Claim Me: A Novel

sigh. “Maybe it should be. You’re not exactly one to be giving relationship advice.”
    “True. But you asked. So which one of us is the idiot here? Besides,” she continues as I stifle a grin, “maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Monogamy can be fun. I mean, I can’t imagine getting tired of Raine.” Her face turns dreamy. “Actually, after last night I don’t think I can imagine Raine getting tired.”
    I laugh, but have to silently admit that I know the feeling.
    “So I keep the bed?”
    “Hell, yes, you keep the bed. For that matter, keep it in the living room for a day or so. Margarita sleepover tonight after shopping?”
    “With movies?”
    “Nothing sappy,” she says. “I’m not in the mood to cry. Action. I want to see shit being blown up.”
    And right then, that sounds like a pretty damn perfect evening to me.

9
    After stuffing our faces at Haru Sushi & Roll Cafe and emptying our wallets at the Beverly Center, Jamie and I settle in with a blender full of tequila, frozen limeade, and just a splash of Cointreau. We already had sake with dinner, and we’re both tipsy enough to sing along with the Christmas-themed rap song at the beginning of
Die Hard
.
    We’re right at the point when Bruce Willis is making fists with his toes in the bathroom when Jamie’s phone rings. She glances at it, then squeals and jumps off the bed before running to her room for privacy.
    Bryan Raine, I presume.
    I debate continuing with the movie—for all I know, she’s going to stay on the phone with him all night—when my own phone rings. I don’t bother looking at the screen; I just tap the button on my headset and answer the call. “Damien?”
    “Are you okay?”
    It takes me a minute to realize what he’s talking about. The paparazzi. “How is it you know every little thing that happens tome? Did you task a satellite? Are there tiny transmitters hidden in the clothes you’ve bought me?”
    “Every person in the world with a smartphone and a social media account saw pictures of you today,” he says. “And, frankly, I like the satellite idea. I’ll get my aerospace division to look into that.”
    “Great.”
    “I asked you a question, Nikki. Are you okay?”
    I want to snap at him for not giving me credit for taking care of myself, but the worry in his voice is genuine. So I say simply, “Yes. I’m fine.”
    “They mentioned Ashley.” His voice is as gentle as I ever heard it, and it is that tone as much as the mention of my sister that brings tears to my eyes.
    “I know what you’re thinking, but it wouldn’t have mattered,” I say. “No one was around the building when I arrived. They came later. Even if Edward had driven me, he would have been long gone by then.”
    “We’ll talk about it later,” he says, and though I know I should argue, I’m happy to shove the topic off into some future neverland. “Tell me about the rest of your day,” he says.
    “Do I have to?”
    “Not good?”
    I consider the question. “Not bad, but I spent most of the day with this guy on my team named Tanner who turned out to be a backbiting little prick. Jamie thinks he’s the one who called the paparazzi.”
    “And made a few suggestions about corporate espionage?” I’m surprised to hear amusement in Damien’s voice. “I must say you’re a most lovely spy.”
    “You’re not pissed?”
    “I’m livid,” he says. “I don’t take those kinds of accusations lightly. If your little prick initiated them, I’ll find out.”
    “Oh. You sounded like you thought it was funny.”
    “The situation, no. I’m merely anticipating the joy of decimating whoever started a rumor like that. I will stand for a lot of things, but corporate espionage isn’t one of them. And suggesting that my girlfriend is my spy makes it that much worse.”
    I swallow. I tease Damien about the extent of his empire all the time, but sometimes I forget just how wide a net he casts and just how much power he really has. He will find out who started that rumor, be it Tanner or someone else. And I do not doubt that he’ll destroy them.
    Like Ollie has said—Damien is dangerous. To his enemies, at least.
    “This is not my first choice for a topic of conversation,” he says.
    “Nor mine,” I say, relieved. “Tell me about your day.”
    “I’d rather hear what you’re doing right now. Where are you?”
    “On our bed,” I say. “Thinking of you.”
    “Are you really? I can picture you,” he says. “Lying