I do—and then freeze in the hallway when I see the text. It’s not from anyone I know, and the phone number is unfamiliar.

The message, however, is something I’ve seen before: Bitch. Slut. Whore.

I recall the anonymous letter that arrived for me care of Stark International and tremble as a finger of foreboding creeps up my spine. I had thought that letter had been prompted by the fact that I’d accepted money to pose nude. Now I wonder if it’s about something else.

“Nikki?” Damien has turned to face me, his forehead creased with worry. “What is it?”

I don’t want to show him the text—I don’t want the magical bubble of this evening to pop. But I know that it already has. More, I know that Damien needs to know.

Wordlessly, I hand the phone to Damien, my entire body tightening as I wait for the explosion I see building in his eyes.

“Is this the first time you’ve received a text like this?” His voice is steady and firm and cold as hell.

“Yes,” I say flatly. Once again I feel the weight of the real world pressing in around us. The thin glass of our protective bubble is starting to crack. I don’t know what will happen when the pressure is too much and those tiny fissures finally explode under the weight of the world. I fear, though, that I’m going to find out.

And when the explosion comes, I hope I can resist the urge to pick up one of the shards and grind it into my own smooth flesh.

A shudder runs through me. “Just delete it,” I say harshly. “Just make it fucking go away.”

“No. We’re going to trace it.”

“Later,” I say. “Please, Damien. Leave it for later. I don’t want to think about it now.”

He studies me for a moment, then he turns off my phone and slides it into his pocket.

I cross my arms over my chest.

“Trust me, sweetheart, you won’t need it tonight.”

I can’t help my responsive grin, especially when he pulls out his own phone and turns it off as well. “Now it’s just you and me.”

“Just how I like it,” I say, taking Damien’s hand and letting him pull me back into the protective circle of his arms. He slides his card key into the lock and I watch as the light flicks from red to green. My body is tight with anticipation. I am expecting lust and passion and Damien’s hands upon me, his cock inside me.

I am expecting to slide back into that magical fantasy where there really is nothing but the two of us.

But when he opens the door, I realize that the real world can follow us anywhere.

Because right there—sitting on the couch where Damien has fucked me so many times—is a woman I never thought that I would see again.

A woman who used to be in Damien’s bed.

Chapter Eight

Carmela D’Amato is tall and blonde and so stunningly beautiful that it is almost painful. I’ve hated her from the first moment I saw her six years ago when she took Damien away from me.

Granted, at the time I had no claim to Damien, but I’d wanted to lash out at her nonetheless. I’d been competing in Dallas at the Miss Tri-County Texas pageant, and tennis star Damien was the celebrity judge. I’d never met him before, but he’d come over to where I was staked out by the buffet table, wondering if I could get away with eating cheesecake without my mother finding out. At the time, I’d thought it was my imagination, but even then the connection between us had been electric. He’d taken my breath away. Hell, he still takes my breath away.

Just standing there talking to him had sparked decadent fantasies. If he’d suggested it, I would have taken his hand and run away and never once looked back. But he didn’t suggest it. And it wasn’t me he left with, but Carmela.

I’d never expected to see her again.

Then again, at the time I’d never expected to see Damien again, either. Apparently we’ve now come full circle.

Instinctively, I take a step closer to Damien. He reaches down, his fingers automatically twining through mine.

Carmela’s eyes flicker down to our joined hands, and I have to bite back a triumphant smile. Ha. Take that, bitch. The thought is petty. But it’s heartfelt.

“What are you doing here?” Damien’s voice is cold, his body tense. I can feel the irritation rolling off him in waves.

“Damie, darling, don’t be angry.” She stretches, cat-like, as she reaches for a glass of wine on the table beside her. She takes a sip, looking perfectly at home.

I want to go slap her face.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Damien demands.

Her eyes widen, then she glances at me. “After all the times I’ve shared this room with you, I’m like family. I just asked one of the room service boys to let me in.”

“It didn’t occur to you that you were costing the boy his job?”

She laughs. “Why would it? I thought we could celebrate your victory together. And when have you ever kicked me out of your room, Damie? When have you not been happy to see me?”

“Now,” he says.

I’m watching her face as he speaks, and am startled to see that there is no reaction. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blink. She is neither angry nor hurt.

In other words, Carmela came here knowing exactly how this would play out. What a goddamned bitch.

“Get up,” I say. “Get up and get the hell out of here.” That gets a reaction out of her. A tight, condescending smile that only pisses me off even more.

Beside me, Damien squeezes my hand, but he says nothing. Somehow he knows that this is my fight now.

“You’re Nichole, aren’t you?” she says, though there is no doubt in my mind that she knows exactly who I am. “You’re the little girl who caught his eye in Texas at that ridiculous pageant.”

“I caught more than his eye, Carlotta,” I say, deliberately getting her name wrong.

Her eyes narrow. “Are you sure? Reality so rarely lives up to expectations. I hope you’re prepared for the day he realizes that you are not the woman he wanted, after all.”

I flash my best pageant smile and conjure a honey-sweet Texas twang. “Sugar, I think you have us confused. I’m the one he’s taking to bed. It’s you he doesn’t want.” I imagine a stadium of people leaping to their feet and applauding. “Now get the hell out of here.”

I know my blow struck home from the way her eyes dart to Damien, as if he will soothe the wound. But Damien is not her salvation. “You heard the lady,” he says. “Go.”

For an unpleasant moment, I think she’s going to argue. Then she rises to her feet. She moves with deliberate slowness as she takes the last sip of her wine and then hooks her purse over her arm. It seems to take forever, but she finally steps over the threshold and out into the hallway, the weighted door slamming shut behind her.

I turn to Damien. I can see the rage in his eyes. The rising fury. But it’s tempered by something else. Regret. And apology. No, I think. No way in hell is he apologizing for that bitch.

“Nikki, I—”

“You what? You didn’t know she would be here?”

“You know I didn’t.” His voice is hard. Firm.

“Do you think I’m going to be jealous, knowing that there was a time when she had free run of this suite?” I ask, making my voice even harder. I have a point to make, and I’m damn well going to make it. I cock my head, considering. “Just how many hotels around Europe is she intimately familiar with?”