“Good,” I say. “How’s life on the outside?”
Damien grins at me. “Going a little stir crazy?”
“Not that I don’t love this fairy palace, but—”
He makes a noncommittal noise, then turns to Sylvia, who appears to be hiding a smile. “What have you got for me?”
“Just a few signatures,” she says, handing him a clipboard and several documents. She glances at me. “And this came for you,” she adds, then holds out a plain white envelope. It’s addressed to me, care of Stark International. There’s no return address, but the postmark is from Los Angeles.
“That’s weird,” I say, as Damien tosses the clipboard onto a cushion and comes to my side.
“Open it,” he says.
I do. There’s a folded piece of paper inside. I pull it out, unfold it, and immediately feel sick.
Bitch. Slut. Whore.
“Motherfucker,” Damien breathes, plucking the letter and the envelope from my hand. He takes a magazine from the coffee table and puts them both between the pages, then hands the magazine to Sylvia. “Get this to Charles. Don’t get fingerprints on it.”
“Of course, Mr. Stark. Ms. Fairchild, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No, of course you didn’t,” I say.
“It’s okay, Sylvia.” Damien’s words are a dismissal.
She nods. “I’ll just come back for those documents later.” She starts to leave, then pauses and turns back to me. “I apologize if this is out of line, Ms. Fairchild, but I just wanted to say that I saw the painting when I was at the Malibu house coordinating with the decorator before the party.”
I’ve been staring blankly at the magazine in which the vile note is hidden, but now I look up at her face with interest.
“It’s a beautiful portrait,” she says. “Stunning and engaging. Frankly, I think Mr. Stark got a bargain. As far as I’m concerned, it’s worth at least two million.”
I’ve been blinking back tears as she speaks, and now I burst out with a laugh that is choked with tears. “Thank you,” I say, then sniff. I shoot a wry grin toward Damien. “I like her.”
“Yes,” he says dryly. “She’s very capable.” His mouth is thin, but I can see the hint of amusement, not to mention the silent nod of thanks when he tells Sylvia, “That will be all.”
She nods, then slips out of the apartment.
“There are a lot of fucked-up people in the world,” Damien says to me. “Don’t let them get to you.”
“You’re never going to be able to track who sent that letter.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to try. By the way, I figured out which reporter originated the story.”
“Did Charles go see him?”
“He refused to reveal his source. I may pay him a visit myself, but I thought I’d go the more civilized route first. I’ve hired a private investigator. I’m guessing he met in person with the source. With any luck, my guy will learn something.”
I nod, but I don’t expect much. Honestly, I’m not sure I care. I’m certain it wasn’t Jamie or Ollie, and they are the only two who could truly injure me by being duplicitous. Other than that, it’s the information alone that hurts, and no matter who revealed it, there’s no putting that genie back in the bottle. Not now, not ever.
“I want to go out,” I say to Damien, who stares at me for a second, obviously trying to digest my sudden change in topic.
“Any place in particular?”
“I was thinking about the MoCa,” I say. “I figure there aren’t many reporters lying in wait there.”
“All right,” he says. “Let’s go.”
“But then I changed my mind,” I continue. “I want to go shopping. Let’s go look for things for the house. There are all sorts of cute stores on Melrose. Or anywhere in West Hollywood. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“I always have fun when I’m with you,” he says. “But that area is crowded, and it only takes one person who gets off on tabloid news calling TMZ or some other rag before we’ll be surrounded by the vultures.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t care. I want back in the world. It’s not like they can’t get me in here, too. Didn’t one of them just send me a letter?”
He winces, but nods. “All right, then,” he says. “I guess we have a date.”
We’re not looking for anything in particular other than each other’s company, and that makes wandering the stores pleasant, especially since no one seems to be paying any attention to us.
A new store has opened on Fairfax selling high-end antiques, and a massive bed with a head and footboard that is intricately carved from oak immediately catches my eye.
“A bed, Ms. Fairchild?” Damien asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s worth considering. After all, the house is currently without a bed.” I lie down on it, then roll onto my side and pat the mattress, making a point to smile suggestively. “Shall we test it out?”
His lips twitch. “Careful. You’re subject to my rules, remember? Who knows what I might make you do?”
“Good point,” I say, moving to sit up. I reach out and hook a finger through the belt loop of his jeans, then tug him toward me. He stumbles and falls forward, knocking me back a bit before he blocks his fall with a hand on the mattress.
“Well, hello,” he says, then kisses me. “I swear I didn’t orchestrate that.”
I laugh, and am about to steal a kiss of my own, when I notice that the girl at the counter is staring at us. It’s possible she’s simply amused or annoyed by the customers who are playing on the furniture. But I don’t think so.
I stand up abruptly, pushing past Damien. “Let’s go,” I say, my cheeks burning. “This bed isn’t nearly as cool as our old one, anyway.”
The clerk says nothing as we’re leaving, and I think I must have been imagining things. I’m proved wrong fifteen minutes later when we exit the next store.
We’d been shopping in ignorant bliss, looking at decorative candles and pretty vases made of ornamental glass. But the moment we step out onto the sidewalk, we’re accosted by cameras and microphones and a screaming mass of reporters that I can only assume must have popped up en masse out of the sewers.
Damien is already holding my hand. Now he squeezes tighter, and I squeeze back, letting the pressure of his hand around mine focus me.