thrusts her hand across the table. "Pinkie swear," she says. "Best friends forever, and we'll always have each other's backs."
"Always," I agree. "And you'll get the job, James. You're awesome, so how could you not?"
"Speaking of awesome and jobs, what happened at your interview? Any word yet?"
"I got it." Just saying the words makes me giddy all over again. "I found out this morning, actually."
"Ha! That's fabulous! And damn, but we are an awesome pair."
"I'm just hoping I can survive morning sickness, stay awake long enough to finish interviewing possible new employees, and get everything done on time and on budget." I bite my lower lip. "This is a make or break project, James. Am I allowed to say I'm nervous?"
"Welcome to the club," she says. "You're also going to totally nail it. I've got your back. Damien's got your back. Seriously, you're swimming in a sea of well wishes."
"And a few sharks," I say.
Her brow furrows, but before she has the chance to ask what I'm talking about, I open my phone to my messaging app and pass it to her. "I figure they're from somebody who's pissed off I got the job and they didn't. Or pissed that I was even invited to interview, because the first text came before the offer came in."
I watch as Jamie scrolls through the three messages. "Maybe Ryan can trace them?" Jamie's husband is the head of security for Stark International.
"I don't think so," she says. "We were talking about that once when we were watching some really bad action movie. He said it's seriously hard to trace a text message. And odds are good this is coming from a burner phone, too."
"I hate not knowing who it is," I admit.
"Oh, please. I know. It's some dickless wonder who thinks he's all that, and that a gorgeous woman with a rich husband can't have a brain. Fuck him."
I can't help but smile. As far as I'm concerned, Jamie's assessment is dead-on perfect.
"What makes you think you can handle it?" she says, quoting the first text. "It." She repeats. "Huh."
"What?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Probably nothing. It's just that you said the first one came before you got the job. Did it come before you fainted, too?"
I frown. "No, it was after my interview, actually. Why?"
"It's just that the rumors that you were pregnant had started by then. So maybe it doesn't mean the job. Maybe it means the baby."
"I thought of that." I press my hand over my belly. "And Giselle's here."
"What?" Jamie turns in her seat. "Where?"
"No, in LA. I saw her at the Tower this morning. She had a meeting with Damien."
"No shit? I bet she's got a serious grudge going. What did Damien say? Does he think she sent the messages?"
I pick up a sugar packet and start fiddling with it. "I haven't told him about the messages yet," I admit.
"Have you lost your mind?"
"I know, I know. But I just got these last two today. And as for the first, I figured it was a one-off, and why get Damien all riled up? But with today's texts--well, I was actually about to tell him this morning, but then Ollie called, and then I headed out to meet you, and . . ."
I trail off lamely.
"Not an excuse," she says sagely. "Trust me. Over the last few months, I've learned quite a few things about the marriage code." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Did you know there are actually rules and expectations?"
I feign shock. "No!"
"Yes. It's quite the minefield to navigate."
"I'm sure Ryan is happy to carry you over all the little bumps and incendiary devices."
"My feet barely even touch the ground," she says wistfully.
"You're loving it. I'm so happy for you."
"You know, on the whole, it feels pretty much the same as being single. Except with jewelry," she adds, waggling her left hand and showing off her wedding band.
"Bullshit."
"Hey, we were practically married before. So it was really no big deal to tie the knot officially."
I just smile, because I know how big of a deal it was. Jamie's fear of matrimony almost made her blow the best thing that ever happened to her.
"So where is the man of your house?" I ask. "You were attached at the hip when you first got married. But that was months ago on Valentine's Day." I make a sad face and try not to crack a smile. "Has the bloom worn off?"
"Ha ha. We're both working to prep for the premiere," she says. "Which means I'm here negotiating high-level interviews with techno-savvy socialites--"
I make a face.
"--and he's with his slave driver of a boss, otherwise known as your husband, to talk about tightening up security." She glances over my shoulder toward the window and the view of Ventura Boulevard. "Actually, maybe he's not."
I frown, then turn around to see what she's looking at.
Right there, parked just outside the window, is a shiny red Bugatti Veyron, one of the world's most expensive cars.
And one of my husband's favorite toys.
Within seconds after I notice Damien's car, my phone pings with an incoming text.
Here. Now.
I grimace, then glance at Jamie. "Apparently, I need to go. You'll get the check?"
"Rules," she says. "It's a minefield."
"I'm pretty sure I've tripped a detonator," I say as I remember that my iPad was in the apartment. And that my text messages flash across the lock screen.
"Good luck," she says, then grabs a section from my half of the sandwich.
I give her a wave, then head outside.
Then I draw in a deep breath for courage before I get into the car and stow my shopping bags at my feet.
Sure enough, my iPad is sitting in the passenger seat. It's quiet now, with nothing on the screen. But I scowl at it, anyway. "Traitor," I say.
"On the contrary," Damien says. "I'm considering offering your iPad a job in security. Certainly it's doing a better job keeping me informed about threats to my wife than the lady herself is managing."
"I was going to--"
He holds up a finger, then waves it back and forth, indicating that I need to stay silent.
"But--"
"No."
I press my lips together and lean back in the seat. I know well enough that it's best not to argue. Not yet, anyway.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he pulls into traffic, and though he doesn't say anything, in a few moments, I have my answer. He turns into the parking lot of my office condo, kills the engine, then gestures for me to follow him.
We walk in silence up to my office, and the moment the door closes behind us, he grabs me and pulls me to him, holding me in such a tight embrace, I think I just might suffocate.
"Damien--Damien."
He releases me, but before I can say another word, his mouth is on mine, his hands roaming my body, pulling up my skirt, tugging down my panties.
I'm gasping, my contrite guilt at not having told him about the texts disappearing under a wave of pure arousal.
"On the desk," he says, but before I have the chance to move there, he's lifted me up and sat my bare ass on the polished wood. He spreads my legs, drops to his knees, and buries his face between my thighs.
I shudder with the building excitement, then lean back, putting my weight on one hand. I spread my legs even wider as I use my other hand to slide my fingers in his hair and hold his head as he goes down on me, his tongue licking and teasing and turning me on so much that all I can think of is the building explosion.
Then he pulls back, and I whimper with a disappointment that fades as quickly as it came. Because now Damien is standing between my legs, and his fly is open and his cock is out. He holds my ass in one hand and scoots me to the edge, so that his cock is right at my core. And then, with one wild, hard movement, he thrusts deep inside me, fucking me hard, punishing me beautifully.
"Lie back," he orders, and I do, resting my back and shoulders on the desk. He lifts my hips, then tugs me toward him even as he buries himself deeper and deeper inside me. He needs this, I know. Needs to feel that I'm safe and here. Needs to know that no matter how wildly the world around us spins, he still has some measure of control--even if it's only the control of my body, my pleasure. Even if it's only ensuring that he and I are together, always.
And so he takes from me as hard as he gives. It's wild and brutal, and I'm so wet and turned on that I know I will explode any minute.
I reach my hand between my legs, teasing my clit with my fingers and also stroking his cock as he enters me, harder and faster, until finally his body lurches and he bursts inside me, falling on top of me and pinning me down as the final throes of the orgasm rack through his body.
I squirm against him, seeking release as he recovers. "I shouldn't let you come," he murmurs. "More than that, I should spank your ass."
I'm in no position to argue. Instead, I just beg. "Please," I say. "Damien, please."
He slides his hand between us and teases my clit with firm, sure motions that have desire building anew inside me. Higher and higher, until I'm so wound up that when the explosion comes, I open my mouth to scream.
Only a squeak gets out, though, because he captures the sound with a kiss. That's for the best, I think as sanity returns. I hardly need to shock Marge.
We sprawl on my desktop, half naked and sated from this wild, unexpected encounter. Soon, though, Damien gets up, then tugs me to my feet and leads me to the couch.
"Why?" he says, taking a seat beside me and adjusting my clothes. "I saw the message flash on your screen, so I opened your app and saw two others with it. Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"The first time was in Dallas before I went to see Ashley. I thought it was a one-off, I swear. And then I forgot about it."
"And the others?"
"Both today," I tell him. "I sent you a text, remember? Saying I had something to tell you. This was it."
He rubs his temples. He doesn't look happy, but neither does he look pissed.
"Who?" he asks. "Any ideas?"
"At first I thought it was about the job--which means it could be anyone. A competitor. An employee at Greystone-Branch who doesn't like me." I shrug. "But then I thought Giselle. Or even Sofia. Or," I add, looking down at the floor, "maybe even my mom."
For a moment, he's still and silent. Then he stands and starts to pace. "I can't believe Sofia would do that."
I press my lips together. I can believe a hell of a lot worse about her, but considering she's all the way in the UK, I'm not going to argue.
"And not Giselle. She's newly married to a man who doesn't like controversy and has a hefty bank account. I don't think she'd risk that."
I nod, that seems fair enough. Everything she did before was with an eye to saving her cash flow.
"Your mother," he says slowly. "You really think she moved here?"
"I think I saw her today," I admit. "I've been
seeing her around town, remember? Maybe that was her warm-up act for the texts."
"Maybe," he says, though he doesn't sound convinced.
"So what do we do?" I ask, as he reaches down to help me up.
"For now, we wait. And you tell me the instant you get another message."
"I will," I promise. "What else?"
"Now we try and forget about it, at least for a little while."
"Oh." I grin. I like that idea. "Are you heading back to work?"
"Actually, I thought you might want to do some more shopping." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Unless you already got your fill?"
"Of shopping for the baby? Not even close," I meet his smile with one of my own. "In fact, I found the most darling crib . . ."
13
Damien's already up by the time the sound of the ocean and the soft light of morning teases me awake. I slide out of bed and stretch, wishing that we could stay here all day.
Not possible, though. We both have empires to run.
The thought makes me grin, because it's true. My empire's significantly smaller than his, but it's growing, and if I'm going to keep it chugging along, I need to park myself at my desk and get through some of the initial tasks for Greystone-Branch.
Before that, though, I have one key appointment, and as I look at the clock, I realize that I should probably hurry.
I'd gone to bed naked, and now I pull on a fuzzy robe and tie it around my waist before I head out in search of my husband. I expect to find him in the kitchen, and I'm surprised when I realize that the entire third floor is empty.
The house is ten thousand square feet--large by normal human standards, though small in the world of billionaires--but still plenty big enough for a man to get lost in. When I don't find him at his desk on the mezzanine level, I assume that he's gone all the way down to the first floor to take a swim or work out in the gym.
Unfortunately, I've assumed wrong.
I'm about to give in and call for him through the intercom when I realize that I know exactly where he is. I head back upstairs to the second floor. Early in our marriage, this floor went mostly unused. Once Syl and Jackson got together and their kids came into our lives, however, we'd furnished one of the rooms as a kid-friendly guest room and another as a playroom. There are still two more rooms that have sat empty, filled with random furniture, miscellaneous boxes of mine, and some packed-up files of Damien's.
Now, I find him leaning against the door jamb of one of those unused rooms, just staring in at the mess of boxes and scattered, mismatched pieces of furniture.