Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

beautiful face that I have seen through so many emotions—humor and ecstasy, anger and frustration, and on and on and on. Right now, though, he just looks happy, and something I think might be pride swells within me. Damien Stark is a complicated man. And yet I am what he needs.
    Despite my bliss, Carmela’s words come back to me, and I cannot help but be struck by how they mirror my earlier dark thoughts. That once reality pokes its head in, things start spiraling out of control.
    “What is it?” Damien asks, his eyes intent upon my face.
    I do not want to bring a dark cloud between us, but I also don’t want to hide my fears from Damien. Not when I know that he is the only one capable of soothing them.
    “Stupid stuff,” I say. “I was thinking about what Carmela said. About reality.”
    “Carmela’s a cold bitch. And the only reality I know is you. Don’t tell me you doubt that.”
    “I don’t,” I say emphatically. “But, Damien, all the noise outside of us. I don’t want to feel like we’re living in a fantasy bubble, but sometimes I think that we are, and that reality keeps trying to break through. The trial. Stalker mail and texts. The press. And now your old girlfriends.”
    “Fuck them,” he says.
    “Damien, I’m serious.”
    “So am I,” he says, his expression as intense as I have ever seen it. “At the end of the day, it’s just you and me. We make our own reality, Nikki. And no one can take it from us.”

9
    As we head down in the elevator the next morning with the bellman and a cart full of luggage, I keep glancing back, unable to shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something.
    “I keep that room on a permanent lease,” Damien says. “If you left something behind, the hotel will ship it to us.”
    “You own the room?” I don’t know why I’m surprised; after all, he owns much of the known universe. And I was already aware that he keeps a permanent suite at the Century Plaza hotel for clients who travel to Los Angeles.
    “Enough clients visit the Stark International office here to justify the expense.” He speaks casually, as if it’s no big deal that he leases one of the most expensive rooms at one of the most expensive hotels in Europe for three hundred sixty-five days out of the year. “If the maids find anything, the concierge will call our corporate liaison. Don’t worry.”
    I nod, hoping there is no call—and then do a mental head-thwap as I realize what I’ve forgotten. “My phone,” I say. “We do need to go back.” I try to picture where I left it, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it’s charging on the bar?
    “I still have it,” Damien says, then pulls it from the leather messenger bag that is doubling for a briefcase.
    “Oh.” My stomach churns unpleasantly. I’d completely forgotten about my stalker text from last night, and I’m not overly thrilled with the reminder. “Were you able to learn anything?”
    “Not yet. I forwarded it to my team. Hopefully they’ll have news by the time we arrive back in the States. In the meantime, don’t delete it.”
    “Okay,” I say, although I’m not really keen on seeing that number pop up every time I open my text messages.
    Since Damien had powered the phone down, I hit the button to wake it back up so that I can check my texts, emails, and voice messages. I don’t expect there to be much—Ollie is here and knows I’m traveling—but Jamie or Evelyn or Blaine might have buzzed me, especially once they heard the news that Damien’s case was dismissed.
    Sure enough, I have an emoticon-filled text from Jamie consisting of balloons, confetti, and about a dozen smiley faces followed by CWTSY and another round of balloons. I roll my eyes at her goofiness, but the truth is that I’m smiling. I text back that I can’t wait to see her, either.
    Evelyn and Blaine left an actual voice message telling me how much they’re looking forward to our return, and that I should give Damien a hug from each of them. “And feel free to plant a kiss on him from me,” Evelyn adds.
    I also have two emails. The first is from my mother, and just seeing it makes me cringe. I have finally reached a point in my life where I don’t feel the constant pressure of being under her thumb, and I know that I should simply delete the email and declare a victory for sanity. That, however, is one baby step too far. Instead, I move it unread to an archived folder. Someday I’ll either delete it or read it; the only victory I