“What if I’m not thirsty?” I say teasingly.
“I’m sure we can find something to satisfy both our appetites.” He holds out his hand. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”
We take a mostly chaste shower, during which he gently soaps me down and rinses me off, touching me as softly as if I was fragile and precious. When we return to my room, I pull on a robe, while Damien gets back into his jeans and T-shirt. He puts the nipple rings back in the jewelry box, and then moves to my desk. “Keep them,” he says. “Someday, I may tell you to wear them under your clothes.”
I lick my lips and nod. He sets the box down, and in the process bumps my laptop. The screensaver dissolves, revealing the image I now use as wallpaper—Damien Stark looking exultant on the beach.
“Well,” he says, looking at the screen, his expression odd.
“I love that picture,” I say. “You look so happy.”
He turns away from the screen long enough to eye me. “I feel very exposed.”
I laugh. “Really? More than how I feel standing naked for a portrait?”
His brow rises. “Once again, you’ve made a good point, Ms. Fairchild.”
“Here,” I say, grabbing the camera from the drawer of my bedside table. I place it on the desk and set the timer, then I tug Damien’s hand and pull him onto the bed with me.
“What are you—”
“Hush,” I say. “Say cheese.”
“Nikki—” But he’s cut off by the intense flash and the click of the shutter.
He cocks his head, and there’s censure in his eyes.
“No,” I say, before he says a word. “I’m not deleting it, I’m not erasing it, I’m not ignoring it. I want a picture of the two of us together, and you can just deal with it.”
The way he’s looking at me, I’m seriously afraid I’m going to lose this battle. But then he nods and leans forward to kiss the tip of my nose. “All right,” he says when he pulls back. “I want a copy, too.”
*
I sleep late the next morning, and when I go into the kitchen for coffee, I find a note on the dining table from Damien beside the clothes he’s picked out for me: Wear these. D.S. Apparently he was doing more than just watching television—he’d also gone through my laundry. He’s selected a short denim skirt and a cheap concert T-shirt that really shouldn’t be worn without a bra. Not exactly what I would call a stellar wardrobe choice, but I’ll wear it. After all, I’m only going to take it off again once I get to the Malibu house.
A wry smile touches my lips. The man sure does love to control every little thing.
After I’m caffeinated, I stand in the shower and let the scalding water pound the life back into me. I am a shell of myself, but it feels so damn good. Yesterday was astounding, like an explosion of the senses. Relaxing, exciting, passionate, erotic, sensual. Most of all, it was fun.
It’s a simple thing, but I like seeing Damien happy. And I can’t deny the fact that it gives me a special thrill to know that it was me that helped him wipe away the dark remnants left over from his visit with his dad.
I squirt some shampoo into my hand and start to lather my hair, my mind still on the man and his father and their fucked-up relationship. I don’t know—because Damien hasn’t told me—but I can guess that it is at least as toxic as my relationship with my mother. Even so, it must have been hard, firing his dad as his manager, especially since he was only a kid at the time.
I turn the thought over in my head. There’s something about the situation that’s familiar. I tilt my head back and rinse my hair, working my fingers through the strands to get the soap out. I can’t think what it is, but something is bugging me, dammit, and it’s still bothering me when I get out of the shower and pad back to my room.
I’m slipping on the skirt when it hits me. Control. Not the fact that he needs it, but the reason driving the need.
I remember so many things that now seem like clues: the way his face looked when he told me that he’d wanted to quit tennis and his father wouldn’t let him. His nonanswer when he told me about the new bastard of a coach and I asked if it was the bump up in competitiveness that stole the fun from him. His foundation to help children. Evelyn’s reference to secrets swept under the carpet.
And always back to control. In his business. In his relationships. In bed.
I could be wrong, of course, but I don’t think so.
Damien was abused as a child.
I poke around some more on the Internet, but I don’t find anything to bolster my theory. Even so, it feels right. I don’t know if his abuser was his coach or his father or both, but I suspect it was the coach, and that it was guilt from the abuse that drove the bastard to suicide.
The image currently up on my web browser is of a fourteen-year-old Damien after he’s won some local tournament. He’s smiling and holding up the trophy. But his eyes are haunted and dark. Yes, they are inscrutable.
I need to know the truth, but I can’t ask Evelyn. This is the kind of thing that I want Damien to tell me.
I run my fingers through my hair, wondering if I should just confront him. But no. He has to be the one who comes to me. Because this isn’t just about what Damien needs. It’s about me, too. I need to know that this man I’ve spilled my heart to trusts me with his secrets.
But until he does, I’ll have to be satisfied with my certainty that I understand a little bit more about the man still hidden behind the mask.
*
When I arrive at his house at a quarter to five, Damien is outside on the terrace, his back to me, his face to the ocean. He’s damp from a recent shower and completely naked. I pass the heap of his clothes on the floor then pause at the threshold. I want to stand there and simply take in this glorious sight. The whole sky looms above him and the vast ocean spreads before him, and yet it is the beautiful, strong body of Damien Stark that dominates the view. There’s power in the tension of his shoulders. Confidence in the way he stands. Strength in that back that carries so much.