I frown. He has a point. “Go on.”

“The Stark files are in a locked filing room a few floors up. Access is incredibly tight. But Maynard needed something fast—not for Stark, but for another client with files in the same locked room—and he sent me up to get it. I sort of took advantage of the opportunity.”

“What did you do?”

“The firm administers the fellowship, so the applicant files are there. I found yours and took a peek.”

“And?”

“And there was no mention of MIT or Cal Tech.”

I laugh. “It was incredibly sweet of you to jeopardize your career because you’re worried about me, but I could have told you that. I keep copies of all my fellowship applications.”

“But you wouldn’t know that your file was flagged.”

“Flagged?”

He nods. “The only one. I checked them all.”

“What does that mean?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. But for some reason you were singled out.”

I cock my head. “Oh, come on, Ollie. I’m sorry you don’t like Damien, but you can’t be serious. So there’s a flag on my file. Big deal. Maybe it’s because I’m allergic to penicillin. Or because I’m the most photogenic fellowship recipient and they were going to do some sort of publicity thing. Or because I’m the only one who moved to LA and I got added to some local mailing list. Hell, you don’t even know that it was Stark who flagged my file. Maybe it was your boss. Or some legal assistant who has a thing for the former Miss DFW.”

His expression turns defensive. “I know, I know. I told you I wasn’t sure it was worth mentioning. But don’t you think it’s weird? Your file is not only flagged, but he knows all sorts of personal shit about you?”

I shake my head. “Personal shit? Like where I was accepted to grad school is a state secret? Come on, Ollie. Get a grip.” Even as I speak, though, I can’t help but remember how Damien knew my address and phone number, not to mention my makeup preferences. But each of those had a simple explanation.

“Just think about it,” Ollie says. He waves at someone, then meets my eyes. “Promise?”

I stay silent. He sighs, then walks away, disappearing into the crowd. I remain in the corner, trying to sort out my emotions. I’m confused—that much I know for sure. And I’m edging toward anger. But whether it’s directed toward Damien or Ollie, I’m not certain.

Antsy, I step outside. There’s a flagstone path that runs along the perimeter of the building and I follow it until I’m in front of the tennis courts. I pause, looking out over the court and imagining a young Damien playing, exuberant and happy as he chases the ball. It’s a nice fantasy, and it erases the last bits of angst from my mind. Let Ollie worry if he wants to; I know better.

I can tell Damien’s behind me before I hear him. It’s as if he’s so powerful that the air shifts to let him pass. I turn and find him looking at me. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to be irritated—after all, he made it clear that he was done with tennis, and yet here I am. But he looks calm and happy, and when he comes forward, he kisses my head and cups my ass. “Watch it, bub,” I say, and he laughs.

“Hiding out?”

“Yup. And thinking.”

“What about?”

“You,” I admit. I nod toward the court. “I was imagining you playing.” I hold my breath, hoping my admission won’t irritate him.

“I presume you were imagining me winning,” he says dryly.

I laugh. “Always.”

“Good girl.” He captures my mouth with his, and his kiss is wild and deep and intense. He’s not touching me intimately—his hand has moved to my back and the other is on my arm—but I feel as though he’s inside me, filling me, stroking me.

I moan in protest when he breaks away.

He takes a step back. “See you inside, Ms. Fairchild.”

I raise my brows. “You just came out here to tease me?”

“I came to tell you I’m giving a speech in about fifteen minutes. If you’re inclined to, come in and join me.”

“A speech? I wouldn’t miss that.” I look back at the court and the empty night spread out before me. “I’ll be right behind you. I want to stay here with the stars a little bit longer.”

He squeezes my hand and leaves, disappearing around the curve of the building. I sigh and realize that I am absolutely happy at that moment. Ollie’s fears seem a million miles away.

I let the feeling settle over me, then turn to head back inside as well. A tall man with a caterpillar of a mustache and a wrinkled suit is walking from the opposite direction, coming toward me. I don’t think anything of it, but as I get closer, his words startle me. “You the one Stark’s banging?”

I stop, certain I must have heard wrong. “Excuse me?”

“You got money? Be careful. He’ll fuck you and he’ll use you, and when he tosses you away, he’ll be richer for it.”

My mouth is dry and my legs are struggling to hold me up. I can feel my underarms getting sticky. I don’t know who this man is, but I know that he’s dangerous and that I need to get away. I glance around quickly and see a sign for a restroom just across the walkway, almost hidden by the landscaping.

“I—I have to go.” I turn fast and hurry that way.

“I know that bastard’s secrets,” the man shouts after me. “I know about all the goddamn bodies. You think my sister’s the only one he’s fucked up?”

Eric Padgett. It has to be Eric Padgett.

My heart is pounding as I jerk open the door to the ladies’ room. The automated lights turn on and I hurry inside. There are multiple stalls, so it’s not the kind of restroom that you would normally lock. The door does have a bolt, though, and I turn it immediately. As soon as I do, the lights wink out.

I suck in air, fighting rising panic. Calm, Nikki, calm. The lights went out with the door. Presumably, the idea is that when the janitor locks the door from the outside, the lights are turned off. So just turn the bolt again to unlock it.

I try, my hand shaking because at least here in the dark I’m away from Eric Padgett. But I have to get out. I have to open the door.

The bolt won’t turn.

No. No, no, no.

Okay. Okay, I can deal with this. The bolt turns off the lights, but there must be a switch inside, too. Because otherwise someone might get stuck inside in the dark. I am a living, breathing, panicking case in point.

I fumble near the door, trying to find it, but I don’t have any luck. My breathing is coming faster and shallower. Stop it. Think.

Right. Think.

Oh, fuck. I’ve forgotten how to think.

I breathe. That, at least, I can manage, though not without some difficulty. I’m still clammy with panic and I want to pound on the door and scream. But Eric Padgett is out there, and I think that he’s scarier than the dark and—

Okay, maybe he’s not.

I slam my fist against the door. “Hey! Hey! Is anyone out there? Hello!”

Nothing.

I pound again. And again and again and—

“Nikki?”

“Damien?”

“Oh, shit, baby, are you okay?”