Part 25 (1/2)

”By the window,” Blaine says, and I'm grateful for the businesslike tone in his voice. ”Close to the drapes. Damien, where'd you put that robe?”

There's an antique trunk at the foot of the bed, and Damien opens it and pulls out a red silk robe.

”Just put it on the bed-the far side so it's not in my composition. Yeah, that's right. Okay, Nikki, right there. Do you want to put the robe on in the bathroom and then come in? Easier to just slip it off your shoulders.”

I run the drape through my fingers. ”No,” I say. I take the hem of the tank top and pull it defiantly over my head. The cool air a.s.saults my bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and my nipples feel hard and heavy. I don't look at Damien. Instead, I look out at the ocean.

”Oh, man,” Blaine says. ”That's great. Your profile is amazing. And you have the most beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Stay like that,” he says as he starts to walk the room. ”I just want to find the right place.”

After a few moments, he's settled in and though I should be more relaxed all I can feel is the tension building inside me, getting tauter and tauter every time he says I'm beautiful. Every time he praises my soft, perfect skin.

I'm holding my eyes wide open, trying not to blink, trying to imagine I'm part of that ocean. That I am the tide, coming in and out, in and out.

”Can you do the jeans now?” Blaine asks, and his voice startles me so much that I jump.

”Nikki?” Damien's voice is soft.

”I-sure.” I put my hands on the b.u.t.ton and unclasp it, then start to ease the jeans down over my hips. My fingers are on my skin, and I feel the scars, raised and ugly.

I freeze, take a deep breath, and try again.

But I can't do it. I open my mouth to say something-to ask for more time, a moment alone, something. But no words come out. Instead, I'm suddenly sobbing, my body shaking and my legs unable to hold me up. I sag to the floor and bury my face in the soft material of the drapes.

Damien is immediately at my side. ”Shhh,” he whispers. ”It's okay. We'll take it slow. It's hard, I know. Revealing yourself like that. It takes courage, but you can do it.”

I shake my head and let him pull me into his arms. I press my face to his shoulder and he holds me close. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s are pressed tight against his chest, the cotton of his T-s.h.i.+rt soft against my nipples. His palm strokes my back. But there's nothing s.e.xual. He's comforting me, holding me, and I feel warm and safe.

”I can't do it,” I whisper when the sobs slow enough to let me speak. ”I'm sorry, but I can't.”

I pull away. My body is still shaking, and I have the hiccups. ”I thought I could. I don't know what I thought. That it would be revenge against you. Against the world. I don't know.”

I'm babbling, and he's looking at me with such concern and sympathy that I think my heart is going to break.

”I'm sorry, Damien,” I say. ”I can't take your money. And I can't do this.”

20.

I scramble out of his embrace and s.n.a.t.c.h my s.h.i.+rt off the floor. I pull it on, then stand up, brus.h.i.+ng my tears away with the back of my hand.

I fasten my jeans and look around for my purse and camera bag. They're on the floor by the foot of the bed, right where I left them.

I hurry that way and sling my purse over my shoulder. I briefly register that Blaine is gone. I'm grateful he didn't make a show of leaving, even though I'm embarra.s.sed I melted down in front of him.

”I-I can call a cab if you want. Or Edward can-” I cut myself off, closing my eyes. My entire body feels warm. I'm burning up with embarra.s.sment.

Damien has risen to his feet and he's standing by the bed, watching me. I can't read his face, but I know he must be furious.

”I'm sorry, Damien. I'm so sorry.” How many times can I say it? Will it ever not sound hollow? ”I'll wait outside.”

I hurry toward the stairs, my head down.

”Nikki ...” His voice caresses my name, and I hesitate, but then move on.

”Nikki.” This time, my name is a command. I stop, my back stiff, and turn to face him.

He is right there, and he brings his hands to my shoulders, his eyes on my face. His expression is dark. ”Where do you think you're going?”

”I have to leave. I told you. I can't do this.”

”We have a deal,” he says, his eyes burning into me. ”You're mine, Nikki.” His hand slides behind my neck, tugging me toward him. With his other hand, he lifts my tank top and cups my breast. ”Mine,” he repeats.

The warmth of his hand fills me, and I gasp. I want him, but I can't do this. I can't ...

I shake my head. ”I'm breaking the deal.”

”I don't accept that.”

Anger pierces my embarra.s.sment and shatters my desire. ”f.u.c.k what you accept. I'm saying no.”

His thumb makes lazy circles on my nipple. ”Stop it.”

He doesn't. ”What are you afraid of?”

”I'm not afraid.” This, I think as desire knots through me. The way I feel. Where this will lead ...

No, I'm not afraid. I'm f.u.c.king terrified.

”Bulls.h.i.+t.” He pulls me close and takes my mouth with his, kissing me roughly and then pus.h.i.+ng me away. ”I can taste the fear on you, baby. Tell me. Dammit, Nikki, let me make it better.”

I shake my head. I have no words.

Slowly, he nods. ”All right. I won't hold you to our deal. But at least let me see what I'm losing.”

My head jerks up to look at him. ”What?”

”I wanted a portrait. And I wanted the woman. Naked, Nikki. Naked and open in my bed. At least let me see what I'm missing out on.”

The anger that's been growing bursts out like gasoline thrown on a fire. ”Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?”

He is perfectly calm, his eyes flat and focused on me. ”I'm not. Take your jeans off, Nikki. Let me see you.”

”You son of a b.i.t.c.h.” I blink, and a tear streaks down my cheek. I wanted my scars to be a weapon? Well, they're d.a.m.n well going to be. Angrily, I rip open the b.u.t.ton of my jeans and yank the zipper down. I wriggle out of them until the denim is pooled at my feet. I kick off the d.a.m.n flip-flops and stand there, my legs spread slightly. There's no way he can miss the welts on my hips and inner thighs. ”You G.o.dd.a.m.n son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

I don't know what I expect, but Damien drops to his knees. His face is about level with my hips, and he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over the thickest scar on my hip. I'd cut too deep, and I'd been too scared to go to the emergency room. I'd closed the wound with duct tape and super glue and kept pressure on with an Ace bandage wrapped tight around me. I'd kept my secret, but the scar was vile. Even now, years later, it's still slightly pink.

”Oh, baby.” His voice is soft, like a caress. ”I knew there was something, but ...” He trails off, his other hand tracing the scars on the inside of my thighs. ”Who did this to you?”