Stark After Dark (7 page)

The neckline and the hem and the lower line of the bodice are embroidered with tiny flowers accented with pearls, giving the pure white dress a touch of the whimsical. I think it's an exceptional dress, and I cannot wait for Damien to see me in it.

I glance over at my mother, expecting to see approval in her eyes. I should have known better.

“Well,” she says with a sniff, “I suppose this is to be expected, considering your choice of flowers and cake.”

“I—” I snap my mouth shut. I have no idea what to say. No idea what insult to hurl that will cut her as deeply as she is cutting me, each word like a new wound.

All I want is one tiny crumb from my mother. Approval, compassion, respect. But there is nothing there, and there never has been.

And yet I have been foolish enough to let that flame of hope keep burning. God, I'm an idiot.

I turn away so as to not let her see that my eyes are bright with tears.

“A longer train,” she says. “And a fuller skirt. This is one of the few times you can completely hide those hips, Nichole. You should take advantage of it.”

I cringe, wanting to scream at her that just because I'm no longer a size four does not mean that I have to start wearing caftans. I'm young, I'm healthy, I'm pretty, and if she's too goddamn stupid to see that—

My wild thoughts are interrupted by the door to the back room bursting open and a tall red-haired woman hurrying in.

“Nikki,” she says, holding out her hand. “I'm Alyssa.”

I start to hold my hand out as well, only to discover that I've clenched it so tight that I've left indentations from my nails in my palms. I flex it, then extend it to her. “Is there a problem?”

“I'm afraid so,” she says. “This is terribly embarrassing, but your dress is missing.”

“Missing,” I repeat stupidly.

“We hope it's just a clerical error in customs, and we're doing everything we can.” I halfway tune her out, still stuck on that one word:
missing
. My dress is missing.

“…have been other shops with items missing…”

What the hell am I going to do? This is my dress. My
wedding
dress. I mean, I can't just run to Target.

“…customs or the shipper, but we're looking into it, and…”

And it's not even just a wedding dress. It's the dress I bought during my trip to Europe with Damien. It's the dress we bought during our days and nights in Paris. The dress made by the designer who assured Damien that he would go faint with awe when he saw me in the gown. This is not a dress I can lose, nor is it a dress I can replace, and I can feel the panic, the anger, the futility rising inside me.

One goddamn thing after another, and I can't even lash out. Because it's not this poor girl's fault—hell, she's mortified, too. But everything is just piling on: the photographer and the music and the flowers. Those goddamn flowers that my mother has been talking about for the last hour.

“Ms. Fairchild?” Alyssa says, her voice ripe with concern. Her fingers brush over my arm, and I use the touch as an anchor to draw me out of my thoughts and back to reality. “Ms. Fairchild, are you okay?”

“She's fine,” my mother says firmly. “This can only be considered a good thing. It gives her a chance to find a dress that might actually flatter her figure.”

Alyssa's eyes are wide, and she's staring at my mother like she's never met such a creature before. Hell, she probably hasn't.

“Come on, Nichole. This is Beverly Hills. I'm sure we can find you a gown.”

“Get the hell out of here.” I did not plan the words, but I know the moment that they are out that I mean them with all my heart.

“Excuse me?”

“Texas,” I say. “Go back to Texas, Mother. Go now.”

“Texas! But, Nichole, how—”

“It's
Nikki,
” I snap. “How many times do I have to tell you? You don't listen.”

Beside us, I see Alyssa lick her lips and then fade into the background. At the glass desk, the thin girl seems overly interested in the single piece of paper on the surface.

I really don't give a shit. Right then, decorum is the last thing on my mind.

“I can't possibly go to Texas now. I'd miss the wedding.”

“That's the idea,” I say. “I'll have Grayson fly you. You'll need to leave today so that he can be back in plenty of time. He is invited,” I add, my voice syrupy sweet.

“Darling, I'm your mother. You can't ask me not to be at your wedding.”

I hesitate for just a moment, just long enough to hear Damien's voice in my head talking about choices and paths and where they lead. And this choice leads to my wedding day. To a day of celebration. Or to a day with my mother harping in my ear. The woman who has, in so many ways, gone out of her way to steal the joy out of so many moments in my life.

“Nichole, don't do this. I need—” She cuts herself off, her lips clamping tightly shut.

I take a deep breath, suddenly realizing that I've been more of an idiot than I thought. My mother didn't come here because my impending wedding spurred her to repair our relationship. And she didn't come because she wanted to apologize for the horrible things she said to Damien.

She came because she spent every dime our family had a long time ago, and she sees a new cash cow in me. I don't know what it is she needs—a new house, a new car, investment capital. I don't know, and I don't care. She's not getting a dime of my money, and she's sure as hell not getting Damien's.

“Goodbye, Mother.”

“Nichole, no. You can't do this.”

“You know what, Mother? I can.” I head for the door, my heart feeling lighter and my step springier. I glance back at her and smile. “And for that matter, why don't you go ahead and find your own way home?”

“You're amazing,” Damien says that night when I tell him what I did. “You once told me that you didn't have the balls to stand up to your mother.” We're in the swimming-pool-size bathtub, facing each other, our legs touching.

“I still don't have balls,” I say with a laugh.

“Sure you do.” He reaches for my hand and tugs me toward him, then very deliberately cups my hand over his package. “These are all yours.”

“Damn straight,” I say, then capture his mouth in a kiss.

His arms go around me and he pulls me close, until I have no choice but to straddle him if I want to sit in any sort of comfortable position.

Not that straddling Damien is a hardship, especially when his erection is rubbing against my folds in a way that is very effectively taking my mind off the day's drama.

“I'm proud of you,” he says, trapping me in the circle of his arms.

“I'm proud of me, too,” I say. “I took control of the situation. I decided what I wanted for this wedding, and I did what had to be done.” I kiss him. “I think I'm going to make a habit of going after the things I want.”

“Haven't you always?”

I press a finger over his lips. “That's not the point.”

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” I say, reaching between us to cup my hand around his erection. Slowly, I stroke the length of him. “Taking control can be very rewarding,” I say.

“Oh, yes.” His voice sounds raw.

“Something wrong, Mr. Stark?” I ask innocently. “You seem distracted.”

“On the contrary,” he says. “I'm very focused. Very aware.”

“Are you?” I increase the pressure on his cock, then tease the tip with my thumb.

He sucks in air, and I see the shudder cut through him and the heat in his eyes.

He looks at me, and I smile, slow and easy and with all sorts of promise.

“Kiss me,” he says. “Ride me.”

Now it's my turn to shudder in anticipation. I rise up, capturing his mouth in a kiss that is hot and deep and demanding. His tongue wars with mine, thrusting and teasing. I lower myself onto his cock and ride him, lifting myself up and down in a frantic rhythm that sends water sloshing around the tub.

Over and over, deeper and deeper, until I have no choice but to break the kiss, because I have to arch back simply from the weight of the pleasure that is shooting through me.

When I do, his mouth closes over my breast, and his teeth nip at me, the pain sending hot wires of pleasure down through my body to my cunt, to that deep place inside me that he's touching, thrusting against with every stroke, building a delicious pressure that grows and grows until finally we explode together, sending water flying out of the tub and me collapsing back against Damien's chest in utter satisfaction and release.

We stay that way until we fear that we will shrivel in the tub, then Damien lifts me out, dries me off, and carries me to the bed, tucking me gently under the cool sheets.

“You haven't told me what you're doing about your dress,” Damien says moments later as we twine together in the bed, half drifting off to sleep.

“I went back inside after Mother left,” I tell him. “It's not perfect, but they had a dress that was my size in the back.”

“Do you like it?”

I shrug. The truth is that it's a lovely dress that any bride would be thrilled with. But it's not
my
dress, and what girl is happy with sloppy seconds?

“I'm sorry, baby,” he says, kissing my bare shoulder.

“It's okay, really. I promise you'll think I'm stunning.”

“I always do.”

I smile, and I'm still smiling as I start to drift off. I'm just about to slide into the sweet oblivion of sleep when I remember one other thing. “You still awake? I have a brilliant idea.”

“I'm always awake for brilliance,” he says.

“I got the idea from those tweets of us from Raven.”

“Us?”

“Us girls,” I clarify.

“Uh-huh. If this is about inviting the Raven men to the wedding, I'm going to exercise my veto power.”

“Very funny. No, I was thinking about our photographer problem. I know I told you I wanted to make sure we had wedding portraits, but we can sit for a portrait anytime. Besides, I want to remember the day, not a pose. And I was thinking that we could do the same thing all those folks did in tweets.”

“Which is?”

“Candid shots. We give each guest a camera as a wedding souvenir. And then we have them drop the memory cards in a bowl before they leave. We'll get a ton of fabulous pictures of our friends, us, dancing, eating. They won't be professional, but they'll be fun. And they'll be
us
. And not the kind of tacky pictures that the paparazzi will snap from the beach. What do you think?”

“I think you're brilliant,” he says. “Brilliant and beautiful. And I cannot wait to be your husband.”

I smile in contentment and love. “Me, either,” I say, and then, finally, I close my eyes, snuggle closer to Damien, and let sleep tug me under.

Damien is already gone when I wake up on Friday. He's left word with Grayson that he has some business to attend to before we leave on our honeymoon and that he will either be at the office or looking at various properties with Mr. Black.

I put a waffle in the toaster—which pretty much sums up my culinary skills—and eat it without syrup on the patio while I make some morning phone calls. The first one is to Sylvia, and I explain my plan about the cameras. She thinks it's brilliant, and swears that she has plenty of time to handle it.

“I'll make sure they're delivered by morning. Seriously, Nikki, don't worry about it. Rest a little today. You deserve it. And you'll need it for your honeymoon.”

I roll my eyes, but since she's right, I don't argue. Instead, I actually do the delegation thing and email her the names of three bands I auditioned, liked, but rejected. It's not a perfect solution, but it is a low-stress one. She promises to call them, see who's still available, and to pick the best one.

I thank her and sign off, then try to decide on the appropriate form of pre-wedding relaxation. I actually managed to finish Damien's scrapbook last night, so that's out. And while my own work has been stacking up, somehow the idea of getting on to the computer and programming just doesn't appeal.

About the only thing that does, actually, is a walk along the beach. And since I don't want to go alone, I head downstairs to the first-floor guest suite, knock, and then head into Jamie's darkened room.

Normally, I'd let her sleep. But since this is my last day as a single best friend, I figure an exception is in order. I pull the covers back and give her a little shake.

“Mmm, Ryan…”

I lift my brows, because that's a very interesting development, but Jamie doesn't indulge me by talking in her sleep again. Instead, she bolts upright, springing awake.

“Holy fuck, Nikki,” she screeches. “What the hell are you doing?”

I shrug. “Wanna take a walk on the beach?”

Fortunately, Jamie is easygoing. She shoots me a couple of dirty looks for good measure, throws in a curse, but gets dressed. We're down at the beach within fifteen minutes.

“So, do you have anything to tell me?” I ask.

She stares at me like I'm a loon. “The moon isn't made of green cheese. Masturbation doesn't make you go blind. Jethro Tull is a band, not a guy. How do those work for you?”

“Not bad,” I say. “I was thinking more along the lines of Ryan.”

She slows her step. “What about him?”

“Ever since Damien had him take you home that time, you've had this thing.”

I expect her to deny it. Instead, she shrugs. “So?”

“So there really is a thing?”

“Not as far as he's concerned,” she says, her tone frustrated. “As far as I can tell, I'm invisible to him.”

I hook my arm through hers. “I can't imagine you being invisible to anyone.”

“I know, right? I mean, what's up with that?”

I laugh. “So what are you going to do?”

“About Ryan?”

“About you.”

She slows her pace. “I don't know. I didn't get that commercial that Caleb is directing, but it felt nice doing the audition thing again. But I don't want to get back on the same hamster wheel, you know? And I'm—” She glances at me, then clams up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“James…”

“Fine. Whatever. It's just that everything changes with you getting married.”

“I'm still your best friend.” I stop walking, and tug her to a stop, too.

“Well, duh,” she says, in a way that sends a shock of relief running through me. “I just mean that I don't think I'd do that great living by myself. In case you hadn't noticed, I have a tendency to run a little wild. And you're off the roommate market. I thought about living with Ollie, but that might be weird.”

“Ya think?”

She waves a hand. “Nah, that's over,” she says, referring to their romps between the sheets. “But it still might be weird. Where is he, anyway? He's coming to the wedding, right?”

“He's supposed to be at the dinner tonight.” Since we're not doing a big wedding, we're not having an official rehearsal dinner. But we are getting a whole slew of our friends together. “He's been in New York. Depositions, I think he said.”

“And Damien's cool with him coming tonight?”

“Like you said, it might be weird, but on the whole it's okay. They aren't ever going to call each other up to go have a beer at the corner pub, but I think we can manage the occasional dinner and social event.”

“Good.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Change sucks.”

I think about the changes in my life since Damien entered it, and the ones that are coming. A wedding. Hopefully a family. I smile, then start walking again, tugging Jamie along beside me. “No,” I say firmly. “You'll see. Change doesn't have to suck at all.”

Le Caquelon in Santa Monica is closed tonight for our private party. Alaine, Damien's childhood friend and best man, owns the fondue-style restaurant, and has graciously offered it for this evening's party.

I love the place, with its funky decor and wild colors. The last time I was here, Damien and I shared a very private booth. Tonight, everyone is gathered in the main restaurant. We are laughing, talking, and toasting. And, of course, indulging in the various fondue pots that Alaine has scattered throughout.

He has turned off the restaurant's normal New Age music in favor of piping Rat Pack tunes from the speakers. Apparently he is aware that Damien and I share a love of Sinatra, Dean Martin, and the rest.

I smile at Damien, who is talking to Ollie and Evan across the room. He leaves them, then strides to me and pulls me close, easing me around the makeshift dance floor before dipping me, much to the amusement of the other guests. “I am a genius,” he says.

“So I've been told.”

“I also own a stereo,” he adds.

“This is also a fact that I'm aware of. I assume there's some sort of connection coming.”

He points to the speakers. “We don't need a band tomorrow. We just need a DJ.”

I gape at him. “You are a genius. Except I already told Sylvia to hire a band.”

“She didn't have the heart to tell you, but they've all been booked.” He leans closer, nips my earlobe, then whispers, “I think you may be exhibiting signs of stress. My assistant was trying to protect you. I can't say I blame her.”

I laugh and push him away, then immediately pull him back into my arms. “You're in a good mood.”

“Of course I am. Haven't you heard? I'm getting married tomorrow.”

“Lucky man,” I say.

“Very,” he replies, and the intensity of his gaze acts like an underscore to the word.

“I have something for you,” I say, tugging him to the far side of the restaurant where all the women have piled our purses. I had brought a huge tote, and now I pull out the present wrapped in silver paper.

He takes it, his expression so much like a boy on Christmas morning that I laugh with delight. “Go ahead,” I urge.

He peels off the paper, studies the book, then slowly opens it. I know the first image he sees—a snapshot of the two of us in Texas six years ago. It was an offhand shot by a local news reporter and it never even made the paper. I lucked into it after a call to the paper's morgue. “Nikki,” he says, and there is awe in his voice. He flips through the pages, and the love I see in his eyes makes my knees go weak.

I watch as he examines every page, every memory. When he is finished, he closes the book with reverence, sets it gently on the table, and then pulls me close. “Thank you,” he says, those two words holding a lifetime of emotion.

He kisses me gently, then leads me back to the crowd. “I have a gift for you, as well,” he says, then looks at his watch. “I need about fifteen more minutes.”

My brow furrows as I wonder what he could be up to, but I nod. “That gives me plenty of time to make the circuit and eat more chocolate. Come with?”

“Of course,” he says, then follows me to the chocolate fondue station. Alaine is there, and we chat for a while. Then Alaine and Damien go off to talk with Blaine and Evelyn. Since I have something to ask Evelyn, I almost follow them, but Ollie approaches, and I pause to give him a hug.

“Hey, deposition guy. How goes the wild and woolly world of civil litigation?”

“Wild and woolly,” he replies with a grin. “And over. At least for a few weeks.” He waves to Charles Maynard, his boss, then leads me into a corner. “Charles asked if I wanted a transfer back to New York.”

“Really? Why?”

“Courtney, I think. I asked for the transfer to LA originally to be closer to her. Now that we're not a couple…” He trails off.