“Just one more bite, and then I need to run,” Jamie says an hour later, her fork sliding into the cheesecake she talked me into sharing. Because, as she pointed out, calories consumed with a friend only count by half. “I have to get all the way to Redlands.”

I snap my attention to her, ignoring my own forkful of dessert. “I haven’t been to Redlands since the time Damien treated you and me to that overnighter at The Desert Ranch Spa.” Jamie had stayed two full nights, but I’d left with Damien after only one. “It’s an adorable town. We stopped there for dinner during the drive back,” I explain.

“Just dinner?” Jamie says with a tease in her voice.

“It was a very good restaurant,” I assure her. “With a damn nice alley behind it, too,” I add with a cat-and-the-canary smile.

“Naughty girl,” she says, then uses two fingers to pluck my cheesecake off my fork.

“Hey!”

“Don’t even. I totally deserve this cheesecake. You get a sexy encounter in a dark alley, and I get to cover a high school student film festival.” As if in punctuation, she pops the cheesecake in her mouth.

I laugh, conceding the point. “But you’ll have a great time.”

“Yeah,” she admits. “I will. I covered it last year, too, and it was such fun watching the kids’ films. They’re not jaded at all. Yet. That’ll come in a few years when they graduate and actually move the sixty miles to LaLa Land.”

Since she’s probably right about that, I refrain from commenting.

“What about you?” she asks. “Back to work?”

“Eventually. But errands first. I’ve got to run by the space to meet with the contractor. We’re moving in on Wednesday. But first I’m going to check on the cake for the girls’ birthday party. It’s coming up fast.” A week from tomorrow, actually, and there’s still so much to do.

Technically, the party doesn’t fall on either of the girls’ birthdays. Anne turns two the following Wednesday, and Lara’s assigned birthday is the day before the party. She’ll be four this year, and it’s hard to believe that not that long ago, she was found in a wooden wagon near the gate of a Chinese orphanage. Since there was no easy way to tell exactly when she was born, the orphanage assigned her Finding Day as her birthday, and neither Damien nor I see any reason to change that.

“Speaking of,” Jamie says. “I finally figured out what to get them, but you’ll have to wait until Saturday to see. Kids are not easy to shop for,” she adds, in the kind of tone that suggests I personally erected a barrier between her and all appropriate present ideas.

“I’m sure they’ll love whatever you bring. You’re Aunt Jamie. You can’t possibly go wrong.” I mean what I say, but that’s because Jamie’s calmed down a lot in the last few years. There was a time when I’d have been slightly terrified at the idea of her picking out a present for anyone under the age of twenty-one. Fortunately, she has Ryan now, and I know he won’t let her go too crazy.

Then I think about the parties at Masque, and I have to wonder if maybe Ryan isn’t as calming an influence as I’d thought.

Those thoughts naturally lead to Damien. Which makes my skin tingle and my blood heat.

I take a sip of my wine and try to banish the thoughts as Jamie lifts a brow. “Did I lose you?”

“Sorry,” I say. “You got me thinking about everything I need to get done today.”

“Go,” she says, waving vaguely inland. “I can deal with the check.”

“You’re sure?”

She gives me a look that is so Jamie it makes me laugh, and I stand up. “Love you, James.”

“Back at you. Oh! Wait. I talked to Ollie this morning. He said he’ll be in town for the girls’ party.”

“Seriously?” I pause with my hand on the back of my chair. “That’s fabulous.” Ollie is the third leg of our BFF trifecta, although it’s not been as stable since Damien entered my life. They’ve warmed to each other—hell, they even respect each other—but they’re never going to be tight.

Ollie’s a lawyer, and for a couple of years now, he’s been spending more time in New York than he has in LA, where he’s technically based. Some big corporate litigation. But now Jamie says that things are slowing down and he’s coming back to the LA office for good.

“That’s so great. I feel like the girls barely know him.”

“True that,” she says, but hurries on so quickly that it’s obvious that Ollie’s relationship with my daughters is way down her priority list. “But do me a favor and don’t ask him about his house, okay?”

I frown, cocking my head a bit as if that will make the words more cogent. It doesn’t work. “Huh?”

“He’s selling it.”

“What? Are you serious? He hasn’t even started the renovations.” He’d bought a dilapidated two bedroom, one bath in the hills with a huge lot, a stunning view of Universal Studios, and tons of renovation potential. But then the firm shipped him back to New York, so he postponed the renovation and turned it into a rental. Not terribly snazzy, but livable. “What happened to all his plans? I thought he was going to ask Jackson to help with the remodel.” Sylvia’s husband is a world-renowned architect. He’s also Damien’s half-brother and a genuinely nice guy. And he’d offered to do the work for Ollie at a discounted rate.

I pull my chair back and start to sit down again, but Jamie waves her hand dismissively.

“Go do your thing,” she says. “Because now you know all that I do. And maybe I misunderstood. But I don’t think so. Honestly, I think he’s having money problems.”

A wave of guilt crashes over me as I realize how much I’ve lost touch with one of my best friends. He’d told me he was looking to buy an investment property, and at the time I’d offered him dinner and the chance to interrogate Damien, who’s a whiz at all things financial. Ollie had brushed it off, though, telling me that one of his clients was advising him, and that he knew what he was doing. And since I was exhausted with a baby and a toddler, I didn’t press the point.

Now, I’m wishing I’d insisted. Not that Damien’s advice would have necessarily saved him, but at least then I’d know I did everything I could to help my friend.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jamie says, her dark eyes studying me. “He’s a big boy.”

True, but half an hour later, as I aim my cherry-red Mini Cooper toward Beverly Hills and my party related errands, I’m still thinking about Ollie.

Ollie and Damien. Because my friend’s financial situation has underscored how lucky I am. God knows I’d love Damien even if he were a pauper, but there’s no denying that his wealth is a blessing.

There are downsides, of course. Mary Lee underscored that pretty damn well this morning.

And, yes, we’ve suffered through more than our fair share of scandal and drama, stalkers and paparazzi. Incidents ranging from so mundane they’re almost laughable to so deeply disturbing and horrific that absent Damien, I’m certain I couldn’t have coped without the sharp edge of a blade to release the pressure.

With Damien, I’m strong. Even when I’m not in his arms, like earlier at the bungalow, his love flows in my blood, anchoring me to him.

And right now, I’m counting the minutes until tonight, when I can fold myself in his arms and let the rest of this day fade away.

I don’t forget about Ollie and Mary Lee immediately, but as I navigate traffic, I forcibly push all that drama aside in order to focus on more important things. Like colorful candy sprinkles, plastic tablecloths, and toddler friendly games that will satisfy a houseful of little kids.

Fortunately, both Bree and Gregory—Damien’s valet/butler/general-house-guy—are helping out with planning and prep for the party. Even with their help, though, I’m overwhelmed, a not unfamiliar state these days. Damien keeps telling me I need to hire a personal assistant to help me with whatever comes up either in business or at home, since Bree’s duties really don’t extend beyond the kids.

I’ve told him I’ll think about it, but so far, I’ve avoided the issue. I know that Damien has a slew of personal assistants, all overseen by Rachel, but I can’t wrap my head around having someone similar for me. After all, there’s already staff for the house. On top of Bree and Gregory, we have a housekeeper who comes in daily, a groundskeeper and his staff, a rotating team of security guards, and a part-time chef. Not to mention the drivers who technically work for the company, but are at Damien’s beck and call.

As much as having a helper at my elbow might be useful, I don’t think I need to add to the crowd. I’ve been managing fine so far. Busy, but fine.

The bottom line is that I’m not Damien. My company is relatively small, my responsibilities much less vast. I don’t need a full staff to keep my daily life running smoothly.

And that’s one hundred percent okay with me.

Besides, if I had an assistant, odds are good she’d be the one visiting Love Bites instead of me. Which means she’d get to taste the cake samples and talk about decorations. And that would be a damn shame, I think, as I pull up in front of a valet stand. I slip out of the car, hand the valet my keys, and start walking the few blocks up Rodeo Drive and then over to Beverly Boulevard.

A shiver runs through me as I head to the corner. Like someone walking over my grave. My grandfather’s voice fills my head, flooding my memory with his Southern sayings and superstitions.

Or maybe not superstitions…

I turn quickly, expecting to see someone staring at me from across the street. But when I look around, I see nothing out of the ordinary. Just tourists and shoppers, laughing and smiling and enjoying the gorgeous day.

I cross the street, then pause again, but the sensation of being watched has faded, and I chalk it up to heightened paranoia because of the day I’ve had. By the time I reach Love Bites, I’ve pushed it firmly from my mind.

“Nikki!” Sally Love spreads her arms as I push through the glass door and breathe in the rich, enticing aroma of freshly baked cakes and cookies. Her smile blooms bright and her cheeks flush pink as she hurries toward me and envelops me in a hug. A celebrity chef, Sally hosted her own cooking show for years before leaving television to focus on a countrywide chain of high-end bakeries, Love Bites, with the shop in Beverly Hills being her flagship location.

“It’s so great to see you.” My words are genuine. I’ve used Sally for a number of different events, and while I truly love her confections, I also adore her as a person. Only a few years older than me, she has a maternal personality, as warm and comforting as freshly baked chocolate cake.

“I’ve been thinking about the girls,” she says, leading me past the display cases and into the private tasting area set up to resemble a homey kitchen with countertops and cabinets lining two walls, along with a refrigerator, stove, and cooktop. It’s a new feature she added when she expanded the bakery into the space next door, and she gestures for me to take a seat at one of the stools surrounding the quartz-topped kitchen island that dominates the center of the room.

She stands beside me, her hip brushing the stool as if she’s thinking of sitting as well, but can’t quite commit to the action. “At the risk of it looking like I have no imagination at all, I think we might want to go with cupcake displays again. Only this time with a little bit of a twist.”

“A twist?” For our wedding, Sally had designed cupcake towers. The finished product had been stunning, and the guests were able to pick whatever flavor they wanted from the five tiers of beautifully decorated, fondant-iced cupcakes. My mother had been mortified by the idea, but I’d been thrilled.

Sally nods, then bends down to open one of the cabinets under the island. When she stands, she’s holding a huge platter with a two-layer round cake, perfectly iced with a thick chocolate frosting so enticing I want to drag my fingers through one of the ridges and taste the gooey sweetness.

“Something like this for the center,” Sally explains. “But I’ll build out and up for the kids.”

Once more, she reaches into her cabinet of goodies. This time, she pulls out a mountain of cupcakes. The center, as she described, is the double-layer of chocolate cake. But that base is ringed by two concentric circles of cupcakes, one frosted with what looks and smells like butter cream, the other with chocolate.

Four spikes extend upward from the main round cakes and act as support for the first layer of a tower that is topped with a collection of cupcakes. Another four spikes extend up from that, and this layer is smaller in diameter and hosts fewer cupcakes. The top layer has one over-sized cupcake.

“For the birthday girls,” Sally says, pointing to the top cupcake. “Obviously, we’ll have two towers, one for Anne and one for Lara. Each with birthday candles, of course. And I can frost in their favorite colors if you want.”

“I love this,” I say, genuinely delighted.

“I’m not done yet.” This time she doesn’t reach below the island, but goes to the shelf above the sink upon which sits a collection of her published books along with a few three-ring binders.

She pulls down one—a pale blue binder, lightly dusted in a layer of white flour. Inside are pages of photos protected in clear plastic sleeves. She flips quickly through, then shows me a photo of the tiered cupcake tower surrounded by a decorating station with plain silver bowls filled with colorful sprinkles, candies, and other cupcake toppings.

“It will be messy,” she says. “But I promise the kids will have fun. And when we set it up, we’ll put down a protective flooring that looks and feels like regular carpeting. We can even bring toddler tables if you need.”

“I’ve got that covered,” I tell her, then look up quizzically. “I didn’t realize you did such a booming business for the under five set.”

She laughs. “I catered my nephew’s party, then figured what the hell. Now I’m able to offer full-service toddler parties.” She winks. “I love my work, but there’s a special reward in watching a little kid grin at me with a mouth covered in frosting.”

“Can’t argue with that. I hope you’ll be able to attend yourself?” Sally often sends one of her employees to her catered events, but she’s known Damien for years, and we’ve asked her to join us as a guest after the cupcake station is set up.

“I can’t wait. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen your girls. Or you and Damien, for that matter.”

“We’ve all been busy,” I say. “Anything new in your life?”

“With everything I’ve got going in this business? Who has time for new?” She smiles as she speaks, but under her words, I think I hear a hint of regret. I start to ask, but stop myself. It’s not my place. More than that, it could very well be my imagination.

We wrap up the details for the party, making the final frosting and decorating choices right as Sally’s next appointment walks in the front door, a tall, young woman whose face is glowing in such a way that I’m certain she’s there to talk about wedding cakes.

All in all, I spend about half an hour in Love Bites, then I walk leisurely back to the car. Unless there’s been a wreck on Santa Monica Boulevard, I should arrive at my new office space in plenty of time to meet Luis and my team.

Love Bites is on Beverly Boulevard, and my car is parked a few blocks away on Dayton Way at Two Rodeo Drive, one of the many upscale shopping destinations in the area. I’d been hurrying after I dropped the car off, focusing entirely on my destination. Now, I walk back more leisurely, letting my gaze wander to the storefronts.

The perfectly cut flirty dresses displayed on headless mannequins. The elegant evening gowns that cost more than most people’s cars, and will be worn down the red carpet, then zipped into a garment bag and tucked into the back of a closet or donated to charity. The meticulously constructed handbags. The stunning jewelry that glitters and sparkles under the hidden lighting, designed to display every piece to its best advantage.

I generally don’t pay much attention to labels, but I can’t deny that there is a world of beauty and opulence tucked into the blocks surrounding the famous Rodeo Drive. The prices are out of reach for so many, and yet the well-known shopping district is a draw for tourists and wealthy locals, both craving the glitz and the glamour. The attention to luxury and comfort and detail that acts like a balm against a world that can be harsh and brutal.

As I walk along, I soak in the colors and the patterns, then stop short in front of a window filled entirely with black and white images of nude women in undeniably erotic poses, modest only because of the contrast of shadow and light.

I know these pictures—they’re the work of Wyatt Royce, a rising star in the world of photography. His real name is Wyatt Segel, but since his family is Hollywood royalty, he changed it for work, wanting success on his own terms, without trading on his family name.

He’s also a good friend, and though I don’t really expect him to be inside the gallery that is hosting his art, I step inside anyway. Photography has been my hobby since my sister gave me a Nikon when I was in high school, and I crave a closer look at Wyatt’s beautiful compositions and stunning imagery.

I’m drawn first to a photograph of his wife, Kelsey, who was his model when he finally broke out in a big way. Her face isn’t identifiable in this photo, but she’d told me about the shoot, and I’m certain it’s her. Taken in her dance studio, she stands at the barre, one foot flat on the ground, the other flexed on the wooden rail. She’s bent over, touching her toe, wearing only her ballet shoes and a tutu. No tights, no leotard. Her long hair loose around her face, as if it’s that neglect—and not the lack of clothes—that is the affront to ballet.

She has a dancer’s lithe body, the lines of muscle revealed. And because he shot the image at an angle that captures three of the four walls of mirrors, it seems that there are an infinite number of Kelsey’s. The photo is both sensual and sweet, and though it seems tame at first glance, the more I look at it, the more I think that it will be the one that stays with me after I walk out of this gallery.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

A tall, slim woman with short silver hair that accents sharp cheekbones steps toward me. I guess that she’s in her mid-sixties, probably more than twice my age, and I hope that I look as amazing when I’m that old.

She offers me a welcoming smile, and I notice that she wears a small, neatly engraved nametag identifying her as Emily. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

“To be honest, I was heading back to my car. I saw Wyatt’s work and had to pop in.”

“You’re familiar with Mr. Royce?”

“I’m both a fan and a friend. Nikki Stark,” I add, extending my hand.

“Ms. Stark, it’s a pleasure. I feel almost like I know you.”

I tense, and she laughs, a little awkwardly, as if hiding embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant that Mr. Royce has spoken highly of you and your sister-in-law. Ms. Steele? I understand you’ve both studied under him.”

Immediately, I relax, understanding that her perception of me wasn’t fed by the tabloid’s fascination with my marriage, the infamous painting, or Damien’s money.

“I’m not sure I’d call it studying,” I tell her. “Syl and I are both amateurs. But I do love photography, and I know good work when I see it. Wyatt’s work is outstanding.”

“That it is.” She waves an arm, indicating the freestanding display wall on which much of Wyatt’s work is displayed. “I don’t know if you’re interested in other mediums, but the gallery is currently exhibiting Sins of the Flesh, a curated exhibit of erotic art for sale in a number of mediums by a number of different artists.”

I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Love the title.”

“In that case, I’ll take credit for it. I confess I was inspired by The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was a guilty pleasure of mine back in my youth, and I’ve always loved the music.”

“I wondered,” I admit. “My sister snuck out to see the movie when she was in high school, then bought the soundtrack. She played it over and over. Originally to irritate our mother. But then the songs started to grow on us. It was completely inappropriate for me, of course, but it was our sisterly secret.” I smile wistfully. I’d forgotten those memories until this moment, and now I blink rapidly, trying to forestall tears.

“Why don’t you take a look around,” Emily says, and I nod in gratitude, certain that she’s seen my distress and is giving me an easy out.

“I will. You’ve got me curious now.” That’s the truth, and though I’ll have to hurry to my meeting, I can spare a little time.

I walk along the wall, taking in Wyatt’s prints, a couple of which I saw at his studio the last time I was there. Then I reach the end of the freestanding wall, round the edge, and stop short. I know these paintings.

Not these paintings, but ones so similar that my legs feel weak simply from the memory of it. Because these are Blaine’s paintings, so like the ones that hung at Evelyn’s house the very night that I met Damien in LA. The night that started it all.

I take a step forward, realizing that I’ve wrapped my arms around myself. Not in protection, but in an act of pure selfishness. I want to hold these images close with my memories. As if the taste and texture of those past moments could be lost if I don’t hold tight to them.

Never. Those moments are burned into me. Seared on my heart. And I want nothing more than to have Damien beside me right now.

Since that’s not possible, I let myself slide into the desire that these paintings have sparked. Memories of those moments with Damien, before we were together, but when our attraction burned like wildfire—hot, dangerous, and out of control.

The painting in front of me reflects a different type of desire. While Blaine’s earlier work focused on reds to accent the often black and gray images, this canvas is dominated by bold strokes of stormy blue—ribbons tied fast around the nude woman’s ankles and wrists, binding her tight to a chair. She is arched back, her torso shadowed by the lines of her ribs. Her face is tilted up toward the ceiling. Her long hair falls backwards, a few strands trailing over her shoulder and curling over one bare breast.

Her sex is hidden in shadows, the brush strokes subtle, and with her face raised, there is no way to see her facial expression. Is she aroused, waiting for a trusted lover? Nervous, playing sex games with a man she hardly knows? Is she there of her own volition, or is this an image of fear and violation?

I tremble at the thought, then jump when I feel the pressure of a man’s hands cupping my waist as he steps close behind me. My body tenses, a fight or flight reaction that I can’t control in the split second it takes for my mind to send the message to relax. Because there’s nothing at all to fear.

Damien.

I start to turn, but he increases the pressure, keeping me firmly in place.

“D—”

“Shhh.” I feel his breath on my hair. “Stay just where you are, baby, and don’t turn around.”