Play My Game (6 page)

His kisses have reached the base of my spine and now he uses his hands to silently urge my legs apart. He strokes me, teasing my clit with a single fingertip but not slipping inside me despite the way I wiggle my hips, my soft moans of longing coming even without conscious thought.

“Turn around,” he demands, and when I do, he lifts me up so that my thighs are resting on his hips. He holds me steady by cupping my ass, and I arch back as he thrusts into me, the back of my head brushing the glass wall as I do.

I clutch his shoulders, my fingernails digging into him as he thrusts again, the movement pushing my back against the window so that I am pinned there between him and the glass. Unlike a bed, there is no give, and I feel the power of each of his thrusts, so deep and hard that it seems as if he will split me in two, and oh, god, how I want that.

I close my eyes and give myself over to the pleasure of his touch, of his power. I want him to take me, to have me. Maybe the world outside is going crazy, but in here, I am his.

I am always his.

And between us, the world is exactly as we want it.

Tension fills his body, then bursts out of him as a powerful orgasm rocks him. I hold on, letting his release roll through me, relishing the way he looks and feels when he loses control, all barriers down, all control surrendered to me, to this moment.

“I love you,” I cry as my own release takes me, and I cling to him until the waves of passion slow and I can breathe normally again.

“I know,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “We love each other.”

Gently, he cleans me up, then we curl up together on the couch, a blanket draped over us as we look out over the city in the distance.

“You know that there’s nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice to keep you safe,” he says. “Nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy.”

“I know,” I say. “But don’t do it, Damien. Don’t pay. The thought of you paying extortion money makes me ill, especially if you think you’re doing it for me.”

“I’ve done it before.”

I shake my head. I know he’s thinking of Eric Padgett, the man who’d claimed that Damien was involved in his sister’s death. “That was a settlement,” I say. “And I may not be a god of all things business like you, but even I know that businesses and people pay money to settle for a whole lot of reasons, and that doesn’t make it extortion. It just means that they made a business decision and their reason won out.”

He looks at me, as if trying to read something in my expression. “I have a reason to pay to keep those pictures out of the press,” he finally says.

“No, you don’t.” I cup his face. “Do you think I don’t understand what it would cost you to pay? To give in to this bullshit?” I hold his gaze hard, because I do understand, and I want to make sure he realizes that.

“For better or for worse, Damien, remember? Those wonderful wedding vows. And honestly,” I quip, “how bad could it be? Half the women in America are already jealous of me. Once they see that picture of you, the other half will be, too.”

He is quiet for a long time, and when he speaks, his voice is both soft and urgent. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.” And I
am
sure. I can survive those pictures being out there, and so can Damien. But if he gives in to whoever is yanking our chain, he will not only be sacrificing his own principles on my account, but he will start to slide down a horrible, slippery slope. “I’m certain,” I repeat, just to make sure he understands.

His eyes never leave my face. I hold his gaze, understanding that he is trying to see if my words match my truth.

Finally, he nods. Just once. And then he bends over and kisses me lightly. “You’re amazing. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” I say airily. “But feel free to tell me as often as you want. And honestly, I’m pretty fond of you, too,” I add, reciting back the words from the clue that had come with the cupcake.

It’s when I say them out loud that something shifts in my mind.

Fond of you.

Fond you.

Fondue.

I toss the blanket off us and start to stand up. Damien takes my hand. “Where are you going?”

“We,” I correct. “Where are
we
going?”

“Oh?”

“I think we should have an early dinner,” I tell him. “At Le Caquelon.”

Damien is deliberately closemouthed, but as we take the elevator up to Le Caquelon, the Santa Monica–based fondue restaurant, I know that I’m right, just as I’d been right about the cupcakes. I’d had to wait for the proper moment, but I’d been right.

Hopefully the proper moment for Le Caquelon isn’t tomorrow night.

Still, even if it is, we’ll have had a lovely dinner tonight, not to mention visiting another stop on our own personal memory lane.

That’s what Damien is doing, of course. Each clue leads to something or someplace that has meaning for us. The bakery where we got our wedding cake. This restaurant, where he took me after Blaine finished painting the portrait of me that hangs on the third floor and where we had our pre-wedding party.

I wonder what the next clue will be, and as I think back over the richness of our time together, I can’t help but acknowledge that there is a wealth of possibilities.

“Smiling, Mrs. Stark?”

“I like your game,” I admit.

He doesn’t have time to answer before the elevator doors open, but I see his smile of pleasure as he takes my arm and leads me to the stunning aquarium that serves as a maître d’ station.

The hostess, Monica, beams at us, her multicolored hair complementing the wild colors that fill this space. “Mr. and Mrs. Stark, it’s so wonderful to see you again. I have your booth ready, so if you’ll just follow me.”

“Our booth?” It occurs to me that Damien assumed I would make it this far tonight and has planned ahead. He, however, says nothing.

The booth that Monica leads us to is, in fact,
our
booth. It’s the very one that Damien brought me to the night that Blaine finished my portrait. And I happen to know that it is very well soundproofed.

These private dining areas are set up like tiny rooms. Each is a booth, with walls at the diners’ backs and a door at one end of the table and a window overlooking the ocean at the other. Access is controlled by a red light/green light system, and when the red light is engaged, privacy is ensured.

The area is not entirely a booth, though. If you slide all the way through, there is a small space between the table and the window that is sufficient for standing. I look at it now, remembering the way it felt to be pressed up against that glass with Damien’s hands upon me.

I shiver slightly, and when Damien’s hand presses lightly against the small of my back, I am certain that he knows exactly what I am thinking.

I tilt my head up to look at him. “Even if I’m wrong and there’s no clue here, it’s worth it just to be back.”

His smile is soft with silent agreement, but I can’t tell from his expression if this really is the right answer to the clue, and I resign myself to taking it in stride and simply going with the flow of the game. If this is where the next clue is hidden, sooner or later that will be obvious.

And if it’s not?

Well, I’ll just have to keep trying.

I slide into the booth, and Damien settles beside me. Monica tells us that the owner, Damien’s childhood friend Alaine Beauchene, isn’t on the premises tonight, but that he has taken the liberty of ordering for us, if that’s okay.

It is, of course, and when our waiter returns with the wine Alaine selected, I take a sip and sigh with pleasure.

The tabletop is also a cook surface, and soon enough it is topped with a pretty copper fondue bowl filled with melted cheese, the delicious scent of which fills the room and makes me realize just how hungry I am.

Damien spears a cube of bread and dips it in the cheese, then blows on it before feeding it to me.

I am at his side, our legs touching, because I do not think that it is possible for me to be so close to Damien and not touch him. I shift a bit though, so that I am facing him more directly, and we touch and talk and eat, with Damien feeding both himself and me.

As we finish the cheese and move on to cubes of steak and pork in a fragrant port sauce, he tells me about the progress on Stark Plaza, a Century City office and retail complex that Stark Real Estate Development is working on. I fill him in on my progress with several apps I have in development, and with the details about a tech conference I’m hoping to attend in the summer.

The talk of trips reminds him that he may need to travel to New York soon to meet with the new production manager at one of his subsidiaries, and he promises that if I take the time to go with him, he’ll take me to at least one Broadway play.

I let him know in no uncertain terms that I will travel anywhere with him, play or no, and then give him the general rundown on my to-do list, most of which can be done on the road with a laptop.

It’s comfortable. It’s normal.

Hell, it’s even married—and I love this cozy familiarity and affection.

But none of it is bringing me any closer to figuring out what the next clue is, though I am absolutely certain that it is hidden here somewhere. All I have to do is figure out where.

My frustration has spiked by the time the waiter clears the table of the main course, and I decide that it’s time to get more aggressive in my search. I slide down and look under the table, then hear Damien’s amused, “Now, that has all sorts of interesting possibilities.”

“I’m checking for a hidden package,” I confess as I scan the area for envelopes taped to the bottom of the table.

“I’m not saying a word,” Damien says, and as I ease back out from under the table, I see the way his mouth twitches with amusement.

I roll my eyes, realizing my unintended double entendre, then cup my hand over his crotch. “Well,
this
package isn’t hidden at all,” I say, and am rewarded by the sensation of his cock hardening beneath the press of my hand.

My body warms with familiar longing, and when I see the corresponding heat in Damien’s eyes, I think that perhaps this booth should be put to better use than eating and chatting. I’m about to follow up on that thought and switch the booth’s light from green to red, when there is a tap at the door and it slides open.

“Can I offer you dessert?” Monica asks.

I look at Damien. Right then, he’s the only dessert I want. “No, thanks,” I say, even as Damien says, “Yes, definitely.”

I narrow my eyes, then look between him and Monica, realizing as I do that Monica is not our server. For that matter, she’s not a server at all.

“Yes,” I amend. “I think I’d enjoy dessert.”

“I’m so happy to hear it.”

She hands us each a dessert menu, then slips away. I open mine, unsurprised to see that the usual text has been replaced with a single piece of parchment on which the third clue is set out in fancy script:

Paul Simon, Beyoncé, the Beatles, too.

They’d all see it when looking at you.

Fire and ice, brilliance and flame,

I’ll dress you up to solve the game.

I read it twice, then shift in my seat to gape at him. “Are you kidding me?”

His expression is entirely too innocent. “Problem?”

I wave the menu. “I don’t have a clue what this means.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” He takes a sip of his wine. “I was looking forward to you finding your present.”

I scowl, but study the words again. Singers, but what did they have in common? And it says they would see it. But see what?

I have no idea, and so I move on. Fire and ice. Brilliance. Flame.

All of that seems very familiar, and I’m regretting my choice to have wine with dinner, because apparently I need a clear head to figure this out.

I’ll dress you up.

What do you do when you dress up? Fancy clothes, fancy shoes. I close my eyes and imagine I’m in our monstrosity of a dressing room. Makeup. Hair.

Jewelry.

I smile because now, the singers make sense, too. Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes.” Beyoncé and “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” And, of course, “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” courtesy of the Beatles.

Ha!
Nailed it.

I turn to him, certain that victory is written all over my face.

“Yes?”

I hold out my hand. “I need your car keys and your phone.”

At that, he looks baffled, but he complies.

“What about the clue?” he asks.

“Oh, I solved that.” I’m certain of it. But I’m not willing to tell Damien just yet. Because I’m enjoying this game too much. So much, in fact, that it’s inspired a little Valentine’s Day game of my own.

I scroll through his contacts until I find Edward. I could have used my own phone, but I’m going for dramatic flair here.

“Mr. Stark,” Edward says, answering on the first ring.

“It’s Nikki,” I correct. “But it’s Mr. Stark who needs you. He’s at Le Caquelon, and needs a ride home as soon as you can get here.”

“Of course, Mrs. Stark. I’m on my way.”

I thank him, then hang up and give Damien back his phone.

“I need a ride home?”

“You do.” I dangle his keys. “I’ll meet you there.”

His eyes narrow. “What exactly do you think you’ve figured out?”

“The clue,” I say. I’m absolutely positive that whatever my present is, it’s in our closet in one of the velvet-lined drawers that Damien had custom made for all the jewelry he buys me. Specifically, the drawer on the top left where I keep the diamond jewelry.

“And we’re going home separately because …?”

But at that, I only smile, then kiss him lightly even as I slide my hand down between his legs, stroking his now-stiff cock. “I’ll see you at home, Mr. Stark.”

And then I’m gone, leaving behind one very baffled husband.

We drove into town in the Jeep Grand Cherokee, and though it is the easiest car for me to drive, I wish we’d brought the Bugatti. Right now, I want speed, because I’m racing to get home before Edward gets on the road with Damien.