Deepest Kiss (Stark Trilogy #3.10/Stark Ever After #6) (8 page)

How much Damien is worth?

He wanted to know how much my husband is worth?

Fuck
.

Fuck, fuck,
fuck.

With a wild sweep of my arm, I send the toppled coffee cup flying off the table to crash on the floor. Then I curse aloud, because that accomplished exactly nothing except to make the mess in the kitchen even bigger.

I mutter another curse, then squat on the floor to start collecting the ragged pieces of ceramic, and as I do, I accidentally slice the edge of my thumb, raising a thin line of blood.

I stay there, perched on my heels, staring at the small red beads as they rise against my pale skin. My breath slows, and I feel a low, familiar craving.

I can quell this rawness inside me. I can control it with pain. I can harness it with blood.

If I just cut—just a little—I can pull myself back to center so that I’m not freaking out about all this bullshit.

I can handle it. I can do it.

I can cut—and then I can move on.

Biting my lip, I hold the biggest piece of the mug, imagining that it’s a blade. A perfectly honed razor. I can almost feel the pressure of it against my thigh. The intensity.
The release
.

Just this once, and I’ll be okay.

Just one time, and Damien doesn’t even need to know.

Oh, god, what am I saying?

I look down at the shard in my hand, and then hurl it violently across the room.

No.
No, no, no, no.

That’s not who I am anymore. That’s not how I see myself.

And it sure as hell isn’t how Damien sees me.

Breathing hard, I stand up, then look around for my phone. My first instinct is to call Damien, but once the phone is in my hand, I hesitate. I won’t keep this secret—none of it. And I do need him, always and completely.

But right now, I need to know that I can handle this.
Me
.

I already know without a shadow of a doubt that I can rely on Damien when the urge to cut overwhelms me. Now I need to be just as certain that I can rely on myself.

And that means I need to do this on my own.

I need to go see Frank.

I leave the mess in the kitchen, both because I’m in a hurry and because those crisp white shards are just too damn tempting. I hurry to pull on jeans and a T-shirt. Wyatt invited Frank over at ten-thirty, and it’s already ten-fifteen. I need to get out the door and to Santa Monica quickly if I’m going to catch Frank while he’s still there.

Fortunately, luck is with me, and I make the trek in just under half an hour. I park Coop in front of Wyatt’s studio, burst through the door, and find the two of them standing there chatting like old friends.

“I need to talk to Frank,” I announce. “Alone.”

Wyatt frowns, obviously confused by my tone and demeanor, but he doesn’t press. “No problem. I need to go get the sublease ready anyway,” he says to Frank. “I’ll just be in my office when you guys are done.”

He hurries off, leaving Frank—Dad?—looking at me with curiosity. And, possibly, with dread.

“Is something wrong?”

“Your name isn’t Frank Dunlop,” I say without preamble.

His brows rise up almost to his hairline. “It is,” he says. “It hasn’t always been.”

I lick my lips. “What did it used to be?”

He sighs deeply. “If you’re asking me that, I think you know.”

“Tell me.”

“Leonard,” he says. “Leonard Fairchild. I’m your father, Nikki. And I’ve been trying to find the best way to tell you. Please believe me when I say that this isn’t what I had in mind.”

He moves to sit on the sofa that Wyatt has in the gallery area, then pats the other cushion. I shake my head. Sitting is the last thing I want to do.

“Why ‘Frank’?”

“It’s my middle name. And since you’ll ask, Dunlop is my mother’s maiden name. I started using it right after I left. I wanted distance.”

“From us,” I say, hating that the hurt is so evident in my voice.

“From your mother. Only from your mother.”

“You never came back.”

He sighs, then shakes his head. “No, and I regret every day I stayed away. At first I was waiting for the divorce to be final. Then I was waiting to figure out what to say. Then so much time had passed that I was afraid it would be confusing for you and Ashley. And then it just seemed too damn late.”

“But you came now.”

He nods slowly. “I did. It took me more than twenty-five years, but I finally worked up the courage to come see my daughter.” A hint of a smile touches his lips. “Of course, at first, seeing was all I could manage. I was on the island this past weekend. I saw you. Watched you more than I probably should have. I think I scared you that night in the rain. I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me?”

He chuckles. “I’m a sixty-year-old man,” he says. “That means I’ve clocked a lot of time. It doesn’t mean I’ve learned to control my nerves. Honest answer? I was scared to death.”

“Of what?” My tone is gentle, and I immediately regret it. I want to stay harsh. Businesslike. I want to get to the root of this, not lose myself in sentimentality for a lost father, or affection for a man I’ve taken a liking to.

“Of you. Telling me to leave. Telling me it’s too late. Of you doing to me what you have every right to do and telling me to go to hell. Telling me to walk away now just like I did when you were a baby.”

“If you’re so scared of that, then why come at all?”

“I’ve seen your face a lot over the last few years—hard to avoid, I suppose, since you’re married to a man like Stark. And after a while I knew I had to come. You might send me away, but I had to at least try. I wanted—I wanted to see if you would forgive me. And I wanted to get to know you.”

“And that’s all? Just get to know me?”

“That’s a start.”

“And the finish?” I ask coldly.

He tilts his head to the side, and he’s either a very good actor, or he truly doesn’t understand what I mean.

I decide to just lay it out there. “Mother says you called her.”

“I did. She gave me your cellphone number. I was going to call if you didn’t answer my email requesting an appointment. But you did.” He smiles, but it fades quickly.

“Why did you follow me to the island?”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t follow you, I swear. I’d read about it and wanted to see it. I had no idea you’d be there.”

I force myself to stay on topic. “Why did you ask Mother how much Damien is worth?”

His forehead creases as he shakes his head once more, more slowly this time. “I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me again.”

“Nikki, I swear—why would I? All I have to do is pick up a copy of
Forbes
or get on the Internet.”

I say nothing; he has a point.

“If I were planning to ask you for money, do you really think I would clue your mother in to that fact? That woman is the last person I want in my business.”

“If you don’t want anything, then why did you come?”

His eyes go soft. “I told you. I’m moving to Los Angeles. I want to open a studio here. I want to settle down.”

I lick my lips. “Why here?”

“Because—because I have this crazy idea that maybe I can get to know my daughter. Assuming that she wants to get to know me.”

Tears lump in my throat, and I swallow, trying to hold it together.

“Do you believe me?” he asks. “Please say yes. I’ve done so many things wrong that I’ll own up to. But I don’t want you thinking ill of me for things I didn’t actually do.”

“I believe you,” I say, surprising myself as much as him. But the moment the words are out, I know they’re true. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I really do believe him.

I take a deep breath, then realize I’m feeling a little shaky. He pats the cushion beside him again, and this time I do sit down. Right next to my father.

I grin. Because at least in my memory, this is a first.

I’m about to tell him as much when the studio door bursts open.

“Frank Dunlop, you goddamn—”

I hear Damien’s voice before I see him, and the moment he rounds the corner and we’re in each other’s line of sight, he clamps his mouth closed.

“Nikki,” he says as Ryan and Dallas hurry to stand on either side of him. “Why are you here?”

I don’t know when I got to my feet, but I’m standing awkwardly by the couch. “I figured it out,” I say. “Why he’s so familiar. Probably why seeing him spooked me.” I’m stumbling a bit, wanting to share my good news, but also terribly afraid that the world is about to crash in around me. But I have to tell Damien, and so I draw in a breath, and then blurt it out. “Frank’s my father.”

I can tell immediately that he already knows this. So, for that matter, do Ryan and Dallas.

I glance over my shoulder toward Frank, and then back to Damien. “What’s going on?”

“I searched Frank’s room,” Dallas says.

“You what?” Frank demands, rising to his feet. “What the hell—”

“You shut the fuck up,” Ryan says, and I haven’t seen that much fury in his face since the day he beat the shit out of a man who was blackmailing Jamie.

Suddenly, I have a very bad feeling.

“Damien?” I ask.

Damien nods to Dallas. “Show her.”

Dallas passes me an envelope. I don’t want to look—I really don’t. But of course I do.

There are two photos inside. One is a still from a sex tape with Jamie and our former neighbor, Douglas, taken without Jamie’s permission. The other is a grainy photo of Damien and supermodel Carmela D’Amato. They’re both naked, and Damien’s mouth is on her breast.

I’ve seen these photos before.

I’d hoped to never see them again.

“No,” I say, dropping the photos. “No, he can’t have anything to do with that.”

I’ve seen both these photos before, of course. Just over a year ago, actually, when they were used as part of a failed blackmail scheme. Damien called the blackmailer’s bluff, and the photos never went public.

But what the hell are they doing in my father’s hotel room?

“I don’t understand,” Frank says. He’s hurried to my side, and now he bends to retrieve the photos. “These aren’t mine. I don’t know anything about these.”

The disgust in his voice sounds genuine. I don’t know what to think.

“They were in your hotel room,” Dallas says. “In your suitcase, to be exact.”

“You went through my—”

“You goddamn prick,” Ryan snarls. I remember how Douglas looked after Ryan took a swing at him and step in front of my father.

“He says he didn’t do it.” Behind me, I can practically feel Frank’s relief. In front of me, Damien tilts his head, clearly taking stock. “Please,” I say to him. “He says he didn’t do it.”

“And you believe him?”

Honestly, I’m not sure what to believe. But I can’t turn my father loose with either Ryan or Damien—not until I’m certain.

Damien takes a step toward me, and I realize he’s seen my hesitation.

“Dammit, Damien, stop. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“That’s a lot of proof you tossed onto the floor.”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But maybe there’s another explanation. Please. Please be sure. Be absolutely sure.”

I see the sadness—the compassion—in Damien’s eyes. For just a few glorious moments, I had a father. Flawed, yes, but without an agenda. And I so desperately want to hang on to that.

Maybe those stupid photos will destroy everything. But maybe they won’t. Maybe it’s all a big mistake.

And maybe if I press, I can have just a few more hours of bliss, safe in a world where parents don’t stab their kids in the back, and where people who leave you sometimes really do come home.

“All right,” Damien says slowly, his eyes not on Frank, but on Ryan. I watch him, too, and hold my breath until he nods, quick, but firm.

Damien shifts his attention to Frank. “Do you understand the extent of my resources?”

“I think I have some idea.”

Damien nods, as if satisfied. “Then you must realize that I can find you. You can run. You can try to hide. But it won’t do you any good. Do you believe me?”

Frank nods. My stomach twists.

“Don’t even think of leaving LA. I’ll be in touch. If you have nothing to do with these photos, I’ll owe you one hell of an apology. But if you’re behind that blackmail attempt—if you were planning some brand-new scheme—then I promise that I will destroy you. And not just for the blackmail. But for what your betrayal will do to my wife. Are we clear?”

“We’re clear,” Frank says. And though my eyes are glued to his face, I can’t tell if he’s an innocent man caught up in a web, or if my father is actually the spider in the middle.

“He may be innocent,” Damien says as he leads me back into the house. It’s the first thing either of us has said since we left the studio. I’d needed to sink down into the silence. And, as always, Damien understood that.

Now, though, we’re home. And this is the place where we face reality.

Wait
. I rewind Damien’s words in my head.

“Did you say he might be innocent?”

“It’s possible,” Damien says. He’s left the car in the circular drive rather than the garage, and we came in through the front door, which we rarely do. Now we’re standing in what is essentially a formal living area, rarely used except when we entertain.

I sit down on the overstuffed white sofa we bought a few months ago on a shopping spree. “He is,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”

I’m not sure of it, though. Not really. But I desperately want it to be true.

“I know,” Damien says, and I understand that he means my wish, not my actual words. “But you need to be prepared that he might not be innocent.”

I nod. “If that’s the way it turns out, then I’ll deal. But—”

He kneels in front of me. “What is it, baby?”

I don’t answer him in words. Instead I take his arms and pull him up to me. I need his touch. His kiss. I need to feel now the strength that I may need later. Because if it turns out that my father really is a lying, blackmailing sack of shit, then the only way I’m going to get through that is tight in the circle of Damien’s embrace.

“Please,” I murmur. “Please, Damien. I need you.”

“I’m right here,” he promises. “For now and for always.”

“I know.” My fingers fumble at the buttons on his shirt. “Take this off,” I demand, leaving him to deal with his own damn buttons as I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and peel it off, foregoing the pleasure of Damien undressing me in favor of the wilder, more urgent need to feel skin against skin.

I practically rip my bra off, then shove down my jeans. I wait on the underwear, because Damien is still mostly dressed, and that’s just not good enough for me. I reach for the fly of his slacks, then slide my hand in to cup his erection.

Slowly, I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. I’m breathing hard, and so is he, and right then I want more than just him. I want to be the one in control. I want to be the one who takes him to the edge.

Gently, I ease his cock out from his briefs and pants. He’s still essentially dressed, and I’m mostly naked, and I like the way that feels. A little decadent, a little submissive. I look up again. “Tell me to suck your cock.”

I see the reaction to my words reflected on his face. A wild almost violent passion. “Suck my cock,” he demands, grabbing my hair and urging me forward. “And don’t stop. I want to come in your mouth. I want you to swallow.”

His words, so raw, cut through me, making my sex clench with a longing that won’t be satisfied until I do as he says. I take his cock into my mouth, and even though he’s got a grip on my head, I’m the one in control. My tongue. My lips. I draw him in and out, sucking and teasing, my own pleasure growing as I feel his body tighten.

Then he turns the tables, wresting control away from me by tightening his grip on my hair and holding me in place as he fucks my mouth. It’s not what I’d intended—I wanted to be the one in charge—but that doesn’t matter. He’s taking what he wants, and I fucking love it. Even the hardness. The rawness. The way I can barely breathe. The way that he’s using me, taking what I’ve so willingly given and then—
yes—
exploding in my mouth, his back arching as he cries out and I suck every last drop out of him.

“Oh, baby,” he says, sinking to his knees in front of me. “Holy fuck, Nikki.” He pulls me close and kisses me hard, claiming my mouth once again in a kiss so deep and hot I feel the pull of it all the way between my legs.

I’m breathing hard when we break apart, my need wild and urgent. “My turn,” I demand, my voice firm but breathy.

He nods, then reaches for my panties to tug them off.

“No,” I insist. “Leave them on.”

His brow rises with amusement, but he says nothing, and as I lean back and spread my legs, Damien starts to kiss his way up my inner thighs. His touch is soft. Sensual. And it sends electric shocks through me, so intense I’m surprised I’m not melting.

At first, his touch is gentle, but he becomes more heated—more demanding—as his lips and fingers move higher and higher. When he reaches my lace-covered sex, his fingers slip beneath the elastic and I groan with pleasure as his fingers stroke me—and then gasp in surprised delight when he violently shoves them aside and thrusts his fingers deep inside me, even as his mouth closes over my clit.

He finger-fucks me mercilessly as his tongue teases my clit. I squirm, the sensation almost too much to bear, but Damien takes no pity on me. He grabs my hips and holds me still so I have no choice but to take everything he has to offer because there is no way to escape even the smallest bit of this pleasure that is so acute it is as sharp as pain.

My muscles begin to tremble and electricity courses through me. I feel it in my inner thighs, in my belly. A vibrant, swirling current, like a storm that is building and building—and when my climax finally breaks, I throw my head back and scream, certain that the sensation cutting through me couldn’t be any more potent than if a real storm had released lightning directly into my blood.

I gasp as the trembling subsides, sucking in air as I try to gather myself. I’m exhausted, completely sated, and Damien gently lays me out on the couch, and then joins me, his body pressed against mine as he holds me close.

I close my eyes and tuck my head against his shoulder, warm and satisfied, but still undeniably melancholy. “I don’t want it to be true,” I say, my thoughts returning to Frank.

“I know you don’t. But one way or another, we need to know.”

I nod, then move to sit up as he does the same. “We do,” I agree, stressing the
we
. Because this isn’t just about me. This is about both of us. “Is Ryan working on it right now?”

“He is. Dallas said he would help, too. He took it upon himself to go to Frank’s hotel and sneak into his room. I think he feels responsible.”

“Hardly,” I say. “But I understand the sentiment. How’d he get in, anyway?”

“Seduced one of the maids, apparently.”

I nod; I should have figured that out by myself.

“You should go help them,” I say.

“I will. This isn’t the kind of thing I’m going to leave to my staff. Or my friends. But I don’t have to go now. I’ll be just as useful tomorrow.”

I shake my head. “No. You’re holding back to take care of me, but what I need is answers. Go help them,” I say more firmly. “Get me answers, Damien. And then come back and take me to bed. Either in celebration, or because I’ll need you beside me to help me get through it.”

“I’m always beside you,” he says gently. “Even when I’m far away.”