Claim Me: A Novel

don’t know her well enough yet, and I think we should start with a simple coffee before I hit her up to provide me with entertainment on a lonely Saturday evening.
    I’m left with either work or photography, and since my camerais still at the Malibu house, I decide to go with work. Now is as good a time as any to finish the coding on my two smartphone apps that are almost ready to market. That, of course, means a quick trip to my condo. Since I have no car at Damien’s apartment, that’s not as easy as it sounds.
    The phone in the kitchen acts as both a regular phone and an intercom to Damien’s office. I’ve seen him use it a dozen times, and I press the button to operate the speaker. “Hello?” I say tentatively.
    “Yes, Ms. Fairchild? Can I help you?” I grin. This really is pretty cool.
    “Um, yeah. Is this Ms. Peters?” I ask, scraping my memory for the name of Stark’s weekend assistant.
    “How kind of you to remember. It is. What can I do for you?”
    “I don’t have a car and I need to go pick up something at home. Could you arrange a taxi or—”
    “I’ll have Edward bring the limo around. If you take the elevator to parking level C, he’ll meet you right there.”
    “Oh. Okay. Thanks.” I end the call and shimmy happily in the kitchen. Yes, there are definitely perks to having money.
    As Ms. Peters had predicted, Edward is waiting for me.
    “Thanks so much,” I say.
    “Not at all, Ms. Fairchild. Where are we going?”
    “My condo,” I say. “I just need to run in and pick up something. And I really wish you’d call me Nikki.”
    “Right away, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, but he grins as he says it.
    I slide into the limo and curl up in the corner, thinking about that first night I met Damien. Or re-met him, I suppose, since our first encounter six years ago doesn’t really count. I close my eyes and remember the way Damien whispered to me. How turned on I’d been by the words he’d spoken into the phone, and howshocked I’d been by what I’d so willingly done in the back of a limo.
    By the time we reach the condo, I’ve played back that entire evening in my mind—and I am very much missing Damien.
    “Will you be long?”
    “Not too long. I need to download a couple of things onto my laptop, but that’s all. Are you listening to a book?”
    “Decided to try a classic,” he says. “
The Count of Monte Cristo
. Not bad, so far. Not bad at all.”
    I smile at his assessment of one of my favorite books, then hurry up the stairs.
    I can hear the loud bangs coming from our neighbor Douglas’s apartment, and I wince. I know it’s not Jamie in there burning up the sheets with him, but I still scowl at his door.
    Inside, I toss my purse on the bed that still looms in the living room, head for the two stairs that lead up to the bedroom, then scream as the door to the bathroom jerks open on my right.
    Ollie
.
    “Jesus Christ!” I shout. “You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?” He looks like hell. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin splotchy, and his hair hangs limp around his face. I take a step toward him. “Are you okay?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Oh, shit,” I say. “You and Jamie didn’t—I mean, she’s out with Raine right now.” The idea that he and Jamie had been doing the nasty only hours before she went out on a date with her new boyfriend bothers me almost as much as the idea of Ollie cheating on his fiancée.
    Actually, the whole thing makes me ill, and I’m not thrilled about finding Ollie in my apartment. I don’t want to think about their drama. More than that, I’m still stinging from the fact that Ollie hasn’t called since I saw him at The Rooftop. Sure, he could be busy, but once the million-dollar-painting news broke, surely he could have at least texted. Yet days have passed, and he hasn’tsaid even one word to me about all the gossip that’s been swirling around me like leaves in a windstorm.
    Or, as Damien would say, like sharks smelling blood.
    “I didn’t do anything with Jamie,” he says sullenly. “Courtney and I had a fight.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry,” I say, though I am not surprised.
    “Yeah, me, too.” He sighs, then checks his watch. “We’re meeting for dinner. Patch things up. At least I hope so.”
    “So do I.” I don’t mention that I am dubious. Ollie doesn’t have the best track record, and though he is my friend—at least I think he is still my friend—I can’t help but think