Release Me (25 page)

He’d been turning toward me when I snapped the picture, and his face fills my screen. His lips are parted with the beginning of a laugh, and the afternoon light is reflected in his eyes. His expression is wide open and he’s completely in the moment. My chest feels heavy with emotion. I’ve seen him smile and laugh and smirk and tease, but only in this captured moment have I truly seen exultation.

I press my fingertips to the computer screen and touch Damien’s face. Damien, so strong and yet so injured.

I think of the scars that mar my body and pull up my feet so that my heels rest on the desk chair. Then I hug my knees tight. Damien may not have taken a knife to his skin, but I know that he’s scarred, too. But when I look at his face—at the euphoria in this image—it’s not the injuries I see, but the man who survived them.

After a few minutes, I hear the bathroom door open and Jamie’s soft footfalls on the carpet. They pause outside my door and I tense, but she doesn’t knock and a few moments later I hear the click of her door. I wait a minute, and then head for the bathroom for a shower. I feel gross, soiled by my friends’ dirty laundry. I want to stand in scalding water and let it wash the grime off me.

I take off my clothes and get in without waiting for the temperature to adjust. At first it’s ice cold, and I want to scream from the shock. Then the heater kicks in and I close my eyes, taking it, wanting to slough off the outer layer of myself.

I squirt some of Jamie’s strawberry scented bodywash into my hand and rub it all over myself, including my inner thighs. I slow down as I feel the raised flesh beneath my fingers.

Damien’s going to see them tonight.

I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about how stupid I’ve been. I’d been planning on turning his little game around on him.
Making the revelation of my scars some sort of triumphant fuck you instead of the reminder of how weak I’ve been. Of how much I let the pain take over.

But I no longer want my scars to be a weapon. I no longer want to risk losing this week with Damien. I’ve lost so much already today.

I stand there in the shower, my shoulders shaking as I cry, and hot tears snake down my cheeks to mix with the scalding water that beats down upon my damaged skin.

I am standing on a cliff, the waves crashing far below me
.

I look down. Damien is there, his arms outstretched, his head back. He’s calling to me. You’re mine, he says. Jump to me. I’ll catch you
.

Jump
,

Just jump
,

Just jump …

I wake with a start as the timer on my phone blares. I’d closed my eyes after my shower intending only to lay in bed for ten minutes. Thankfully I had the foresight to set the timer for an hour just in case. It’s almost five—Damien will be here in just over an hour.

I don’t bother dressing in anything fancy. After all, I’m just going to be taking my clothes off again. I frown and tell myself it will be okay. He won’t want the painting once he learns the truth, but he won’t be cruel. Damien might be ice sometimes, but he’s not cruel.

I pull on jeans and a Universal Studios theme park tank top I bought last year when I’d flown out to visit Jamie. I slide on the flip-flops, check my hair in the mirror, and decide that I look
passable. I’m not wearing makeup, and I feel a bit naked without it. One of those sad truths that annoys me, since I only feel like I need makeup every time I step out into the world because my mother drilled into my head that a woman shouldn’t leave the house without first putting her face on.

Really, Mother?
Because I’m pretty sure that faces aren’t actually removable.

Yet despite my quick dip into the land of sarcastic comebacks, I still bury myself under cosmetics every day of the week. I console myself with the knowledge that most girls do the same. It’s not a mother thing, it’s a feminine unity thing. Or, better, it’s a me thing.

But I’ve done enough pageants and photo shoots to know that artists often like their subjects to start out as blank canvases. So here I sit with a naked face to match my soon-to-be-naked body.

I spend the next half hour at my computer fixing up my resume. I shoot it off to Thom, the headhunter who got me the job with Carl. I include an email explaining the situation so that he understands why I’m looking for a new job after less than a week at the first one. With luck, he won’t decide I’m a problem client and cut me loose. With even more luck, he’ll get some new interviews lined up this week.

I still have a few minutes, so I decide to work on some code. But instead of pulling up my template, I find myself typing Damien’s name into a search engine. I’m not looking for anything in particular. I just want to know more. Instead of satisfying me, the bits and pieces of himself Damien has tossed my direction have only whetted my appetite.

Not surprisingly, I get about as many hits as the man has dollars. His tennis career, his industrial empire, his philanthropic causes. His women. Though I’m still desperately curious about his youth, I can’t fight the compulsion to narrow the search to Damien and the women he’s been photographed with. I click on
the link that shows me images only, then sit back as an array of beauties fill my screen, each on Damien Stark’s sexy but enigmatic arm.

Damien has rarely been photographed with the same woman twice, which matches what he told me. I find one girl and click back to the original source of the image. It’s a celebrity gossip blog, and the woman is identified as Giselle Reynard. When I look closer, I recognize her as Audrey Hepburn with much longer hair. Some of the tension leaves me. I already know that Giselle is married.

There are also a number of pictures that show Damien with a wide-eyed blonde identified as Sara Padgett. Several of the captions reveal that Sara was found asphyxiated. And though none come out and claim that Damien was involved, there are enough hints that I have to wonder if these photos and captions are Sara Padgett’s brother’s doing, and if this is the kind of stuff that Damien is pushing Mr. Maynard to fight.

I press my finger to my monitor and touch Damien’s face, but my eyes are on Sara. Did she kill herself on purpose? Or was she really trying to get off and died accidentally? Either way makes me sad. I’ve felt so lost and helpless that I hurt myself in order to feel real, but I never crossed that line into desiring death. On the contrary, I was trying to find that pulse of life inside me.

I close out the website. I’m already melancholy, and this is not the way to feel better. Instead, I go to YouTube and watch old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire dance clips. I start with “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

Fred is just dipping Ginger when there’s a knock at my door. I shut my laptop, grab my purse, and head for the front of the apartment. Already my pulse has quickened and my body is more aware of the space it’s occupying, as if readying itself to share that space with another human being.

I pause, take a deep breath, and reach for the doorknob.

I tug the door open expecting to see Damien, and am surprised to find Edward. “Oh,” I say. “I thought—”

“Mr. Stark apologizes,” Edward says. “He got held up.”

“I see.” I follow him to the car, each of my steps weighed down with disappointment—and with a rising anger. Not at Damien, but at myself. I’ve been letting myself get lost in girlish fantasies, and I’ve lost sight of the larger picture. I’m something Damien bought, like his hotel or his jet or his car. I’m not his girlfriend or his lover. Not really. I’m simply
his
, and that’s okay because I agreed to it and I’m getting paid for it. But I can’t start thinking that a tantalizing arrangement has some semblance to reality. This is a game to him, and I came in as a willing player, negotiating hard for the terms I wanted.

I got them, too. And I remind myself of that important fact. It may feel as though Damien has all the power, but he doesn’t. I kept a little bit of control—and I’ll walk away with a million.

The grounds are dotted with workmen when we arrive. They’re hauling dirt, planting flowers, clearing rocks. Another crew works on the stone facade on the eastern-facing wall. At least I assume it faces the east. As far as I’m concerned, anything that looks out on the California ocean is west and the opposite is east.

For a moment I fear that there are workmen inside, too, because I never added privacy to my conditions. I assumed that only Damien and the artist would be there. But now, seeing these men …

Surely Damien wouldn’t ask me to stand naked in front of the world?

Don’t be so sure
.

But when Edward opens the door for me and leads me in, I see that my fears are unfounded. The place is silent except for the soft strains of music coming from somewhere in the back.

The house is not yet finished, but the shell is firmly in place. The walls still need painting, the wood needs to be finished. Light fixtures are missing, with only a few dangling wires indicating where they will go. But the grandeur of the home is obvious. The ceilings soar. The floors are stunning, even though I can see only bits and pieces under the protective brown paper. And the marble staircase and twisted iron handrail look like something out of a five-star hotel.

I follow Edward up that staircase, and the change when we step onto the third floor landing is astonishing. There is nothing raw or half-complete about
this
area. The wood floors are polished to a shine, and accented by thick, expensive area rugs. The walls are painted in a pale rose, and I imagine that the space glows at sunset.

The entire room is stunning and inviting. It’s obviously meant for entertaining, despite the fact that the focal point is a giant bed. It’s been put there for my benefit, I’m certain, and I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to stall the blood that is rushing to my sex.

The room appears to be missing a wall, but I quickly realize that the wall is made of glass partitions that have been pushed aside and hidden, like pocket doors taken to the extreme. I step outside and find myself on a stone balcony that looks out over the ocean. It’s closer than I expected considering how twisting and turning our drive was, and I can actually hear the crash of the waves.

“Mr. Stark will be right with you,” Edward says, and then he bows and leaves, and I’m left to explore on my own.

Part of me wants to stay outside and feel the sea breeze on my hair and listen to the ocean crashing beneath me. But I want to see the room. I go back inside and stand by the bed. It is positioned at an angle to the wide-open wall, and in that area sheer drapes have been hung from the ceiling. They flutter now in the breeze. An easel stands a few feet away, and I know that this area
has been staged. For me. I tremble at the thought and run my hand over one of the bedposts. It’s old-fashioned, iron polished to a reflective sheen. Sturdy and yet sensual.
Like Damien
. Strong. As if this bed has demands of its own.

Oh …

The bed has no spread, only blue-gray sheets, rumpled to give it a slept-in quality. I wonder if Damien has slept here and I move to sit on the side facing the ocean. A gust of wind catches the drapes and they blow in, brushing my arms, bare in the souvenir tank top. I close my eyes and lie back, no longer wondering why Damien isn’t here yet. He wants me lost in my thoughts with this bed and this breeze and the gossamer feel of the silky drapes on my skin.

“I like that view.”

I know that voice, and I don’t move. I stay on the bed, but allow a smile to creep onto my face. “Then why don’t you come enjoy it?”

A moment later, I feel the mattress shift. I keep my eyes closed as his thumb strokes my lips, then traces downward between my breasts to the waistband of my jeans. “I told you not to wear underwear,” he whispers.

“I didn’t,” I say.

In the silence, I think I can hear his smile.

I keep my eyes closed as he unbuttons my fly and unzips my jeans. They fit loose, and his hand glides easily inside. My trimmed pubic hair is already damp, and by the time his fingers slide over my vulva, I’m slick with desire, my hips rising off the bed to meet his touch, my clit throbbing with anticipation.

“Mmm,” he whispers, sliding two fingers inside me, the sensations so surprising and arousing I bite my lip to keep from crying out. “And no more jeans. I want you only in skirts. No underwear. A garter if you want stockings. I want you accessible. Anytime, anywhere.”

My sex clenches around his fingers with excitement, and he
moans softly. “God, you’re so responsive.” He pulls his fingers out of me, and I want to whimper from the loss. “Keep your eyes closed,” he says, and then I feel his fingers on my lips. “Suck,” he orders, and I draw his finger inside. It is slick with the taste of me, and I shift on the bed, squeezing my thighs together, sucking hard on him as I try to reach satisfaction.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers free.

“Damien,” I whisper.

“Mine,” he whispers, the word telling me everything I need to know. I’ll come when he’s ready for me to. The knowledge is arousing in itself—and damn frustrating, too.

I feel the press of his mouth against my breast. He sucks me through the tank top, and I arch up to meet him, then cry out when his teeth nip at my tender nipple. My eyes fly open and I find Damien Stark grinning playfully down at me. “Well, hello. I take it you like the bed?”

I sit up, trying to present a prim and calm facade. “Is it yours?”

“No,” he says. “Not the way you mean. It’s for the portrait. And this week. That means it’s yours, I suppose.” His eyes skim over me, and I shiver under his inspection. “Or ours.”

I swallow. “Well, you’ve staged a lovely room. I’m sure the portrait will be wonderful. When is the artist getting here?”

“He’s already here,” Damien says, then laughs when my eyes go wide with horror. “Don’t worry, he’s in the kitchen. I don’t do public sex.” He nips my ear. “I do everything else, though,” he whispers, and I feel my body flush as I wonder just what “everything else” could mean.

“Blaine,” he calls. “Why don’t you bring your coffee in here.”

“Blaine?” I ask. “I thought you didn’t care for his work.”