The aptly named Pearl Hotel stands out like a gem even in a city as charming as Santa Barbara. The mission-style building gleams in the California sun, with two sparkling pools, burnished red roof tiles, and multiple rooftop patios with views of both the city and the white sand beach.
One of those patios graces the roof above the Presidential Suite, and as I stand at the railing, Damien’s arms encircle my waist. I lean back against him and sigh deeply as I look out over the rooftops of nearby houses, a small park, and the ocean in the distance.
“I love it here,” I say. “It’s like an oasis in the middle of the city.”
“At night it’s even better,” he says, as he looks out at the sun that still hangs well above the horizon. “Why don’t we move the meeting with Bertrand earlier, then come back here in time to watch the sunset and have dinner here on the roof?”
“Tempting,” I say, leaning back in the circle of his arms. “But too many moving parts. Ryan and Carmela and Wyatt, not to mention Evelyn and Charles for one. We’re meeting them in just a few, remember? And Carmela if she can think of an excuse to sneak away from Bertrand.”
It’s just about time to dive into the Bertrand plan, and we’re meeting to go over the plan one final time. And, of course, I have to consider all the puzzle pieces that Damien doesn’t know about. Like the three dozen guests who are currently stashed away in their own rooms at this hotel or its sister property three blocks over.
They’re staying out of sight until Damien and I are safely in Evelyn’s room, which we’re using as a staging area. As soon as we enter, Evelyn is going to call room service for cocktails. True, we want the drinks, but that will also be the cue for the concierge to not only call all the guests so that they can hurry to the Presidential Suite, but also to signal the event team to move in and set up the room.
In theory, it’s going to go off like clockwork, and by the time everyone has played their part and Damien has laid down the law with Bertrand, the guests will be in place, the food will be set out, the decorations will be up, and Damien and I will walk through that door to a full-on, one-hundred percent surprise.
Just a few more hours, and I can stop worrying, because one way or another, the party will have started.
“All right,” Damien says. His hands are around my waist, but as he bends his head so that he can press his lips to my ear, his hands slide higher to cup my breasts. “We’ll just have to work with the schedule we have,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
“Yes,” I say, arching back as he cups my breasts and his tongue traces the curve of my ear. “We’ll make do.”
“Fortunately, I don’t anticipate a long meeting. What I’m most looking forward to,” he says, “is when we come back. I have very definite plans for the evening.”
“Oh?” I say innocently.
“Oh, yes. First, I’m going to bring you back up here to the roof. Then I’m going to very slowly remove every bit of clothing until you’re naked under the stars, the cool wind soothing on your hot skin. Then I’m going to have you stretch out on one of the chaise lounges, your eyes up toward the sky. Not that you’ll see the stars, because I’ll have a blindfold on you.”
“Damien. . .” I’m not sure if I want him to stop or continue. All I know is that I’m already wildly aroused, and that we have to leave very, very soon.
“Shhh,” he says, pressing a finger over my lips. “Next, I’m going to tie your arms down. Then I’ll spread your legs wide, your feet on either side of the chaise, so that you’re wide open, baby. Open and hot and wet for me.”
I swallow and squeeze my thighs together to quell a building need.
“Then I’m going to touch every inch of you without actually touching you. A feather. My breath. An ice cube. . .” He trails his finger down the side of my neck, and I have to reach out and hold onto the railing because my legs seem incapable of holding me up.
I whimper softly. Damien notices and smiles, the bastard.
“I’ll run my fingertip over your skin next, paying special attention to your nipples. And then I’ll kiss my way up your thighs, getting close, but never quite where you want me. Do you know why?”
“Because you’re a cruel man?”
“Pretty much. Mostly because I want you desperate. I want you to beg me. And,” he adds in a lighter tone, “because it’s my birthday.”
“Is it?” I ask innocently. “In that case, sir, I’m at your disposal.”
He chuckles. “I like the sound of that. But right now, I think you have a scam to pull off. But,” he adds, pulling me close enough that I can feel his erection pressing against me, “we’ll be back here soon enough.”
We will, I think. But I won’t be getting my rooftop seduction.
I sigh.
I really, really hope that Damien enjoys the hell out of his party.
“How did it go?” I ask, as Evelyn and Charles shut the door behind them. We’re in Evelyn’s suite, using it as our base of operations, and Damien, Ryan, Jamie and I have been waiting for the last twenty minutes for her and Charles to return.
“Brilliant,” Evelyn says, pouring herself a glass of bourbon before sinking into one of the overstuffed armchairs. “He’s familiar with both me and Charlie, so he was primed to believe I’m representing Wyatt and some of the lesser models for the catalog shoot. Wyatt’s still in there, by the way. Bertrand wants some candids of him and Carmela behind the scenes.”
I’m sitting on one of the stools by the kitchen island with Jamie beside me. Ryan and Damien are by the window, and though I may be projecting, to me they both already look forbidding.
Beside me, Jamie turns on the stool, looking between Charles and Evelyn. “He knew who both of you were, but he didn’t think about Damien?”
It’s a valid question. Evelyn was a very public representative for Damien back in his youth, and now it’s no secret that they remain good friends. And Charles has been his primary attorney for at least as long. Considering Damien features so prominently in Bertrand’s blackmail pictures, it’s surprising he didn’t make the connection.
But Charles just shakes his head. “Maybe he’s a damn good actor, but I don’t think so. I think having Wyatt’s editor friend call first made the whole thing seem more legitimate. He wasn’t thinking in terms of scamming or getting scammed. He was thinking about his bank account.”
I nod, grateful that Wyatt had been able to coax a friend at one of the top fashion magazines into helping us. She’d called to tell Bertrand that she wanted to do a spread with Carmela during Fashion Week.
“And Carmela?” Damien asks. “She’s still in with him?”
Evelyn nods. “She’s playing the role brilliantly. Thrilled about her modeling comeback, but cold and standoffish to Bertrand.” She shifts her attention to me. “Did she tell you she couldn’t act? I’d say she’s doing a fine job.”
“In my experience, Carmela has a knack for acting in whatever manner will get her what she wants,” Damien says with affectionate humor. “I think that trait is serving her well now.”
“When are we going in?” Jamie asks.
“You’re not,” Ryan says. “It’s just me and Damien.”
“And Nikki,” Damien adds. “She should be there for Carmela.”
I meet his eye, and see just the hint of a smirk. Apparently he sees the irony in me being there for Carmela as much as I do.
Jamie takes a step toward Ryan, undoubtedly to argue the point, but I grab her arm. “If you’re there, he’s going to be even more defensive,” I say. “Besides, you can stay here with Evelyn and Charles. Hang out. Go get a drink. We’ll find you when we’re done,” I say, looking her straight in the eye so that there’s no way she can miss that what I mean is that we’ll find her in my suite. Because that’s where she’s supposed to go next, to organize the party for Damien.
She crosses her arms and makes a face, but she nods. Then she pokes me in the chest. “You owe me one.”
“Definitely,” I say.
She flops back down on the couch. “So when are y’all going in?”
“Carmela’s supposed to call here, pretending to call room service.” I glance at my watch. “Should be soon,” I say, and the words are barely out of my mouth when the phone rings and Carmela places her fake order for a pitcher of martinis.
“Show time,” Ryan says, and Damien takes my hand.
Bertrand’s suite is one floor up, and we take the stairs. Carmela opens the door, her eyes wide, and leads us back into the parlor where Wyatt stands by the window, and Bertrand—a pudgy-faced man with a sour expression—sits at the desk, though he stands the moment he sees us.
“What the hell?” He whips around to find Carmela, who’s moved near Wyatt. “What the fucking hell are you doing bringing that asshat and his little bitch here?” he rants, gesturing toward me and Damien. “And who the fuck is the flunky?”
Ryan steps forward. “The flunky can kick your ass without breaking a sweat,” he says. “And the flunky is here to make sure none of these pictures—or any other similar pictures you might have squirreled away—get released.”
He tosses a folder onto the desk, the impact causing the photos inside to slide partially out. They’re the original blackmail photos we’d received back when this nightmare had originally started. “Those see the light of day,” Ryan says, “and you’ll learn the meaning of regret the hard way.”
To her credit, Carmela stands up straighter. “You see? They’re here to help me, Bertrand. You wouldn’t listen to me. Maybe you’ll listen to them.”
“What? You think I don’t listen? How do I not listen? You tell me you want a career? Haven’t I gotten you a career? I made you—and this is how you repay me?” He points suddenly to Wyatt. “You—Jimmy Olsen—get your ass out of here. You think I want this little confab recorded on film?”
Wyatt glances at Damien, who nods, then quietly leaves the room.
“The lady’s interested in terminating her relationship with you,” Damien says as soon as Wyatt’s out of the room. His voice is calm, but I can see the tension.
“That true, baby?” he asks, turning to Carmela. “I didn’t know you meant it. How could I have known?”
“Cut her loose, and we walk away right now,” Damien says. “But if those pictures get out, you’ll not only learn how miserable this particular asshat can make your life, but you’ll never work anywhere near this business again. Every person who came through this room today knows exactly what kind of man you are.”
“That so?” He pushes his chair back and kicks his feet up on the desk. “The way rumors fly in this business, sounds to me like I won’t be getting much work after today no matter how this turns out. Seems to me that if I’m getting forced into retirement, I ought to at least walk away with a little nest egg.”
He swivels in his chair and looks at Carmela. “No skin off your nose if those pictures are out there, baby. You look gorgeous, and a little sex scandal never hurt anyone in your line of work.”
I frown, because those are almost exactly the words Carmela has said to me, and I’m not sure where Bertrand is going with this.
Bertrand points to Damien. “He’s the one who doesn’t want them released. I say he should pay for that privilege. And we split the money fifty-fifty. Nice little paycheck for you, baby, especially considering the going rate for those pics.”
I see a muscle tighten in Carmela’s cheek, but then I see something else—a spark of what looks like interest in her eyes. Bertrand sees it too. “Ah! Ah-ha! What did I say? You’re a fighter, baby, just like me. A street fighter, who knows when to get in and play dirty.”
“I am a fighter, yes,” she says, moving closer to him. As she does, she tilts her head and looks straight at me, and my stomach twists into knots. I can’t believe I’ve misjudged her, that I ever backed off my original opinion that she was a narcissistic bitch from hell.
“And you are right,” Carmela continues as she reaches across the desk for the folder. “These are quite flattering to me.” I expect her to pick up the folder. What she does instead is grab the hotel phone off the desk, then hurl it around so that it smashes into Bertrand’s face.
I’m not sure which emotion is stronger—joy that she smashed the asshole’s face in, or relief that she wasn’t actually considering conspiring with him.
I don’t have time to analyze that question, though, because Carmela did the one thing all those self-defense classes for women warn against—she didn’t cause enough damage.
Bertrand’s nose is bleeding, but that’s not enough to stop him, and in almost the same instant that his head bounces back, he lashes out, grabs Carmela by the hair, and starts to slam her face toward the desk—bad enough for any woman, but the next split second could truly destroy Carmela’s career.
I hear myself scream—and at the same time, the top of the floor lamp intersects with Bertrand’s head, narrowly missing Carmela. He’s knocked backward, and in the process lets go of Carmela, who scurries off into a corner.
I’m gasping, unsure what happened, until I see Damien toss the lamp aside even as Ryan vaults the desk and slams Bertrand up against the wall, his grip tight against the vile man’s throat as Bertrand continues to struggle, his eyes on Carmela as he screams curses at her.
I realize in that moment that Damien did the only thing he could do to save Carmela from a broken nose—and worse. He was too far away to throw himself in the middle of the fray, and so he did the only thing he could to keep Bertrand from hurting her—he snatched up the lamp the second he saw trouble brewing. And with a skill borne of years playing professional tennis, he aimed and swung and hit the rat bastard square on the head, missing Carmela by mere inches in what was undoubtedly an assault on Bertrand calculated down to the last millisecond.
I want to run to him, but right now, his attention is laser-focused on Bertrand. He’s only inches from the man, still held in place by Ryan’s concrete grip.
“Do not even think of playing hardball with me,” Damien says. “You think you know the extent of my resources? Money, power, influence? You don’t have a clue how far my reach goes. But I’ll tell you this,” he adds, getting in even closer, “I damn sure have the resources and connections to bury a worm like you. You want to test me? Release those photos. But be prepared for your world to go to shit if you do. Are we clear?”
Bertrand’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“Are we clear?” Damien repeats, and the man nods, looking miserable and just a little sick.
“Let him go,” Damien says to Ryan. “Nikki, Carmela. We’re leaving.”
Carmela has my arm in a vise-grip as we leave the room. We pause in the hallway, and she releases me, then throws her arms around me and then around Damien. “Thank you, Damie. Thank you both.”
Damien lets her linger for a moment, then gently extricates himself. He comes to me and folds me into his arms. “You were brilliant,” I say.
“Hopefully that’s the last of him. He’d be a fool to release those photos now.” He kisses me lightly, then brushes his lips across my ear. “Let’s go check in with Evelyn and Charles. And then, my darling wife, I want to celebrate our victory.”
“That sounds great,” I say sincerely, even though I know that he has a completely different type of celebration in mind.