Claim Me: A Novel

surrounded by erotic art, and me unable to think of anything but fucking you.”
    My breath is shaky. “We met six years before that, Mr. Stark.”
    “So we did,” he says, his lips brushing my ear. “I wanted to fuck you then, too.”
    “Do you always get what you want?” I tease.
    “Yes,” he says, easing closer behind me so that I feel his erection pressed against my rear. “I thought you knew.”
    “Why Mr. Stark,” I say. “I thought you told me it was bad form to host a party with a hard-on.”
    “True,” he says. “Perhaps we should escape to the powder room. I can think of a rather pleasant way to prevent a social faux pas.”
    “Keep talking,” I say. “You just might tempt me.”
    His hand grazes over my skirt, and I feel the material snaking very slowly up my thigh.
    “Stop it,” I say, my voice low as I push his hand down. I shift a bit in his arms, then freeze at what I see on the far side of the floor—Giselle stepping into the room through the kitchen. I tense, because Giselle is not one of the people who knows that I am the girl in the portrait, and I don’t understand why she’s here early. I tell myself that she owns the gallery. That it’s not like she hasn’t seen nude paintings before. And surely she doesn’t know it’s me. That was part of our deal, and Damien is a man of his word.
    I tell myself all that, and I’ve almost convinced myself, too. But then Bruce steps into the room behind her, and I freeze, my body like one solid block of icy mortification.
My naked portrait hangs on the wall, and my boss is looking right at it
.
    “You’re very tense,” Damien teases. “Again, I can suggest several ways to loosen you up.”
    I realize that he hasn’t noticed them and that he doesn’t know why I’ve gone still. Nor can he see my face, or the confusion that must surely be rising in my eyes.
Do they know? How could they know?
    His thumb grazes over the filmy chiffon. “Tell me, Ms. Fairchild,” he murmurs. “What will I find if I slide my hand under your skirt? Did you wear panties tonight?”
    “Why are Giselle and Bruce here already?” I ask.
    His body goes tense. “What?”
    I pull out of his arms and turn to face him. “They don’t know it’s me in the portrait, do they?”
    He’s not looking at me, but I can see that his eyes have found the couple. His jaw is tight, but that’s the only reaction that I see. “They’re not supposed to be here,” he says, his voice calm and even.
    “No,” I say. “Because they don’t know. Right?” I shift a bit so that I’m standing in front of him. I feel strangely frantic, as if I’m precariously balanced and if I’m not careful I’ll be tumbling without a net. “Damien? Did you tell them?”
    For a moment, his face goes hard. He’s the businessman, the negotiator. The man Ollie warned me was dangerous. The man Evelyn told me is an expert at keeping secrets.
    And then his expression softens, and it is as if all he sees is me. “Yes, but, Nikki—”
    That’s all I need to hear. “Oh, God. How could—” I clap my hand to my mouth and breathe in hard through my nose. I’m tumbling now, and I was right—there is no net to catch me.
    Anger bubbles through me. Anger and hurt and humiliation, all black and cold and desolate.
    My anonymity was a vital part of our deal. I’m naked up there. And not just naked, but revealed, so that anyone who sees the portrait—who sees the scars—also sees my demons.
    How could Damien be so cavalier? He saw me melt down atthe first session with Blaine. He’s the one who soothed me, who I thought understood me.
    And now it feels like he’s the one who’s slapped me.
    I blink, because I am not going to cry. Instead, I concentrate on the fury that is cutting through me like a knife, giving me both strength and a weapon. Because so help me, I want to wound Damien as he’s wounded me. This cut is deep, all the more so because he is the one person I trusted most to never hurt me.
    He reaches for me, his face now as gentle as I’ve ever seen it. “Nikki, please.”
    “No.” I hold up my hand and shake my head as I choke back a little sob. “And for the record,” I say, coolly meeting his eyes, “of course I wore panties. Game’s over, remember? The rules no longer apply.”
    I see the hurt in his eyes, and feel it cut sharply through me. For a moment, I regret the lie. I’m overcome by a desperate longing to lose myself in his arms. To hold him and comfort