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“No, you don’t,” he persisted. “If you want to sue me, you go right ahead. I won’t fight it. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I mean it.” He leaned closer to her, searching those blue eyes for some sign she believed him, wanting her to understand, wanting most of all for her to stay.
“I’ll do anything you want,” he whispered. “Just, please...don’t leave me.”
Her eyes grew misty, luminous, and he saw she was trying not to cry. “Leave you?”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
It wasn’t a declaration of love. Damien still wasn’t entirely sure he was capable of that emotion, much less say it out loud. But the idea of something happening to her—the way Bruno had hurt her, or the possibility of her cutting off their relationship because she no longer trusted him—threatened to crush the heart of him.
He would do whatever it took to keep that from happening. If it cost him the team, or every penny he had. Whatever it took.
“Damien?” she finally asked.
“Yes?”
She reached up and brushed her fingers through his hair, cupping his cheek. “Would you please take me home?”
“As soon as I can, Viv. And I promise, nobody will ever hurt you again.
10
AFTER VIV WAS finally released from the hospital, following another checkup and a police interview, Damien made good on his promise to take her home. She’d been wheeled to the exit, and he lifted her out of the wheelchair and into the backseat of the limo, holding her on his lap.
Damien asked Jed to head for her apartment, but as they drove through Arlington, Viv realized she wasn’t ready to go to her own place yet. She wasn’t frightened, precisely; Bruno was in custody. He hadn’t even had a bail hearing yet.
But her nerves were still rattled. She didn’t know if she would be able to fall asleep without fearing she might be awakened by a coarse hand covering her mouth and a powerful arm crushing the breath from her body.
Damien would stay with her if she asked him to—he’d spent one or two nights with her in the past. But she would feel more secure, more capable of keeping herself safe, if they were in the penthouse, behind security, elevators and locked doors.
“Would you mind if we went to your place?” she asked, having come to consider the penthouse Damien’s home, since she’d never seen him living in any other.
He frowned. “Are you sure? I mean, after what happened there?”
That was another reason to return to the Black Star. She’d grown to love the place, and didn’t want her feelings about it ruined by the attack. Viv had given Bruno Neeley control over enough of her life in recent weeks.
“I’m sure.”
Damien called Jed and changed their destination. He kept his arm around her waist as they walked through the lobby, positioning himself so she wouldn’t even have a view down the side hallway that led to the scene of her nightmare, his protectiveness intuitive.
Once they were inside the penthouse, Damien insisted on taking care of her. She’d barely removed her jacket before he was sitting her down on the couch and heading into the bathroom to draw her a steamy, relaxing bath.
“I’m fine, I can walk,” she called after him.
“Let me do this,” he insisted, returning to carry her. She was beginning to feel like one of those petite, fragile women whom men could easily sweep into their arms, and couldn’t deny she kind of enjoyed it.
Once in the bathroom, Damien stripped off her clothes—a sweater and pair of jeans Amelia had brought to the hospital for her this morning—and lowered her into the bubbles. Even then, he wasn’t finished. He kneeled beside the tub, washing every strand of her hair, gently bathing each sore and scrape. She felt boneless and relaxed even before he began to massage her shoulders and aching muscles.
“This is heavenly,” she murmured.
“I’m going to spoil you.”
“I’m really fine, Damien,” she insisted, reaching a soapy hand up to brush against his cheek. “I appreciate all of this, but I promise you, I’m not in pain.”
“Not physically, maybe,” he muttered.
She couldn’t argue that, because he was right. Emotionally, she was still in a great deal of pain, unable to forget the violation of Bruno Neeley’s hands on her. Which, she realized, was probably why Damien had so lovingly washed every inch of her. As if he could remove those memories by his tender touch alone.
And perhaps he could.
As the water grew cool, Damien lifted her out, dried her off, carried her into the bedroom and tucked her into bed. She lay there as he ordered room service, surprised when he asked for chicken soup, ginger ale, chocolate pudding and ice cream. All the comfort food anyone could want. When it arrived, he wouldn’t allow anyone to enter the bedroom, bringing it in himself. He’d fed her, coaxed her into eating all her soup before she could have the junk.
