I spend most of the next two hours with Damien at my side as we dance with the kids and mingle with all the guests, praising Evelyn and Frank while catching up on everybody’s news. Which is how I learn that not only is Matthew Holt producing a new musical that will premier next year, but that Kelsey—an incredible dancer—is starring in it.
“I didn’t know you could sing,” I tell her.
“I can’t,” she says, leaning against Wyatt. “But that’s part of the show. In a world where everyone communicates by singing, I’m the oddball who only dances. It’s different, but the book and lyrics are brilliant.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Damien says.
“We’re rehearsing and opening in LA,” she tells us. “I insisted because I don’t want to be away from Mandy.” She crosses her fingers, and adds, “Once we move to Broadway, Wyatt and I will get an apartment there. But that’s still a long way off. Right now, I’m just so grateful to Matthew for taking a chance on the show.”
I glance over at Matthew, a stunning man with broad shoulders, chestnut hair, and the reputation of being an eccentric genius with a dangerous edge. Like Damien, Matthew exudes power and control even when he’s doing nothing more than standing there.
He’s also the owner of Masque, a private sex club that Damien and I have visited, and where I know Jamie and Ryan have a membership.
Now I can’t help but wonder how much Kelsey knows about the show’s benefactor. Or, for that matter, if she and Wyatt are members of the club. I think about Wyatt’s photography show filled with erotic images for which Kelsey posed not long before they got married, and I have to admit the possibility wouldn’t surprise me at all.
“We need to go back,” Damien whispers.
His finger traces up my spine, setting my whole body on fire as I tilt my head to look at him. “How do you always know what I’m thinking?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just kisses my nose and whispers, “Soon.” And from the heat in his eyes, I know he means it.
After more mingling, eating, and drinking, Alaine finally rolls out the wedding cake. As Evelyn and Frank wanted, it has only two tiers. The bottom is a yellow cake with white frosting and the top is chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Nothing ornate but, as Evelyn said, “Our cake, our day. And I’ve never been a fan of fancy sweet things. Give me Betty Crocker, and I’m fine.”
This is definitely several steps up from a box cake, but it has a practical simplicity that I think fits both Evelyn and Frank. Soon the cake has been diminished to almost nothing, the kids are covered in chocolate, and we’re all raising our champagne glasses to toast the bride and groom before seeing them off to the bungalow.
Everyone gathers for hugs and congratulations, and happy tears prick my eyes as I wrap my arms around each of them in turn. Then we wave them away as they walk hand-in-hand down the lit path to the bungalow. I watch until they round a bend and disappear out of sight.
I’m leaning back against Damien, and his arms go around me, his chin on top of my head. “May their love be as strong as ours,” he whispers, and the tears finally escape to trickle down my cheeks.
“That’s beautiful,” I say.
“It’s the most I can hope for anyone. The most and the best.”
I turn in his arms, then kiss him, my whole body alive with happiness.
“All right, you two,” Jackson says, striding up with Ryan at his side. “Aren’t you supposed to slide into work mode now?”
Damien chuckles. “If you mean asking for everyone’s opinions on the catering, we are indeed.”
Alaine joins us, along with all of the servers who were manning the various stations. They look like an army of men and women in white shirts and black vests, but I don’t see the man I saw slip out of the back row.
I’m about to mention him to Damien, but am sidetracked when Alaine asks the lineup to describe the dish they were serving and then invites our friends to comment on which ones they liked the best. We end up spending the next forty-five minutes discussing the dishes, and even sampling a few all over again. Just to be sure, of course.
Alaine takes notes, then promises to call me and Damien early in the week so we can further discuss and finalize our menu.
“This has been amazing,” I tell him a few moments later after Damien and I have said goodbye to several of the guests. “Thank you so much. Do you want to join us for a drink? A few of us are going to go inside for a coffee or nightcap.” Jamie and Ryan are staying, along with Sylvia and Jackson, who have no reason to get home early since their kids are staying overnight in the playroom with ours.
Ollie, unfortunately, declines, as does Alaine, who notes that some of his staff are still being trained, and he wants to keep an eye on them as they close the kitchen.
“So it’s just us six,” I say, as we start to head inside. I lock the first floor’s sliding patio door so none of the little ones can escape back outside. Not that I’m worried; the house has all kinds of security, after all.
Jamie and I fall in step together as we head up the stairs, the others lingering behind since Jackson, Sylvia, and Damien are talking about a new Stark-Steele real estate project in which Ryan has invested.
“Do they not understand that now is the time for wine and chill?” Jamie asks.
“It’s their way,” I say, and we both start to laugh.
The sound dies in my throat, though, as we reach the top of the stairs and my portrait—the nude for which Damien paid me a million dollars—comes into view.
But it’s not the familiar painting that draws my attention. It’s the note taped to the frame, written in red crayon on gray construction paper.
Do you really love her, or is she just one more woman you treat like a whore?
7
“Damien!” Nikki’s shrill cry jarred Damien away from a discussion about a permitting issue on a new real estate project. He caught Ryan’s eye in the same instant that they both sprinted for the stairs, with Jackson right behind them.
“Check the playroom!” Damien called back to Sylvia, who took off running to the first floor room.
Damien reached the landing only seconds before Ryan to find Nikki gaping at him. He yanked her into his arms. “What is it? What happened?”
Her answer was cut off by Sylvia calling out that the kids were fine, and in that moment his terror faded somewhat. Not completely, though. His wife was pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fury “Nikki? What—”
“That!” She thrust her hand toward the painting, and he immediately saw the note taped to the portrait. The note that called his wife a whore.
“Son of a bitch.” The word burst from him, fueled by both fury and fear. Fury that someone had come into the house and violated their personal space. Fear for the children, because Damien knew better than anyone just how vulnerable they were. “Whoever did this—”
“They’re fucking with us in our private space,” she said, the fury in her voice matching his own.
He wanted to rip the damn note down, tear it into pieces, but he couldn’t. It needed to stay where it was until they had the chance to examine it, check for fingerprints, do all of the grunt work that comes with a threat.