Enchant Me by J. Kenner
10
The smell of bacon frying pulls me from the sweetest dream in which Damien kissed me all the way down my body, then traced words all over my body with his fingertip.
I stretch, wanting to stay in place and enjoy the aroma and the memory, but even though I’m on vacation, there are things to do, so I sit up, toss the sheets aside, and then laugh out loud, when I see the little heart right over my sex— a heart with an arrow and N&D inside.
I take a picture, then text it to my husband.
I like what I woke up to. Can’t wait to properly thank the artist.
I’m in a meeting. This text is the highlight.
Hopefully only to you.
Always only mine.
I send him a kiss emoji, then close my phone. Awake and happy, I head to the kitchen to greet the rest of the family, then find the kids and Bree in the kitchen. Gregory’s there, too, which surprises me as most mornings he’s invisible as he goes about overseeing the gardeners, repairmen, and cleaning staff.
“Good morning, everyone. Is this a special day?”
“We decided to do up breakfast,” Gregory says. “Bacon, eggs, and…” he adds with a look to Anne.
“Choca pipcakes!” she squeals. She’s old enough now to say it properly, of course, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be having choca pipcakes in bed on her honeymoon.
“Thanks, Gregory,” I say, taking the plate of eggs and bacon he passes to me. I settle at the table between Anne and Bradley and across from Bree, who’s frowning at her phone. “Something wrong?”
“Another rejection. I’m not sure if I’m querying the wrong agents or if my writing sucks.”
“I read it, remember? It’s a long way from sucking. Damien and I both loved it. So did Jamie. Hell, she said she could see it as a movie.”
“I just want to see it as a book.”
“It’s not an easy career to break into.”
“I know.” She takes a deep breath, then repeats, “I know,” and this time, she sounds less defeated. “I knew it would be a long haul—everyone said so. I guess I just hoped I’d be the exception.”
“Everyone hopes that. Unfortunately, not everyone can be. That would defeat the whole exception thing.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but I can also tell she’s fighting a laugh. “Maybe you should ask Evelyn,” I suggest. “I don’t think she represents authors, but surely she knows agents who do.”
“I thought about it,” Bree says. “But it seemed weird. Like crossing a line.”
“I promise it would be fine,” I assure her. “But I get that you feel that way.” I take the piece of bacon Bradley offers me. “How many have you heard back from?”
“I’m sending queries out in batches of four. So far, I’ve heard back from seven. So only one is still outstanding. All the rest were no thank yous.”
“All you need is one.”
“So they say.”
“You’ll get there,” I say, feeling a bit of déjà vu from the way I kept encouraging Lara when she was learning how to do a cartwheel. “Just keep working on the next book and then one after that. That’s what I did when I was hustling phone apps,” I add. Bree knows that I now have a thriving business developing customized software for a variety of companies, from the very large to the mom-and-pop variety.
Of course, thinking about that reminds me that I owe my partner a call, plus I have an appointment at the SCF this morning, and need to get dressed.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I ask as I push back from the table, then give my kids kisses.
“Just feeling sorry for myself. But I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll buy your book,” Anne says. “I’ve got money in my piggybank.”
“Not enough,” Lara says. “But I still have the twenty dollars from my birthday money. We can buy it together.”
“You two are the best,” Bree says, then blows them both kisses. “But how about you both just put wishes for me under your pillows?”
“Okay, Miss Bree,” they both say, and Bree shoots me a quick glance, her hand going over her heart and her face taking on a swoon expression.
I know, I mouth, then wave goodbye to my family before changing and heading out.
Once I’m on the Coast Highway in Coop, my adorable, cherry red MINI Cooper, I call my partner Abby, who answers on the first ring. “I was just about to call you,” she says.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, immediately going tense. This is the longest I’ve been away from work in ages, and while I trust Abby, I still can’t completely chill with her at the helm. “Something with the Greystone-Branch updates?”
Besides Stark International, Greystone-Branch is by far our largest client. And the first major client that I’d landed years ago.
“No, no. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to hear about the wedding. Sorry Renly and I couldn’t make it.”
“It was beautiful,” I assure her.
“That’s excellent. It means yours will be, too. I can’t wait.”
“Apparently we’re having an un-bachelorette party. Jamie will be in touch.”
“She already has been,” Abby assures me, and I realize I’m not surprised. “I’ll see you on Friday. Are you nervous?”
“About the ceremony?”
She laughs. “Hardly. About the bachelorette party.”
“With Jamie throwing it? Hell, yeah, I’m nervous.”
We both laugh, and before we end the call I remind her that even though I’m technically on vacation, she can buzz me if she needs anything at all. “You won’t be breaking some sort of partner code, and you won’t be bothering me,” I assure her.
“Shit,” she says, and my stomach immediately curdles. That’s not a work-based curse. It’s something else, and my mind leaps immediately to the note on the portrait.
“Abby? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, God, Nikki, I probably already broke a code.” She clears her throat. “You got a letter delivered this morning. An envelope. Marge opened it because, well, that’s her job, and she gave it to me. Nik, it’s creepy.”
My mouth has gone so dry it’s an effort to get out words. “Can you send me a picture?”
“No way. Not while you’re driving. Are you at the SCF yet?” she asks, referring the Stark Children’s Foundation where I volunteer in a variety of capacities, and where she knows I have a meeting this morning. “But I’m still in Malibu. Hang on, and I’ll pull over.”
I turn into Upper Crust, my favorite local bakery, and get in the line to grab a coffee for the road and a muffin for later. “Okay,” I tell her. “Send it. I promise I won’t drive off a cliff.”
“I hate this,” she says, but a moment later my phone pings, and I open to see the image she’s sent. It’s a note, and I wince at the familiar handwriting as I read the horrible words:
Do you not know how vile he is? Or do you just like being his slut? Do you really believe you’re the only one?
“You have the original?” My voice sounds raw.
“I gave it to Renly to look into,” she says, referring to her husband, a former movie and television consultant who now works for Stark Security. “I told him not to say anything to Damien yet. I figured you’d want to be the one to do that. Nikki, God, I’m really sorry. I was going to call you after you left the SCF. I knew you had meetings. I didn’t want to ruin your morning. Do you know who could have sent it?”
“No,” I tell her. “But it’s not the first.”
“What?” I hear the shock in her voice and hurry to explain.
“It’s not the first, and to be honest, I don’t really want to talk about it. But call Renly. Ryan will fill him in, and you can get the scoop that way. And just in case, tell Marge to keep the office doors locked. It’s not like we get walk-ins, anyway.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I will. Nikki, I’m so sorry.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “Damien and I have weathered worse.” But even as I say the words, I’m not sure if it’s true. Because as far as I know, these creepy notes are just the beginning. “Call me later if you want,” I tell her.
“If I want? You’re the one getting creepy messages.”
The words and her tone make me smile. “True,” I say. “But you’re worrying.”
“Good point. I’ll call you later.”
We end the call, and once I’m back on the road and sufficiently calm, I call Damien’s cell, because this is something I want to talk about, not just drop into his text messages. But the call is forwarded to his desk, and his assistant, Troy Reed, answers. “Tell him to call me when he’s got a free moment. I’m heading to the SCF, so if it rolls to voicemail, just have him try me the next time he’s free.”
Troy laughs. “You should know he’s never free. Except for you, Mrs. Stark. Do you want me to buzz you through?”
“It’s Nikki, remember? And no.” If he’s in an important meeting, I don’t want to throw off his game. “But let him know I want to talk when he can carve out a few minutes.”
“You got it, Nikki. I’ll let him know.”
It takes me almost an hour to get to the Stark Children’s Foundation in Beverly Hills, but when I do, I’m a bit calmer. The situation sucks, true. And it sucks more than it did when we were getting harassed about the painting or the Richter murder trial, but that’s because this time it’s not just us. It’s our home and our family that are in the hot seat.
I wish I could figure out why. It seems like whoever is sending the texts is jealous of me and even of Sofia. So maybe we’re dealing with an old girlfriend? And while a crazy, stalkerish ex doesn’t sound like a picnic, it’s something I can deal with.
And you know what? No matter who’s behind this or what they want, Damien and I can handle it. After all, we’ve handled everything else the universe has thrown at us. What’s one more crisis?
That, at least, is what I tell myself. But it’s a big fat lie.
This time, the darkness has seeped into our home. The Malibu house has always been our fortress, a place to lock out the world. But Saturday night, the world got in. And though I don’t want it to, that scares me.
I’m not afraid of an attack—not really. Someone found a weakness and took advantage, and with the work Ryan’s team did yesterday and has on the agenda for today, I know that the house will be tighter than Fort Knox by the time I get home.
Mostly, I’m scared of what that note on my portrait represents. That we’re vulnerable. That despite everything Damien does to keep us safe—despite the incredible force of his will—it’s just not possible to wrap us all safe and sound in bubble wrap.
I know that, and I hate it. But I can live with it. Hopefully, Damien can, too, I think as my phone rings, signaling his incoming call.
I’ve just parked, so I keep the engine running as I answer the call, dreading what I have to tell him so much that all I say is, “You’re not going to like this. Check your text.”
I’m right, of course. He doesn’t like it. “I’ve got the meeting with Ashton Stone in five minutes,” he tells me, “but as soon as that wraps, I’ll head over to The Domino. By that time, they’ll have dusted for prints.”
I nod to myself. The Domino is the business park where Stark Security is located, and where Renly would have taken the envelope and note. “Tell them to dust Marge’s station, too. The guy might have delivered it himself if he’s ballsy enough.”
“I’ll mention it, but I imagine Ryan or Renly or Mario already thought of that.” His voice is tight. Businesslike. And I know he’s holding back fury.
“We’ll figure this out,” I say. “We always do.”
At first, he says nothing. Then I hear his soft exhalation. “We will,” he finally says. “And we do. I love you, baby.”
“That’s what I count on, Mr. Stark.”
I’m about to say goodbye when he adds, “I don’t know what this guy’s agenda is. Be careful.”
“Of course, I will,” I say, but I’ve seen enough to know that careful doesn’t always matter. “Call me when you know about the prints.”
“I will,” he says, and we end the call. I sit for a moment to gather myself. While I’m here, it’s about the kids, not our personal crises.
Damien and I were dating when he created the foundation to help abused and neglected children. It’s one of many charitable organizations in which he’s involved, and I became more active after I went public with my cutting. It wasn’t easy—my need for the blade had been a dark secret for so many years—but if I could help even one kid on the road to recovery from self-harm, I knew it would be worth it.
And I was right, too, I think, as I get out of the car and see Mellie racing toward me. “Nikki! Hey, I didn’t know you were going to be here today.”
“Paperwork and a meeting,” I tell her, accepting her enthusiastic hug. “And I was hoping I’d see you.” She’s a vibrant fifteen-year-old with a shock of red hair who came to the foundation about four years ago. Like me, she’s a cutter. And also like me, she has issues with her mother, who is currently serving time for assault. This year, she’s not only one of the foundation’s aid recipients, she’s also working as a summer camp buddy for the younger kids.
“What’s on your agenda today?” I ask her as we take a seat at one of the wooden picnic tables.
“I’m taking some of the ten and eleven-year-olds on a nature hike. Well, me and Adam are taking them.”
“Well, that’s nice,” I say, my intonation rising since I know perfectly well that she’s had a huge crush on Adam for ages.
To my surprise, she only shrugs. “I’m over him. Besides, he’s got a girlfriend.” She makes a face and surrounds the last word with air quotes.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
Mellie shrugs. “I guess. I mean, I’m not going to cut over him.”
My ears prick up at the emphasis on the last word. “Did you cut over something?”
“No!” She blurts out the word. “No, I swear I didn’t. I mean, yes, I thought about it, but it wasn’t even like an urge, you know? It was like a nod. Like, I used to do this, but fuck you, Mom, I’m not going to hurt myself because of you.” She clears her throat. “Sorry for the cursing.”
“Don’t worry about the cursing,” I tell her. “I just want to know that you’re okay.”
“I’m good. Really. Just stupid stuff when I visited my mom. But it’s cool. How about you?” she asks, turning to face me.
“I’m doing okay,” I tell her. “To be honest, I’m kind of proud of myself. We’ve had some nasty stuff happen this weekend—some people sending horrible texts about Damien and me—and I didn’t even think about it. Well,” I amend, “maybe a tiny bit, but I brushed it away, just like a gnat.”
“Good on you,” she says, then high-fives me. “I’m glad we were both strong,” she says. “Our moms were the reason we started, you know. For both of us, I mean. And anytime we cut it just gives them power.”
“You’re very wise for fifteen.”
“Not hardly. But I was thinking, I used to believe you must have it really great because of all that money. Yours and Mr. Stark’s, I mean. But I guess that’s not really true, huh?”
“It’s not the money that makes it great,” I tell her. “It’s Damien.”
She laughs, her cheeks turning rosy. “Yeah, I can see that. Your husband’s kinda hot, you know?”
I fight back a laugh. “Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
“It helps, you know?”
“Damien?” I ask.
“No. You. Having to fight the urge to cut and stuff like that. Just not being perfect.”
“Well, then I must be the biggest help in the world.”
Mellie laughs. “So, um, part of the reason I’m okay with Adam and his new girlfriend is … oh, man, I can’t believe I’m telling you this … but I’ve got a crush. And he’s so awesome and cute and —”
“It’s not Lyle, is it?” Lyle Tarpin’s also active at the SCF, and more than one teen girl has a crush on him.
“What? No. Lyle’s cute and all, but he’s old. This guy’s a real person, not a movie star, and he’s only a few years older than me. He was here the other day to fill out a volunteer application, and I showed him around.”
“That’s great. Was he selected?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Well, keep me posted,” I say, as my phone chimes, signaling an incoming text. “I should check this,” I tell Mellie. “Give me a sec?”
“Oh, I’ve got to go get ready for the hike. But it was great to see you.” She gives me a hug, then bounds off toward the recreation center. I wave her off as I pull my phone out of my purse, then almost drop my phone when I see what’s on the screen. It’s a video, and though it doesn’t autoplay, I can see from the still what it is.
It’s me and Damien at Masque.
I close my eyes and look again, but the picture’s still there, and I force myself to contemplate this reality. We’re on a balcony, and I remember that night vividly. It had been exhilarating, exciting, wildly erotic.
Now, I think that it may have been a huge mistake, too. Because despite the firm policies that Matthew Holt has in place—the background checks on members, the no phone or camera policies—there we are, me with the top of my elegant dress pulled down so that my breasts are completely exposed, and Damien behind me, my skirt very clearly hiked up. And, I’m certain that when I press the play button on the video, it will be even more clear exactly what we are doing.
I curse, and the phone tumbles from my hand. I lurch for it, desperate to grab it before one of the kids does, even though there are no kids around. Then I force myself to look once again. To read the text sent by whoever took this video—or whoever managed to acquire it, which is an even more disturbing thought.
I hesitate, then swipe up so that the message bubble comes into view:
Look what he’s made of you. A mother with such sweet kids, and here he is shaming you just hours before your little girl was taken. What a selfish prick. Only about his needs. His convenience. His pleasure. You must know you’re not special. You’re just the one who stuck. And maybe he’s fooled you, but not me. I know what he is. I’m going to let everyone know what he is.
