Stark After Dark (29 page)

I'm in an exceptional mood when Jamie and I return to the suite after seeing Marcy off in the SUV. Not that having a torrid weekend affair with my husband-lover isn't deliciously satisfying, but there's something about knowing that I really made a difference in Marcy's life that has me flying high.

I part ways with Jamie in the living room of our suite, and she goes off to her bedroom to take a nap. Frankly, I think she's sexting with Ryan, who took advantage of the fact that he was on site to schedule a meeting with the hotel's head of security.

I head into my room, and when I see the box on my bed, my mood goes from spectacular to fantabulous, especially when I open it and see the slinky, sexy dress and matching shoes that Damien has bought for me.

There's a note, too:
Looking forward to seeing you in (and out) of this dress - D

I grin. I'm looking forward to that myself.

I spend the next hour getting ready. Since Mission Marcy took up my spa time, I have to do my own hair and makeup, but that's okay, and I finish with a good fifteen minutes to spare before I'm supposed to meet Damien in front of the restaurant.

I do a last-minute turn in front of the mirror, and have to admit that he picked out an excellent dress. It's sophisticated, yet comfortable. Sexy, but not slutty. And it's a wrap style, so there is a high slit over my right thigh, which adds an extra level of sultriness.

Then I'm out the door and hurrying to Periscope, a new seafood restaurant that has opened inside the hotel. It's located on the second floor of the hotel just over the reception area and across from the spa. What's intriguing, though, is that the ceiling in the reception area is three stories high. So Periscope is located along two sides of the perimeter, and has viewing screens that allow guests to see what is going on down below. Thus the name.

Damien and I are in a secluded booth right over the main entrance, so our view encompasses the entire lobby and even a bit of the casino. It's an interesting perspective, and makes you feel a little bit godlike, or at least like royalty. As if you are floating on a throne above the little people.

The booth is shaped like a C, and I am seated right next to Damien, my thigh brushing against his.

“I've been looking forward to this for a very long time, Ms. Fairchild,” he says.

“Dinner?” I ask innocently.

“You, next to me. Me, touching you.”

I lick my lips. “It seems to me that you've touched me plenty over the last few days.”

“I've been looking forward to experiencing the reality, not the fantasy. Because as spectacular as the fantasy of you is, the reality is so much better.”

I start to shift so that I can face him better, but he closes his hand over my thigh, holding me very firmly in place. “No,” he says. “I like you right where you are.”

“Do you? Why's that?”

He starts to answer, then stops when the waiter comes with our wine and appetizers. And all the while that Damien is using his right hand to lift the wine and taste it, his left is sliding very cleverly through the slit in my dress—and I am trying very hard to breathe normally. To not tremble in anticipation or longing. To not cry out with need.

But I want to do all those things. I have had the feel of his hands upon my skin so firmly burned in my imagination for the last two days that this new reality is shocking, and all I want to do is close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of his fingertips stroking my bare thigh.

“I think I like reality,” I admit as soon as the waiter has gone away.

“Good,” he says. “So do I.”

As I watch, he dips his finger into the wine, then brushes his fingertip along my lower lip. I taste it, light and fruity, and though I haven't yet had even one sip, I already feel light-headed.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Stark?”

“Of course.”

I raise a brow. “So you can have your way with me?”

“Do you need to be drunk for that?”

“No,” I whisper. “Anytime. Anywhere.”

“I'm very glad you feel that way, Ms. Fairchild. Because I'm thinking here, and I'm thinking now.”

“I—” I'm about to ask just what exactly he has in mind when his hand stroking lightly up my thigh makes his intent sweetly, perfectly clear.

“Damien.”

“Hush. No one will know. No one can see.”

He's right, of course. Our booth is secluded. But it's still decadent. Naughty.

And such a delicious turn-on.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

I hesitate, but comply. I expect him to continue his fingers' inexorable trek up my thigh, but his hand has stopped just inches from the juncture of my thigh and pelvis. I swallow, hyperaware of the pressure of his fingertips against my skin. I'm wet, and I want to squirm. I want to silently urge him to move higher. To stop this tease.

But, of course, that is the whole point.

Damien will make me suffer—and that will make my ultimate satisfaction that much sweeter.

In the meantime, of course, I am silently cursing him.

“Open,” he says, brushing something oily over my mouth. I part my lips, and he feeds me a piece of bread dipped in oil. Then a bit of shrimp cocktail. And then an olive from the antipasto plate. All delicious. All fire to my senses.

None are the touch I truly want.

“Damien.”

That's all I say, but I sense the shift in him immediately. I have broken. I have begged.

And now I will get my reward.

That hand that has been so patiently waiting on my thigh, burning a hole in my skin, now slides up, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

He hasn't touched me yet, but I tremble, the anticipation almost as powerful as the touch that I expect.

And when his fingers do slip over my bare skin, I hear his groan of surprise and satisfaction. “No underwear,” he says. “Naughty girl.”

“Is that what you like? Bad girls?”

“That depends how bad. Look at me,” he says, and I open my eyes. The depth of passion I see in his eyes makes me gasp, as does the finger he slides inside me. My body contracts around him, wanting this. Wanting a hell of a lot more than this, but right now, in this restaurant, this is all I'm going to get. But when he slides another finger in, then teases my clit with his thumb, I have to bite my lower lip so that I don't cry out. And I have to clutch tight to the edge of the table so that I don't grind myself hard against his hand.

“That's it, baby. I want you to come.”

I want to protest that we are in a restaurant, but right at the moment, I really don't care. I'm not caring about much, actually, except the way that he is making me feel. That, and trying to be at least a little bit modest. Not screaming would be good, but Christ, the way that the sensations are rising inside me, I'm really not sure that it's possible.

I look away, focusing on the lobby so as to maybe slow this down, maybe make it last, or perhaps get some control so I can keep myself from losing it completely.

And that's when I see her.

Marcy
.

Jay is right beside her, and they are heading toward the main doors with their hand luggage.

Marcy looks utterly defeated.

And every ounce of blood and sensation fizzle from my body, leaving me cold and lost and frustrated in all the wrong ways.

“Nikki?”

There is concern in his voice, and I realize that I'm frowning.

“What's wrong?”

“I—” I swallow. I want so badly to say nothing. To pretend like everything is fine and slide back into the fantasy of this night with the Damien who has seduced me.

But I can't. Dammit, I know that I can't. And if I want to help Marcy, I need the man I married.

I reach beneath the table and take his hand, tugging it away from my core even as I slide sideways so that I can look at him directly. And as I do, I feel the warmth of his wedding ring against my palm. And in that moment, I know that I have to tell him. Because no matter what games we may play, when you get right down to it, Damien is my husband, and he will always be there for me.

He will always love me.

I take his hand, and slowly stroke the titanium band. Then I look up into his eyes. “Damien,” I say, “I really need your help.”

Two minutes later, we are hurrying down the staff staircase to reach the service area behind the reception desk. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“I only just learned today. And if I'd told you, then I would have been pulling my husband into the mix. And that meant the fantasy would end. I liked the fantasy,” I admit softly. “And I thought I could handle it myself. But I was wrong. I don't know why she came back after I sent her away, but she did. And now I think she's in trouble.”

“All right,” he says in the kind of confident tone that suggests that nothing can go wrong in his world. “I'll take care of it.”

And right then, I am certain that no matter what else happens, Marcy will be okay.

“What are you going to do now?” I ask as we reach the suite of offices behind the reception desk.

On the walk down, Damien had made two calls. The first to the valet stand, letting them know that if they valued their jobs, they would delay bringing up Mr. Jay Monroe's vehicle until Damien said otherwise.

Then he called Ryan, who'd been in the casino gambling with Jamie. “Everything you can find about this guy,” he'd said. “I want it in the next fifteen minutes.”

But I have absolutely no clue what he intends to do next.

“I'm willing to help this woman because you believe her,” he says. “But, Nikki, I don't know her. I've never met her. And she came back to the hotel of her own free will.”

I wince at that, because I cannot imagine why she returned, but I cannot deny the truth of what he says.

“So we're going to get her away from Jay. And we're going to hear her say on her own and without prompting that she wants your help. If she does that, then she has whatever she needs. Fair enough?”

I nod. Because I certainly can't ask more than that. “Except she already tried to leave once, and he must know it. He's never going to let her out of his sight.”

“Oh, I think we can work something out. Come on.”

The hotel has a private reception lounge just past the main entrance where VIP guests can check in and receive concierge services with an elevated amount of pomp, circumstance, and pampering. We go inside, and I pace while Damien issues a series of instructions. Then he takes my arm and we both step behind the counter where one of the clerks is checking in a new guest. Hidden from the guests' view are a series of monitors, including several showing the driveway and valet stand in front of the hotel. It's a customer-service feature that allows VIP guests to rest inside in comfort, confident that one of the clerks will inform them when the valet pulls up with their car or when their limo has arrived.

I have a feeling Damien has something else in mind.

I watch as Marcy stands by her luggage, her shoulders slumped.

A woman rushes by, bumping into her as she tries to roll an overnight case.

Marcy looks up, startled, as the woman grabs hold of her for balance. Then she pulls away and moves on down the drive.

“Wait,” I say. “Can you rewind that?”

“No need,” Damien says. “She slipped Marcy a note.”

“What's it say?”

“When you get inside, use the ladies' room.”

I frown—and I understand why Marcy, who is surreptitiously scanning the note, also looks confused.

“Now this,” Damien says, and we watch as one of the uniformed valet chiefs approaches Jay. “It turns out that Jay's car has a flat tire. Very unfortunate timing,” he says, and I laugh. “So Jay and his companion will be invited to enjoy the hospitality in this VIP lounge while the tire is being changed.”

We watch as Jay and the valet have a heated conversation—well, heated from Jay's side—and then the valet gestures toward the hotel. “That's our cue,” Damien says. “Come on.”

“Our cue?” I ask, but I follow him to the back of the room and into the ladies' lounge.

I lean against the wall and raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

He shrugs. “Trust me.”

I do. And less than two minutes later, Marcy steps through the door, her face flushed, obviously terrified that Jay is going to catch on.

“Nikki!” Her voice is a low, happy whisper, and she gives me a tight hug. “I'm so sorry. Everything you did for me, and I—”

“What happened?” I ask. “Why did you come back?”

She glances at Damien, then at me.

“Marcy, this is my husband, Damien Stark.”

“Oh! Well, thank you, too.”

“Nikki tells me she put you on the road to Texas. How did you end up back here?”

“He called,” she says. “And he said that if I didn't get my fat ass back right that second—that's a direct quote—he'd kill Chester.”

“Chester?” I ask.

“My dog,” she says. “He's a rescued greyhound. Sweetest disposition, and such a hard life. And Jay just tossed that out there like—” She swallows and blinks back tears. “I had to come back.”

“Of course you did,” I say, though I'm secretly wishing that she would have called me. Damien could have easily sent someone to get the dog before Jay got home.

“I need to know if you want to leave again,” Damien says. “I can have someone go get your dog. Make sure he's safe, and then get him to you in Texas.”

“You'd do that?”

“If it's what you want.”

“Yes.” She nods, then takes a deep breath. “He—he hits me. I don't want to ever see him again.”

Damien looks at her, his expression tender. Then he puts a hand on her shoulder. “Done.”

When we follow him back out to the lounge, I can see that Marcy is nervous. But Jay is nowhere to be found.

“Did the car get fixed?” I ask. “Did he leave?”

“He's in one of the offices,” Damien says. “Having a chat with Ryan.”

“Oh.” I nod. “Good.”

“Come on,” he says to Marcy. “Let's try this again.”

This time when her SUV disappears into the lights of the Strip, I don't expect to see her again.

I stand for a moment with Damien's arm around my waist, then I lean against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he says.

He turns me, then kisses my forehead. “Go on back to your room,” he says. “Ryan and I will wrap this up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to make sure he never bothers that girl again.”

I think of Damien, who works out so vigorously, and can still send a tennis ball hurtling over the net at incredible speeds.

And Ryan, with his mixed martial arts background that's only been honed and refined during his years in private security.

I remember around Valentine's Day when someone was threatening Jamie with racy photos. Ryan and Damien had tracked him down and put the fear of god in him. And more than a few bruises on him.

Yeah, I think, they'll handle Jay just fine.

I nod. “Okay,” I say.

He brushes my cheek, then leans over to kiss me, soft and sweet. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he promises, and though I am looking forward to being home with him, I can't deny the weight of sadness that settles over me when I realize that I will not be seeing him tonight.