Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

folds me into him. “I love you,” I say, but my voice is so low that I doubt that he hears me. It doesn’t matter though. Right then, the words aren’t necessary. Right then, all we need is each other.

14
    As Damien said, my building has essentially been turned into a fortress. The parking area is now gated and monitored full-time by security cameras. I pause at the security box, flash the card that Damien hands me, and watch while the electronic elves slide the massive thing open. The action is smooth, and we’re past the gate in no time.
    “It looks nice,” I say, because despite feeling a bit coddled, I do appreciate all he’s doing to protect me. More, I understand that it’s not enough. That he’s going to worry. And the fact that I won the Edward-as-driver argument remains a sore spot with Damien.
    “It does,” he says. “But I’m more interested in efficacy than in curb appeal.” He shifts in the car to look back at the gate. “Someone could climb that pretty easily.”
    I glance at the gate in the rearview mirror. “Spider-Man maybe, but not normal people.”
    “That grid pattern could be a ladder.” He types something into his phone. “It’s the typical design for a property gate, but most gates only serve the purpose of keeping non-residents from parking in the spaces. They’re a deterrent. I want more.”
    I hear the
ping
of his phone and realize he’s sent a text.
    “Who are you—”
    “Ryan. My security chief. I want him on this first thing.”
    I roll my eyes, then slide into my parking space. I feel a twinge of regret at the absence of my Honda, but it passes quickly. She’s not gone, after all. Just relocated to the garage beneath Stark Tower until I decide what to do with her.
    Since the mailbox is probably overstuffed, we exit the parking area through the pedestrian gate and walk up the sidewalk to the front entrance, with Damien rolling my suitcase and me schlepping my carry-on. When I’d left for Germany, the foyer was a somewhat shabby alcove with the mailboxes off to one side and a staircase on the other. Now, that alcove is protected by a massive—but tasteful—iron gate. More than that, the space has been given a face-lift. New paint, large pots with flowering plants. Even a water feature.
    “Your doing?” I ask Damien.
    He says nothing, just holds out his hand for my key, then gathers my mail.
    I follow him up the stairs, a little amused, a little exasperated.
    The front door is more or less the same, the “more” being the addition of yet another deadbolt to the two locks that were already there. I glance at Damien in question.
    “Better,” he says, but he’s tapping out another text, and I know that “better” doesn’t mean “good enough.” Apparently Ryan can look forward to a busy Friday.
    Inside, my apartment looks exactly the same, right down to the huge iron bed that dominates the living room and the white cat that blends in with the pile of pillows on the couch. Lady Meow-Meow lifts her head as we enter, then stands, stretches, and leaps daintily to the floor. I expect her to come over for a scratch and cuddle, but instead she just blinks her huge, accusing eyes at me, then turns around and strolls to the back of the apartment,tail lifted high, butt in the air. She pads up the stairs, turns into Jamie’s room, and disappears.
    “I guess she told you,” Damien says, amusement lacing his voice.
    “At least she looks well fed.” Jamie told me she left Kevin, our cute but spacey neighbor, in charge of feeding the cat. Considering I sometimes wonder how Kevin makes it through the day, I can’t say that I fully endorsed her choice of pet sitter.
    I drop my bag on the floor and toss the mail onto the bed. “I can’t believe she left it here,” I say, though of course I can. If left up to Jamie, the bed will become a permanent fixture, much like the pile of clothes at the bottom of her closet or the science project that is undoubtedly growing in the fridge since I wasn’t around to detox the condo every few days.
    Damien has left the suitcase by my bag, and now I unzip it, then rock back on my heels with a frown. This is the part about traveling I really don’t like. It’s crammed full, and I am not looking forward to sorting through everything—to wash, to hang, to iron. I fall back on the time-honored ploy of procrastination, ignoring my luggage while I sort through the mail. Bills, bills, junk, magazines. While I’m doing that,