“The whole situation is just horrible,” Nikki says as she digs into one of Flamingo Grille’s famous gingerbread pancakes. It’s one of my favorite West Hollywood restaurants, and when Nikki called this morning after she heard the news about that poor dog, Dallas suggested they join us for breakfast since Dallas and I are catching an afternoon flight back to New York. I’d been a little hesitant at first, as my melancholy from last night still lingered, but I can’t deny that it’s nice to see them and talk about what happened.
“And you said you’re pretty sure the dog’s owner isn’t the one who did it?” she continues. “Even though she posted all those nasty tweets about Dallas?”
“She’s been out of the country for weeks,” Dallas said. “I just got confirmation this morning.”
Under the table, Dallas takes my hand. Quince had used his MI6 connections to track down Carol Lucas’s various comings and goings through her passport number, and had learned she’d been traveling through Europe for the past fourteen days, with her dog tucked away in one of Los Angeles’s many doggy spas.
Of course, the call from Quince hadn’t really changed anything as far as I was concerned. Both Dallas and I were already convinced that the Woman is my stalker. But, Nikki and Damien know none of that.
“I’m sorry you’re leaving town so soon,” she continues. “I was hoping we could spend some time. But I’d do the same thing in your shoes, and I imagine you’ll feel a lot safer in an apartment with a doorman than in a rather secluded house.”
“Very true,” I admit. “Plus, I really just want to be close to my mom.” Another truth, because even if Dallas and I didn’t need to bring both our parents up to speed, I’d still want to be near my mother.
Nikki’s smile flickers. “I’ve never had a crisis where I actually wanted my mother. In fact, given the option, I’d run as far and as fast as possible.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but she just shakes her head as Damien takes her hand.
“Thanks, but it’s fine.” Nikki smiles at him. “Actually, it’s perfect.”
Since I’ve obviously touched on a sore spot, I struggle to find a new subject, then land on Hollywood and my script and Lyle Tarpin—who Nikki has actually met a few times—and then other random subjects like vacation homes and travel plans and who makes the best cocktail in Los Angeles.
In other words, perfectly normal stuff.
Throughout the meal, Damien’s phone has vibrated on the table with a dozen or so text messages. He never responds, keeping his focus instead on us and the conversation, which I find particularly polite, considering the empire he controls.
This time when he glances down, though, he doesn’t immediately ignore the text. Instead, he frowns as he reads it, then looks between Dallas and me. “This is from my media people. It looks limited right now, but my guess is it’ll go viral within the hour.”
Without even thinking about it, I’ve reached for Dallas and am clutching his arm so hard it’s a wonder he has circulation. I can feel him beside me, as tense as I am.
“Just spit it out, man,” Dallas says, the dread clear in his voice.
Damien draws a breath, then passes us his phone. It’s open to a text message.
Re: Resort at Cortez Negative PR. Mr. Stark, I regret to tell you that the attached has just broken. Since it involves a Cortez investor, I wanted you to see it ASAP.
Beneath the message is a tiny icon representing a photograph. Dallas taps on it, and it enlarges to fill the phone’s screen.
Sex in Captivity!The now-disinherited Sykes heirs Jane Martin and Dallas Sykes have been in the news lately because of their sexy sibling shenanigans. But new information suggests these two have a long history—and that they even lost their virginity to each other while the victims of an unreported kidnapping, captive fifteen-year-olds awaiting ransom. Truth or terrible rumor? We can’t wait to find out!
My stomach clenches, and for a moment I think I’m going to be ill. I’m still holding tight to Dallas’s arm, and I keep my eyes down, my gaze focused on the remains of my Spanish omelet until I feel steady enough to look up. I’m certain that Nikki or Damien are going to ask about the kidnapping even if they don’t take the extra step to pry into our sexual relationship.
But to their credit, neither says a thing, and all I see when Nikki looks at me is a compassion so genuine that my entire body sags with relief.
“Jane?” Dallas uses his free hand to peel off my still-tight fingers. He holds my hand and looks hard at my face. I can see his own fury, banked by his concern for me.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Just caught off guard.” I make a face. “And dreading the vultures that are going to be camped out in front of our apartment when we get home.”
“Then don’t go home,” Nikki says. “At least not yet. Take another day here.”
“The house will be worse,” Dallas points out. “Easier access. The street is probably already a nightmare.”
“Then go stay on the island.” Damien says, referring to The Resort at Cortez, and Dallas’s bungalow there.
“Exactly,” Nikki says. “Stay out of the public eye and regroup. Even if just for twenty-four hours.”
“It won’t die down in a day,” I say, but my protest is hollow. I want what she’s suggested. Time away from the madness. Time with Dallas.
I want it, yes. More important, I think we need it.
“You’re right,” Nikki says. “It won’t go away that fast. But the initial wave of mania will be over. More important, you’ll be in a better place. Go to the island. Ignore your phones, your computers, the Internet.”
I glance at Dallas, and I know he can see the question in my expression. Can we? We said we’d tell our parents everything. Can we wait another day?
“I think they’re right,” Dallas says. “I think we should take a day.”
I nod, so overwhelmed with relief that I feel as if I would float to the ceiling if Dallas released my hand. Because I don’t want to face my mom and dad with this news so raw, like an open wound on our family. I need time to think. To heal. To just be with Dallas before the madness starts.
Then reality hits me like a pin, and I deflate a bit. “We still have to go by the house. All our stuff is there.”
“Tell me what you need and I’ll send someone to get it. Or I can have a security team escort you home. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks,” Dallas says. “We’ll take you up on that.”
“Yes,” I agree. “We really—oh, hell. I forgot about Brody and Stacey.” I glance between Nikki and Damien. “We just offered the bungalow to my best friend and his wife. They’re coming in today.”
“So you guys can stay in ours,” Nikki says. “Better yet, put your friends up there. And stay in your own place.”
“Are you sure?” Stacey is a huge tennis fan, and Damien played professional tennis until he quit to found an empire. For her, the idea of staying in Damien Stark’s bungalow is the equivalent of telling a kid they get to ride in Santa’s sleigh.
“It’s our pleasure,” Damien says.
“Just go,” Nikki adds. “Enjoy your friends. Relax. And for just a little while, try to escape the world.”
