Claim Me: A Novel

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.
    “Nikki! Is it true that you were fired from Innovative for violating a morals clause?”
    “The tennis center dedication begins in four hours, Mr. Stark. Can you elaborate on your previous statement regarding Merle Richter?”
    “Damien! Have you been informed about the content of Mr. Schmidt’s affidavit? Is it true that he was paid to keep quiet?”
    I don’t know who Mr. Schmidt is, but I make it a point not to glance at Damien. There’s no way that I’m letting these bastards catch my ignorance on film.
    “What are you going to do with your million dollars, Nikki?”
    I almost answer that one. Surely, if I explain that the money is going to fund a business, they’ll find me less interesting.
    A thin-lipped reporter in a neatly pressed suit steps forward and shoves a microphone in my face. “Can you comment on therumors that you’ve slept with men in the past for money? Is Mr. Stark your most lucrative client?”
    The words strike me like a blow, and I stumble backward, suddenly nauseous. Worse, I’m caught off guard, and my facade has dropped. Tomorrow, all the tabloids will have a shot of my horrified expression. And I know damn well that the captions will suggest that I’m horrified that my secret has been revealed—
not
that the story is bullshit.
    I don’t even realize that Damien has released my hand until I hear the sharp
crack
of his fist intersecting with the reporter’s jaw.
    “Damien! No!”
    He turns to me, and I see the fire in his eyes. And I know that right then, his violent, fiery temper is one hundred percent aimed at vindicating me.
    “No,” I repeat, grabbing his hand before he can take another swing. “Do you want to get arrested? They’ll take you away from me, and even if it’s only a few hours until you post bail, I’ll be alone until you get out.”
    That calms him somewhat, and he takes my hand and yanks me back into the store. He has his phone out, and I hear him telling Edward to bring the limo around.
    The salesgirl had been watching through the window, and now she turns to Damien. “Um, mister? Tell him there’s an alley in the back.” She nods toward the throng still gathered in front of the store. “Unless you want to go through those creeps again.”
    Damien looks at her, and the slow smile erases the last remains of his fury. I want to give the girl a hug.
    Damien keeps his arm around me for the ride back to the apartment, but he says nothing until we are back in the penthouse. His eyes go quickly to where the mirror once hung. He does not have live-in help, but the crew from the office also cleans the apartment, and they’d swooped in quickly and removedall the glass. Even the drywall is now repaired. There is no evidence of Damien’s fury left, and yet he and I both know it is there.
    “I should have smashed his face in,” Damien says.
    “No, you shouldn’t have,” I say. I draw a breath, because I have been thinking about this. “Besides, in a way he’s