Release Me

is wicked. “No,” he repeats. And that’s when I understand. He’s punishing me for pulling back in his office. “Our week begins when you arrive for your first sitting.”
    “Tonight?” I ask.
    “At six.”
    I nod, disappointed but excited.
    His hand slides down the curve of my ass over the thin material of my skirt. “And, Nikki,” he adds, “don’t bother wearing underwear. You really won’t need any.”
    I swallow and realize I’m already wet with anticipation.
    Oh. Fucking. My
.

18
    I hang the Leica around my neck, but we leave the rest of our stuff with Richard and exit the back door of the hotel, following a path that takes us past the pool, an outdoor dining area, and then the tennis courts. Two couples are playing doubles, laughing and teasing each other as they miss most every stroke.
    “Not a lot of hotels have courts,” I say. “Was that your idea?”
    “The courts were here when I bought the place,” Damien says. It may be my imagination, but I think he’s begun to walk faster. I, however, am slowing down. There’s a bench just off the courts, and I pause there, my hands on the backrest. I’m looking at the players, but I’m imagining Damien on the court. His legs taut and tanned. His broad shoulders and strong arms. His jaw tight with determination.
    After a moment, I feel him come up behind me. “We should go,” he says. “I want to show you the wharf, and I need to be back in the office by three.”
    “Oh. Sure. I forgot.” I take his hand and we continue walking, leaving the hotel grounds and then strolling past the charming stucco houses on Mason Street.
    “Do you miss it?” I ask, as we turn right off Mason into a small, green park. Ahead of us is the beach and the Pacific Ocean, shining blue-green in the afternoon sun. “Tennis, I mean.”
    “No.” His answer is flat, without any hesitation or guile. Even so, I don’t quite believe him, and I say nothing, hoping that he will elaborate. After a few more moments, he does. “At first, I loved it. But after a while, the fun went out of the game. There was too much baggage.”
    “The competition?” I ask. “Maybe you could get the fun back if you just played. I’m terrible, but we could hit a ball around sometime.”
    “I don’t play anymore,” he says. His tone is hard and firm, and doesn’t mirror my light suggestion at all.
    “Okay.” I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. It’s obvious I’ve touched a nerve, and I’m not quite sure how to get the flirtatious, laughing Damien back. “I’m sorry.”
    He looks at me sideways, then exhales, as if in frustration. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He smiles, and I see the ice starting to melt, revealing nice underneath. “It’s just that I’m done with tennis. Like you’re done with pageants. You don’t compete anymore, do you?”
    I laugh. “Hell no. But there’s a difference. I never thought it was fun.”
Dammit
, I should have kept my mouth shut. I don’t want him icing over again.
    But he’s not icy at all. He’s looking at me with interest. “Never?”
    “Never,” I say. “Well, maybe when I was little I liked the dressing up. I honestly don’t remember. But, no, I don’t think I liked it even then. I can’t remember feeling like anything other than my mother’s personal Barbie doll.”
    “And dolls don’t have a life of their own,” he says.
    “No, they don’t,” I say, pleased that he understands so well. “Did your parents push you to play?” I’m edging up against a sore point, but I want to get to know this man better.
    We’ve reached the end of the park, and he takes my hand as we cross Cabrillo Boulevard. We reach the beach and walk in silence toward the surf. I’ve pretty much decided that I’m not going to get an answer when Damien finally speaks.
    “At first I liked it. Loved it, actually. I was so damn young, but even then I loved the precision and the timing. And the power. Damn, I could hit that ball. It was a crappy year—my mother was sick—and I took out all my frustration on the court.”
    I nodded. I got that. When I was younger, I lost myself in the computer or behind a camera. It was only when that stopped being enough that I started cutting. Somehow, everyone finds a way to cope. I think of Ashley and bite back a frown. They find a way—or they don’t.
    “I started staying after school and the gym teacher coached me, but pretty soon he said that I’d blown past him. My dad worked in a