I take a deep breath and ease toward the door that the driver is now holding open. I am stopped, however, by Damien’s hand upon mine.
“Wait,” he says, his voice low. “Here.” He shrugs out of his jacket and puts it around my shoulders.
I close my eyes—just for a moment. Just long enough to curse myself. Because, dammit, Damien shouldn’t be looking out for me. I should be the one supporting him, and I turn in the limo and pull him close and press a quick, firm kiss to his lips. “I love you,” I whisper, and hope those simple words say everything that I’m not saying.
His eyes lock on mine. “I know,” he says. “Now put the jacket on.”
I nod, understanding the unspoken message: No matter what, he will never stop looking out for me. I can’t argue with him about that; after all, I feel the same way.
I climb out of the car and stand up, my Public Nikki smile plastered across my face because reporters surround us, representing all of Europe and the States and even Asia. I’m practiced enough at hiding my emotions that I’m certain I look cool and confident. I’m not. I’m terrified. And from the way Damien grips my hand, I know that he realizes it. I wish I could be stronger, but it’s impossible, and I’m simply going to have to accept that. Until this is over—one way or the other—I’m going to be walking on a knife edge. I only hope that in the end, I can tumble into Damien’s arms, and not fall the other direction where I am left to plummet into the abyss alone.
“Herr Stark! Fräulein Fairchild! Nikki! Damien!”
The voices surround us, some English, some German, some French. Other languages, too, that I do not recognize.
Ever since I arrived in Munich, the press has been all over us. And not just about the trial. No, the tabloids are just as eager to analyze Damien’s love life. They are not—thank God—harping on endlessly about my portrait or the money Damien paid me. But they are gleefully digging through their morgues and running photos of Damien with the steady stream of other women who have been on his arm. Runway models. Actresses. Heiresses. Damien told me himself that he used to fuck a lot of women. And he told me that none of them were special. For him, there is only me.
I believe him, but I still don’t like seeing those pictures on newsstands and all over the television and Internet.
Right now, though, I’d be happy if the press’s only interest in us was who Damien was sleeping with. But that is not the focus of their attention today. Today, they’re out for blood, and murder is on the agenda.
It isn’t until we cross the threshold and enter the building that I realize that I have forgotten to breathe. I glance at Damien and manage a wan smile. He shakes his head. “If I could have left you in the hotel today, I would have.”
“I’d rather die than not be here with you.” Unfortunately, I think, being here may come close to killing me.
The halls are bustling with attorneys and court personnel, all moving efficiently to wherever it is they are going. I barely notice them. Honestly, I barely notice anything, and it’s with a bit of surprise that a uniformed guard hands me my purse and I realize that we’ve stepped through security.
A polished man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair is hurrying toward us. This is Charles Maynard, the attorney who has represented Damien since he burst onto the tennis scene as a nine-year-old prodigy. He holds out his hand for Damien even as his eyes go to me. “Hello, Nikki. The row of seats immediately behind the defense table is reserved for my staff. You’ll sit there too, of course.”
I nod, grateful. If I can’t be beside Damien, at least I’ll only be inches away.
“We should talk before this begins,” he continues, his words directed to Damien. He glances at me. “You’ll excuse us?”
I want to scream in protest, but instead I nod. I don’t try to speak, too afraid that my voice will shake and betray me.
Damien reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Go on in,” he says. “I’ll see you shortly.”
Once again, I nod assent, but I don’t move. Instead I stand dully in the hallway as Maynard leads Damien a few yards away and then through the doors of the small conference room that I know has been assigned to his team for use during the trial. I stand a moment longer, unwilling to go through the heavy wooden doors that lead to the courtroom. Maybe if I never go in, the proceedings can never start.
I’m still there, cursing my own foolishness, when I think I hear my name from somewhere behind me, muddled by the sound of the crowd bustling in this wide, echoing hall. At first, I think it’s one of the reporters trying to get my attention. But there’s something familiar about it. I frown, because surely it’s not—
But it is. Ollie.
I see him the instant I turn around. Orlando McKee, the boy I grew up with, who has been one of my best friends since forever. The man who has repeatedly said that Damien is a danger to me.
The man who Damien believes is in love with me.
There was a time when I would have run to him, thrown my arms around him, and spilled out all my fears. Now, I’m not even certain how I feel about seeing him here.
I stand frozen as he hurries toward me. He arrives out of breath, his hand outstretched for mine. Slowly, he drops his when he realizes that I am not reaching out in return.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” I say blandly.
“I tried to reach you at the Kempinski this morning,” he says, “but you’d already left.”
“I have a cell phone,” I say.
He nods. “I know. I should have called. This was last minute. Maynard learned that I went to school with one of the junior attorneys on the prosecutor’s staff, and he wanted me here.”
“Law school?” I can’t figure out why a German prosecutor would go to a United States law school.
He shakes his head. “Undergrad. Small world, huh?”
“Does Damien know you’re here?” My voice is cold and clipped, and I’m certain that Ollie knows why. If Damien were selecting the legal team, Ollie would not be included.
Ollie has the good grace to look embarrassed. “No,” he says, then runs his hand through his hair. His usually unruly waves are combed back, and his fingers loosen a few strands that now fall in his face, brushing over his John Lennon–style glasses. “What was I supposed to tell Maynard?” he asks. “That Stark doesn’t want me around? I say that and I have to say why. And if Stark hasn’t told Maynard that I told you attorney-client privileged information, then I don’t see any reason to tell him myself.”