I continue down, cutting through the commercial grade kitchen to the gym that takes up much of the north section of the house. I cock my head, listening for the thud of Damien’s fists against the punching bag or the clatter of weights rising and falling on the machines. There is nothing, however. Just a silence that seems to stretch on forever.
He is not in the pool, either, and as I stand, confused, on the flagstone decking, I begin to fear that he has actually left the property, possibly going downtown to his office. It occurs to me that I didn’t go into the master bathroom, and if he was going to leave me a note, that would have been the most logical place. I start to turn around to go back to check, figuring that if there is no note at least I can get my phone and text him, but I pause when I see the dim glow of lights off to the right.
I focus on them, trying to picture the layout of the property in my mind. Damien’s garage—a massive underground bunker that would make Batman drool—is roughly in that direction, but I’m pretty sure it’s more inland. But if the light isn’t coming from the garage, then what could it be? There was nothing else dotting the property when we’d walked along the landscaped paths before we’d detoured our lives to Germany. Nothing except the ocean in the distance and a flattened area where Damien told me he was considering building a tennis court.
I freeze.
Surely not . . .
I hurry that direction, and as I get closer, I hear an odd chunk-thwap and realize that I have found him.
I can tell by looking that the court hasn’t been finished for long. The net is brand-new and not the least bit weathered. The surface isn’t scarred at all. The ball machine that is currently firing at Damien glows bright and shiny under the towers that cast a faintly yellow glow over the whole area.
And there in the middle of it all is Damien.
I draw in a breath, overwhelmed by the sight of him. He wears nothing but gym shorts, and his chest shimmers from the light sheen of sweat. The muscles in his arms and legs are tight, and he moves with the grace and power of a wild animal as he rushes forward, swings, then attacks the ball. He is power and poetry, grace and perfection, and I feel my body tighten in response to the beauty that is Damien.
But he is broken, too, and my heart squeezes as I continue to watch him. Over and over, he moves and hits, his feet moving in a perfect rhythm, his body pushed to the edge. There is no emotion on his face—no smile of self-satisfaction when he nails the ball—just pure concentration, as if this is penance, not pleasure.
There is a chaise in the shadows beside the court and I sit on it automatically, transfixed by the sight of him.
I do not know how long he duels with the machine. I only know that when it stops spitting balls out, he shouts a curse and hurls his racquet. I yelp, surprised, and Damien whirls to face me, his expression a mix of shock and concern.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” I say softly. I ease off the chaise and move onto the court—and into the light. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed.”
“No.” The word is rough. “I’m glad you’re here.” He takes my hand and pulls me close, and sweet relief flows through me.
“You didn’t tell me you went ahead with the court.”
“How could I not after you teased me with the possibility of you in a tiny tennis dress?” His words are light, but they do not penetrate the shadows in his eyes. “I’ve had a crew working on it since just before I left for Germany.”
“I’m glad.” I smile up at him, and I am genuinely happy. Tennis has been a constant in his life, but Richter stole the joy, and Damien hasn’t played since he quit the circuit. The knowledge that he is finding his way back to something that he loved bubbles through me.
That happiness, however, is tainted. Because I saw the storm in Damien’s eyes when he took me so wildly only a few hours ago. And I saw the fury of that same storm just now as he attacked the stream of balls.
“Was it your father?” I ask gently. “Is he the one who turned the photos over to the court?”
I see the shadows cross his face again, and when he turns and starts to tug me toward the edge of the court, I fear that he isn’t going to answer. But we are not returning to the path. Instead, he sits on the lounge where I had been only moments before. He stretches his legs out in front of him, and then pats the space beside him. I lay on my side, propped up on my elbow so that I can watch his expression as he speaks, but it takes so long for him to begin talking that I start to wonder if I’d been wrong about why he has brought me here.
I am about to suggest that if we are going back to sleep, the bed inside would be a much more comfortable choice, when he shifts and looks at me.
“I don’t think it was my father,” he says. “He seemed genuinely baffled when I confronted him about the pictures.”
“Oh.” My brow furrows with worry and confusion. “So you don’t have any idea who it could be?” That would certainly explain the storm I saw in his eyes.
“I don’t,” he agrees. There is silence. Then, “I’m worried about Sofia.”
I don’t understand the transition. “I know you are, but she’ll check in. If she’s playing roadie to a band in Shanghai, she’s probably not—”
“I’m afraid she’s running,” Damien says simply. “I’m afraid someone’s harassing her.” He strokes my cheek, his eyes burning into me.
“Oh, God,” I say with sudden understanding. “You think someone is trying to get to you through the women you love. Me. Sofia.”