“I’ll get with the building management and pull the security feed from the lobby and the elevators.” Ryan Hunter, Jamie’s husband and the Security Chief for Stark International, looks around my office. He’s lean and strong, with chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes. And right now, his jaw is tight, his body tense. In that regard, he looks much like Damien. Two men with blood in their eyes, and no idea who to lash out against. “We’ll find out who did this,” he says. “I promise.”

“I know you will,” Damien says. “Make it sooner rather than later.”

“You got it.” Ryan pulls out his phone and starts tapping, presumably rattling off instructions to his men. The rest of my team has already gone, and it’s just me, Ryan, and Damien in the empty, echoey offices.

After a moment, Ryan looks up from his phone. “I’ll have the building feed within an hour. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Damien nods, then holds out his hand, palm up toward me. “Car keys.”

I pass them to him. And he tosses them to Ryan. “Get one of your men to get Nikki’s car back to the house. You’re riding home with me,” he adds, and I simply nod. That’s perfectly all right by me.

His free hand is resting lightly on my back, where it’s been for the last fifteen minutes as we’ve talked with Ryan, giving him the rundown of everything that’s happened all day, including the interview with the reporter and the note I found on my car.

Ryan holds up Mary Lee’s business card. Damien’s already seen it. In fact, he snapped a picture of it. “I think it’s a legitimate publication,” Ryan says, “but I’ll double-check. A lot of these small local presses have similar names.”

“Even if it is legit, it doesn’t mean that the reporter is.”

“I know,” I say, because Damien’s right. “But the office number is the one I called to confirm. I spoke with her editor.” Then I shrug as I meet Ryan’s eyes and lean closer against Damien. “Or, at least, I thought I was speaking to her editor.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Ryan says. “Like I said, she may be legit. And if she’s not … well, it was a pretty smooth scam.”

“This bitch reporter was in the bungalow with you,” Damien says. “It could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

I nod. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t already thought of. Beside me, his body is tense, anger and worry bubbling through him. I ease away, forcing his hand off my back so that I can take it in my own. I’m fine, I want to tell him. I’m really and truly fine.

“I’ll get the note from Joe,” Ryan says, “then I’ll pull the feed from the parking garage, too.”

“You really think that’s connected?” I ask.

“I do. And it’s better if it is. I’d rather there be one person out there harassing you than several. Don’t you think?”

And since I can’t argue with that, I don’t.

“Why’d you come by, anyway?” I ask Damien a half hour later, once we’re tucked into his black Ferrari and speeding toward the Coast Highway.

“My schedule changed, so I thought I’d see how your space was progressing.” He glances sideways at me. “Not well, I’d say.”

I make a face. “I’m not moving offices.”

His expression a little too bland. “Did I suggest that?”

“You’re thinking really loud.”

“Was I?” Now he looks amused. I consider that a good thing.

“You were thinking I should have taken office space at The Domino, like you’d suggested months ago. But it wasn’t ready then. And you know why I don’t think it’s a good idea to be in a Stark property. It’s all about perception.”

“If it’s a question of perception versus your safety, then fuck perception,” he says, then continues before I have the chance to speak. “But I’m having second thoughts about wanting you at The Domino.” He stops at a red light and turns his attention to me. “I have half a floor available at Stark Tower. I can have it remodeled and furniture in there by Monday.”

He could, too. And I can’t deny that it would be nice to be that close to him. To the apartment. The kids have a room there and so does Bree. If I were in a crunch time, it would be so easy. Almost like the arrangement we have now with the bungalow.

“No,” I say. Despite all the pluses, taking Stark space is just a flat-out no. “I’m willing to take your advice. I’m willing to accept your referrals. And I’m more than willing to license my products to any Stark company. But I have to have professional autonomy.”

“At the risk of your personal safety?”

I cock my head. “And if it was you? Would you suddenly start working from home?”

“Nikki.”

I cross my arms and settle back into my seat. “I’m just saying.”

He takes my hand, then immediately releases it to shift gears. “I drove the wrong damn car today,” he says, and I have to laugh. “You should have told me about the note,” he adds, and this time there’s no humor in his voice.

“I would have, once I got home. At the gallery, though…”

“What?”

“Well, that would have been a buzz kill, right? And later, when you asked me about the reporter at the house, I honestly didn’t connect the two. I’m still not sure they’re related.”

“Two could be a coincidence. Three makes a connection.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “I don’t know.” Mostly, I just want it all to go away. I don’t say that, though. I don’t need to. Damien knows me too well.

He reaches over and brushes my cheek, and I sigh and lean into him, like a cat soaking up affection. “I don’t like seeing you hurt or scared or worried.” His voice is low but intense, and I have no doubt that today has thrown him almost as much as it has me.

“I know.” I reach up and take his hand, then kiss his fingers. “But you’re the reason I can handle being hurt or scared or worried. Because I know you’ll always be there to help me through it.”

“Always,” he says, his voice heavy with promise.

We drive in silence for a while, and Damien takes back his hand as we maneuver the twisting Malibu streets that lead to our property. “I have an idea,” he says as we soar down the canyon road. “Let’s cut Bree loose for the rest of the afternoon, then take the kids down to the bungalow. We can grill burgers on the deck and make sand castles on the beach.”

“Yeah?” I shift in my seat so that I’m facing him, my smile so wide I feel the tug of skin across my cheekbones. “I like the sound of that. A lot.”

He reaches over, and rests his hand lightly on my thigh. “Give Bree a call. Tell her to get the girls’ things together.”

I’m already pulling my phone out of my purse and hitting speed dial. Three rings, then Bree’s cheery voice asking me to leave a message. I do, then call her right back. That’s one of our strictest rules—always answer calls from me or Damien.

Again, the call goes to voice mail.

“Damien.”

“It’s fine,” he says, his voice tense. “You’re just nervous because of today.”

Possibly true. But the fact that he even said that tells me that he’s nervous, too. “You try. Maybe my calls aren’t ringing through for some reason.”

He presses the button on the steering wheel, says, “Call Bree,” and I listen to the crackle of the ringtone, frowning because the lack of clarity means we’re getting close to the dead zone that covers a two mile stretch of road leading to the house.

Again, we get her message.

“I don’t care if it’s paranoid,” I say. “Call the guardhouse.”

“Already on it,” he says, and does just that. But the call doesn’t ring through. Instead, there’s just dead air.

“Fuck. You call.”

I already have my phone out, shaking my head when I see the No Service message in the upper left corner of the screen. “Damien.” I hear panic in my voice.

“I know,” he says. And he floors it.