Page 5

5

“ N ikki?”

I spin toward Damien’s voice, catching a glimpse of him in the doorway before I suddenly find myself in his arms, my face pressed against his chest as I try to control my breathing.

“Baby, what is it? I heard you cry out.”

I shake my head, my eyes squeezed shut, certain I couldn’t have seen what I thought I’d seen.

“Sweetheart, talk to me.” His voice is soft, but I hear the edge of fear, and I draw a breath, then lean back, still safe in the circle of his arms.

“It’s nothing,” I tell him. “Just my imagination. Too much to drink. Too much talk about haunted houses.” I lift my wrist and glance at the snake bracelet, feeling silly and more than a little embarrassed. “Too much Vivien and thoughts of murder.”

I pull back, shrugging as if it’s nothing. Nothing at all.

Because, I tell myself, it is nothing.

“All right,” Damien says in the voice he uses when he’s trying to get a straight answer from one of our kids. “It was just your mind playing tricks. But what exactly did your mind do?”

I shake my head. “Forget it. Truly. I just—active imagination, okay? I—I thought I saw something.”

“Yes, but what?” He tilts my chin up so that I have no choice but to look at him. That, or close my eyes. And I know he won’t stand for the latter. His hair’s a little mussed, the tux jacket is now missing, and a few more buttons on his shirt are open, revealing a smattering of chest hair.

The sight calms me. Normal , I think. Just me and Damien. And everything is normal .

I really hope that’s true.

“Nikki?”

I look up, realizing I still haven’t answered him. “Vivien,” I say, my voice small. I turn my head just enough to glance at the mirror and then back at him. “In the mirror. Her head was bleeding. The way he killed her, hit her. The way they found her on the beach.”

“Oh, baby.” I don’t even feel the shift, but suddenly, I’m completely in his embrace, his head bent as he murmurs soothing words. How I’m tired. How it’s been an emotional day. And how, yes, perhaps the stream of alcohol throughout the day and into the night wasn’t the most sanguine of plans.

I know he’s right. Add in the fact that we enjoyed our suite at the Pavilion last night so much that I’m now operating on very little sleep … and, well, it makes perfect sense that I’d be half in a Vivien Lorainne-induced dream state.

And yet…

His eyes narrow. “I know that look. Tell me.”

“It’s just silliness. I’m fine, really.”

He waits, his eyes never leaving my face.

“Okay, okay,” I say, as if he’d been haranguing me. “I just—I know it sounds silly, but I swear I saw her. And I think—well, I think she wanted to tell me something.”

For a moment, he just looks at me. Then he reaches out to stroke my cheek and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Is that really what you think?”

I know his voice, and he’s not humoring me. He’s truly asking if I think the rumors are true—if this place is haunted. And if, perhaps, the ghost of my favorite star is reaching out to me.

It’s as if he’s flipped a switch inside me. As if the fact that he takes what I believe at face value makes the whole world clearer. As if his trust—his love—is the mirror I can hold up to see reality.

“I—no,” I say, as a stray tear streams down my face. “But I really did see her in the mirror. Even if it was only my imagination.”

“I’m not surprised,” he says gently. “We’ve been talking about her all day. Thinking about her movies. Her murder. And now we’re in her house—something you weren’t expecting. I’m sorry,” he adds, his voice taking on a somber tone.

I gape at him, shaking my head. “No. Damien, no. This house—it’s the most wonderful gift.”

“But maybe it was too much to toss onto a day already full of the history of Vivien Lorainne?”

“No.” I take both of his hands in mine. “I love this house. And the timing was perfect. I mean, hello? When else would you give a gift of Vivien’s house if not after a gala that’s all about her?”

His smile is gentle. “But?”

“There is no but ,” I tell him honestly. “It’s just that—you make me feel special every day. Every single day. Little things. Big things. Silly things. But this….”

I trail off as I pull my hands free of his, then start to walk the room, as if I’ll find the right words hidden in a corner.

“Too much?”

I laugh. “From the average husband, yes. From you, no. On the contrary. I think that’s what makes it special. It’s a huge gift. It’s a freaking house. And one that I’m sure cost more because of its history. But the only thing that mattered to you was that it matters to me. That it’s a piece of Hollywood history—of Vivien Lorainne’s history—and so you bought it. And maybe any man with your means would have done the same, but I don’t think so. It’s just another piece of the puzzle, and I love it.”

“The puzzle?”

“All the ways you show that you love me,” I say. “Except I’m wrong. It’s not a puzzle. It’s a patchwork quilt, and with everything you add, you make me feel that much more loved and that much safer.”

“I’m glad,” he says, then tilts his head, flashing a mischievous smile. “So a potentially haunted house makes you feel safe?”

I smirk. “Okay, that’s fair. But I don’t think she was in the mirror to hurt me. I think maybe she was welcoming me to her home. And, you know, just forgot to do her hair and make-up before sending me the message.”

We share a smile.

“I think your imagination is on overdrive, baby. But in case I’m wrong, I can think of one way to break any spell that might be lingering in this house.”

I lift my brows. “You surprise me, Mr. Stark. I didn’t realize you were so well-versed in the occult. Or is that how you made your billions? A bit of nightshade and eye of newt?”

“I don’t know about that,” he says. “But I’m pretty sure there’s one thing that always conquers dark magic.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, my pulse quickening as he moves closer.

“Love.” He’s right in front of me now, his hands sliding the robe off my shoulder to pool on the ground, leaving me in the silky, white nightgown.

“And it doesn’t hurt that you look like an angel,” he whispers. “Though I plan on tarnishing your wings soon enough.”

“Oh, really?” My voice is a tease and a challenge, and I can see by the gleam in his eye that he’s accepted it.

“I have to,” he says, his face deadpan and serious.

“Have to what, exactly?”

His arm slides around my waist, and he draws me closer to whisper in my ear. “I have to make love to you, Nikki. I have to tease you. To touch you. Stroke you. I have to brush my fingertips over every inch of your body, searching out all of your most sensitive places.”

“Oh.” It’s the only word I can manage.

“My fingers first,” he says, his voice so hot it’s like living flame. “Then I have to taste you. Your lips. Your nipples. Your cunt. I want you hot for me, baby. I want you to melt. I’ll take you higher and deeper than we’ve ever gone. Wilder. Hotter. Faster. Love and heat and passion and longing. Friendship, respect, and pure, burning need. All of it, Nikki. Everything we are to each other, we’ll pour it out into this bed, into this house. We’ll mark this house as ours. And we’ll kick anything dark that thinks it resides here right back to the hell it came from.”

I’m breathing so hard, I can’t manage a reply. Not in words, anyway. My body is screaming yes . Begging, please. Crying out for him to take me before I burst from the primal need that is filling my every cell.

His clever fingers pull the nightgown over my head so that now I’m standing naked in front of him. He gives me a devilish look, then brushes his fingertip over my lips before trailing it down my neck, between my breasts, then between my legs to tease my clit.

I moan, already wet and desperate for a bolder touch. But that hand stays put—both torment and tease—as he uses his other hand to tilt my chin up so that I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Fuck the demons,” he says. “This house is ours.”