Take Me: A Stark E-Novella (6 page)

“That’s why I’m here,” Mother adds, her tone entirely reasonable. “My daughter knows she has no self-control about things that are bad for her—
cakes, candy, men,
” she adds in a stage whisper. “I’ve always been there to help her keep her eye on the prize.”

“I see,” Sally says, and I have a feeling she sees more than my mother wants.

As for me, even from the depths of this well into which I’ve fallen, I am seething. I want to leap out of my chair and tell my mother that she’s never helped me, she’s only manipulated me. That she’s not interested in what I want, but only what I look like and how I act and if I’m presenting an image that stands up to the Fairchild name—a name that’s not worth what it used to be since she took over—and decimated—the oil business that she inherited when my grandfather passed away.

I want to say all of that, but I don’t. I just sit there, my plastic smile on my face, hating myself for not moving. For not telling her to get the hell back to Texas.

But what I hate even more is the fact that I’m now clutching the second fork in my hand, and it’s under the table, and the tines are pressing hard into my leg through the thin material of my skirt. I don’t want to—I know I need to stop, to stand up, to simply get the hell out of there if that’s what it takes—but whatever strength has been building in me over the last few months has scattered like dandelion fluff under the assault of a ferocious wind.

“Nikki,” Sally begins, and I can’t tell if the concern in her voice is because of my mother’s speech or if she sees some hint of my struggle on my face. It doesn’t matter, though, because her words are cut off by the electronic door chime.

I look up, then draw in a breath. The tunnel disappears and my vision returns. The fork tumbles from my hand to the floor, and I realize I’ve stood up.

It’s Damien—and he is moving like a bullet toward me.

I head around the table, unconcerned about anything else. He stops in front of me, his face hard, his eyes warm but worried. “Turns out I could work the cake thing into my schedule, after all.”

I try not to smile, but the corners of my mouth twitch, and I feel tears of relief prick my eyes. “I’m glad.”

He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “You okay?”

“I’m perfect,” I say. “At least, I am now.”

The worry fades from his eyes, and I know that he believes me. He takes my hand, then turns to face my mother. “Mrs. Fairchild. What a pleasant surprise,” he says, in the kind of overly polite voice that suggests there’s nothing remotely pleasant about this particular surprise.

“Mr. Stark—Damien—I—” She stops abruptly, and I am amused. My mother is very rarely rendered speechless, but the last time she and Damien met he sent her away, effectively getting rid of her by flying her back to Texas on one of his jets. And that was before she’d said the variety of nasty things she’s since uttered about the two of us. I have to wonder if she doesn’t now fear that her ride out of California this go-round will be significantly less pleasant.

Damien, however, is the picture of cultured politeness. “It was so kind of you to come with Nikki today. I think we both know how valuable your opinion is to her.” My mother’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I can tell that she wants to reply, to lash out with the sweet sting of words that she’d want to cut him as deeply as a blade has cut me, but they clearly don’t come. I’m not surprised. My mother is formidable, but Damien is more so.

Her expression shifts from consternation to surprise when Jamie bursts into the bakery like a tornado. “I’m here! I’m here! Big ticky mark for the maid of honor!”

For a moment I think that she really is here simply because she promised me she’d try to make it to Love Bites on time. But when I see that it is not me she looks to first, but Damien, I realize that he called her—and that she is part of the cavalry, too.

A moment later, Ryan Hunter, Damien’s head of security, hurries inside as well, only to stop short when he sees Damien, then fall back toward the door, his eyes on my mother, as if she is a bomb about to go off. Laughter bubbles in my throat. I never felt loved by my mother. Damien not only makes me feel loved, but also cherished and protected and safe.

I understand what has happened, of course. Tony called Damien. Since Damien was in Palm Springs, he called both Jamie and Ryan in order to ensure there was someone with me to run interference. I squeeze his hand, then mouth,
Thank you.
The words are simple; the emotion is not.

He squeezes back, but his attention is focused on my mother. I look toward her, too, and as I do I realize that Sally has gracefully exited, leaving the drama of the showroom for the relative calm of the kitchen.

Damien’s voice is firm as he addresses my mother. “Between Jamie and me, I think we have it covered. I’m sure you have unpacking to do. Why don’t you let my security chief drive you to the hotel?”

“Don’t be silly,” my mother says. “I’m happy to stay.” She smiles at me, and my stomach curls. “I want to spend time with my daughter.”

“Awesome,” Jamie says. “Today’s her bachelorette party.” She glances at her watch. “In fact we’re supposed to meet the others girls at Raven in about half an hour. It’s a strip club,” she adds in a stage whisper. “It’s going to be awesome. Wanna come?”

My mother goggles at her, and it takes all my power not to laugh. I know Jamie is joking—I specifically told her I didn’t want to do the bachelorette thing—but in this moment it would almost be worth going through with it.

“Um, no. Thank you. I—” Her eyes cut to Damien. “I suppose I should get settled.”

“I keep a suite at the Century Plaza hotel,” Damien says. “I insist you stay there.”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

He doesn’t say what I know he is thinking—
You’ve already been that
. Instead, he graces her with his most formal corporate smile. “No trouble at all. In fact, your car is already there. You’re all checked in.”

I see the confusion on Jamie’s face—
she’s
been staying at the Century Plaza suite.

“Oh. I see. Well, then.” My mother turns her attention to me. “I’ll go with you tomorrow to the dress fitting,” she says, and I remember with regret that I’d nervously prattled off my schedule for the week as I drove us from Malibu to Beverly Hills.

“Sure,” I say, though what I really want is to scream that there is no way in hell I want her in my head as I try on my wedding dress. “That would be great.”

Damien is looking at me questioningly, and I shrug in reply. Part of me wants him to step in and send her packing. But she
is
my mother, and another part of me—the secret, buried part that I don’t like to take out and examine too closely—wants to have her at my wedding. Wants to have her hold me and tell me she’s sorry for all the years of horror and drama.

I want it, but I do not expect it. Yet still that flame of hope is alive, and I feel it flickering inside me.

“Ryan will take you,” Damien says to my mother. I glance at Ryan and watch as he turns his attention away from Jamie to this new assignment. I turn to look at my best friend. Her expression suggests that she’s oblivious to Ryan’s attention, but there’s an unfamiliar color to her cheeks, and as she watches him lead my mother out the door, I can’t help but wonder.

Jamie crosses the room to join me at the table, then picks up the red velvet cake with her fingers and takes a huge bite. “You realize that there’s no way I’m sharing a suite with your mother.”

I laugh. “Neither of you would survive.”

“I had Tony pack your things when he delivered Mrs. Fairchild’s car,” Damien says. “You’re staying in Malibu with us.”

Jamie does a fist pump. “Score!”

My smile is so wide it almost hurts. “Thanks for having my back,” I say to Damien.

“Always.” The softness in his eyes hardens a bit. “Do you want me to send her back to Texas?”

I almost say yes, but then shake my head. “No. I’m getting married, and she is my mother. I’m strong enough to handle it,” I say, in response to his reproachful look.

“You are,” he agrees.

“And there was a moment—” I shake my head, thinking about the way she’d talked about Ashley’s wedding, and the vulnerability that I’d seen in her eyes.

“What?” Damien is looking at me intently.

“I just think that, despite all the Elizabeth Fairchild nonsense, part of her really does want to be here for me on my wedding day.”

For a moment, Damien only looks at me, his hands on my shoulders. Then he leans forward and captures my mouth with the sweetest of kisses. When he pulls away, I expect an argument. I expect him to recite an itemized list of every horrible thing my mother has done to me, to us. I expect him to point to his own father, whom neither of us want at this wedding. Hell, I expect him to talk some sense into me.

Instead, he says simply, “Be careful.”

I swallow and nod, because I know that he’s right to be concerned.

Once again, the door chimes, but this time I do not know the man who enters. He is drop-dead gorgeous, with dark hair highlighted by gold and red. He carries himself with a Damien Stark kind of confidence, and when his gaze sweeps the room, I see both calculation and intelligence in his sharp, gray eyes.

“We should finish up with Sally and get going,” I say to Damien. “She’s got other customers to deal with.”

“I’m sure she does,” he replies, “but Evan isn’t one of them. He’s with me.”

“Holy crap,” Jamie says, “do you travel in packs?”

Damien frowns, and I almost laugh. There aren’t many people who can knock him off kilter. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Never mind,” Jamie says, waving her hand as if wiping the words away. But she turns her attention to me, and I nod slightly. I have understood her perfectly, because this guy is hot. Maybe not Damien Stark hot, I think loyally, but he’s got some serious sizzle going on.

“Evan Black, let me introduce you to my fiancée, Nikki Fairchild, and her best friend, Jamie Archer.”

Evan strides across the room to join us. He shakes my hand, then Jamie’s. I can’t help but notice that she holds on a moment longer than is necessary.

“Congratulations,” Evan says to me. “I knew the first time he talked about you that one day you two would be married. I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you,” I say, looking curiously at Damien. He’s never mentioned this man before.

“I’ve known Evan for years,” Damien says. “He lives in Chicago—we had a drink when I flew out there a few months ago,” he adds.

“We met when we were both looking to acquire a failing business,” Evan adds.

“Who got it?” I ask.

“Damien,” Evan says, without regret. “But today it’s my turn.”

That I don’t know what he means must be obvious by my expression. “Evan’s acquiring the galleries,” Damien says, referring to the art galleries that Giselle Reynard recently transferred over to him. “We were in Palm Springs examining the items in storage, and Evan’s going to come to Malibu tomorrow to take a look at the main property.”

“I have a few other things to take care of while I’m here,” Evan says, “but I’m honored to have been invited to the wedding. I’m very happy for both of you.”

“Thank you,” I say, noticing that Jamie is still peering at him with interest. This is something that needs to be nipped in the bud. Not only is Jamie supposed to be backing away from men, but considering Evan is Chicago-bound, he could be nothing more than a fast fuck. And that is
so
not what my best friend needs.

Jamie pulls out her phone and makes a face, then looks at me. “We need to hurry,” she says. “We’re going to be late.”

“Late? For what?”

She rolls her eyes. “I told you. We’re meeting the girls at Raven,” she says, referring to a male strip club in Hollywood.

“Raven,” Damien says, his brows lifting.

“Um, hello?” Jamie says. “Bachelorette party. Alcohol. Mostly naked gorgeous men.” She looks him up and down. “Not that she doesn’t already have that in her life, but still. This is the night to be naughty.”

“It’s only barely past lunchtime,” I say stupidly.

“I know,” Jamie says. “That’s when there’s less of a crowd. More attention for us.”

Oh my
.

I glance toward Damien, but this is one of the few times when I cannot read his expression. My gaze shifts toward Evan. He is easier to read, as he’s not even trying to hide his amusement.

“I told you I didn’t want a bachelorette party,” I say. “And I have stuff to do today. The music. The photographer,” I remind her, then grimace when I see Damien’s brows rise again.
Damn.
My little lie earlier has been soundly caught out.

“And I need to make sure the flowers are confirmed,” I add, rushing on. “I need—”

“To chill with your friends,” Jamie says. “Come on, Nick. Music or not, pictures or not, come Saturday night you’re going to be married. You’ll never, ever, ever get to go out as a hot single girl again. So we’re doing this. I’m your maid of honor and I’m insisting.” She glances at Damien. “Sorry, dude. It’s in the best friends rule book.”

“I’m certain it is.” He turns to me, his expression implacable. “I need to speak with you alone.”

I shoot Jamie the kind of look that could bring down an army, then follow Damien to the far corner of the showroom. We’re standing beside a case filled with gorgeous, decorative wedding cakes. I glance at them, then wish that I hadn’t, because all they do is remind me of how quickly Saturday night is barreling down on us. And while Damien’s entry only moments ago might have felt like the cavalry, now those prickles of stress and nerves are starting up again. Because Jamie is right—this is my last chance to cut loose with my girlfriends.

But I don’t want to irritate Damien, and though it has never actually come up between us, I feel confident he is not going to graciously accept the idea of another guy getting up close and personal. And we both know that even if we insist on ground rules, Jamie will make sure that they are soundly ignored.

“It’s not my idea,” I say.

“But you want to go.” His voice is low, sensual—and it’s making me nervous, because I can’t figure out his angle.