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easier. Damien takes his arm from around my waist, but twines his fingers in mine. He looks down at me, the question clear in his eyes. “I’m fine,” I say as we hurry toward the elevator. “Really.”
    The tall man, Damien, and I enter the car, but the other two stay behind, presumably to make sure none of the vultures try to enter the restaurant pretending to buy a meal. Once the door slides shut, I look up at Damien. His eyes blaze with raw fury, but beneath it there is concern for me that is so potent I almost weep.
    Slowly, he lifts my hand, then gently, sweetly, he kisses my palm.
    “I am so, so sorry, my friend,” the giant says with an accent that I can’t place. “A busboy saw the reservation book. It would appear he hoped to make more than just his share of the tips tonight.”
    “I see,” Damien says. His voice is level, but there is a tightness to it, and the pressure of his hand on mine increases. I doubt that I am the only one who can tell that Damien is working hard to control the temper that had been so famous back in his tennis days. The temper that had, in fact, caused the injury that left him with dual-colored eyes. “I’d like to have a word with that young man.”
    “I’ve already dismissed him,” the tall man says. “He was escorted off the property at the same time I came to assist you and the young lady.”
    “Good,” Damien says, and I silently echo the thought. Because considering the rage that I see etched on Damien’s face, if that busboy was still on the premises, he should be very, very worried indeed.

3
    Damien says nothing else during the ride to the rooftop restaurant, and the air in the small elevator car is thick. I’m sure our escort—who I’ve decided is Damien’s owner friend—is mortified that one of his employees leaked the news of where Damien would be. And the fact that Damien hasn’t formally introduced us is more proof of how much the incident has upset him.
    Damien’s manners are always stellar.
    As for me, I can’t help but regret going out at all. The paparazzi were bad, but this cloud of gloom is worse.
    I squeeze Damien’s hand. “They’ll get tired of us soon enough. Some movie star will divorce some other star. Or a reality star will get caught shoplifting. We’re boring by comparison.”
    For a moment, I think my ploy hasn’t worked. Then he lifts our joined hands and presses a kiss on my knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should be the one making you feel better.”
    “I’m with you,” I say. “That’s as good as it gets.”
    He tightens his fingers around mine as he looks up at the man. “Alaine, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’d like to introduceyou to my girlfriend, Nikki Fairchild. Nikki, my friend Alaine Beauchene, one of the best chefs in the city and the owner of
Le Caquelon
.”
    “It’s a very great pleasure to meet you,” he says, taking my hand. “Damien has told me so many good things.”
    “Oh.” I’m not sure why, but the words surprise me. I can easily picture me talking about Damien with Jamie, but somehow the idea of Damien chatting with his friends about me isn’t something I’ve contemplated before. I can’t deny that the knowledge feels nice. It’s one more thread in the tapestry that is Nikki and Damien.
    “Thank you for rescuing us,” I say. And then, because I can’t help but jump all over this peek into Damien’s life, I add, “How do you two know each other?”
    “Alaine’s father practices sports medicine. We got to know each other on tour.”
    “Two young men crisscrossing Europe,” Alaine says wistfully. “Those were good times, my friend.”
    I am watching Damien carefully. I may not know much, but I do know that his years playing tennis were hardly full of happy, fluffy memories. But when he smiles, it seems genuine. “Those were the best times,” Damien says, and I feel an odd sense of relief knowing that his years on the tennis circuit were not total hell. That there had