"I--someone--I mean, a friend is worried about me." It's only fair he knows, right? "About me and you. He thinks you're dangerous."
"Does he?" Right then, the tone of Stark's voice sounds very, very dangerous. I close my eyes and hope that I somehow haven't gotten Ollie in trouble. Surely he can't know this is coming from Ollie. Can he?
"That's not the point," I say. "What else happened?"
"Her brother," he says flatly. "Somehow, Eric is convinced that I tied her up, choked her, and left her for dead, accidentally killing her. And he's just itching to go sell his story."
"Oh." I lick my lips. "That's horrible." No wonder he doesn't want to talk about it.
"So that's that. What do you think, Nikki? Am I dangerous?" The words are harsh. Angry. I'm thinking this may not be the best time to discuss his proposal.
"I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. It's none of my business."
"No, it's not." Again, that pregnant silence. And then one sharp curse. "Dammit, Nikki. I'm the one who's sorry. Of course you'll hear rumors. Of course you have a right to ask questions. Considering what I'm asking, you can ask all the questions you want."
"You're really not mad?"
"At you, no. At Padgett--well, let's just say he's on my list."
I decide not to ask what list that might be.
"I hope you're still considering my offer," he says. "I very much want for you to say yes. I'm hoping it won't take too much longer for you to reach a decision."
"I've already decided," I blurt.
He's silent for so long, I think he hasn't heard me.
"Tell me," he finally says.
I swallow and nod, even though of course he can't see me. "I have conditions."
"So we're negotiating. Excellent. What are your terms, Ms. Fairchild?"
I've rehearsed this in my mind and my words spill out like a thesis presentation. "First of all, you need to understand that I'm doing this for the money. I need it, I can use it, I want it. So please keep that in mind. Your million dollars color all of my terms."
"I understand."
"I get paid no matter what, even if you end up not liking the painting."
"Certainly. The money is your fee. It has nothing to do with my satisfaction with the painting."
"You can't sell it. Not to anyone. It's either yours, or it's destroyed."
"So far your terms are satisfactory."
I pause and draw a breath because we're getting to the key points. "The artist has to paint me. Me. Not some artistic representation of me, but the real me."
"You are what I want, Nikki," he says, with the same tone of voice he'd used when he'd put his fingers inside me. Tell me you like this.
Yes. God, yes.
I cross and uncross my legs as I sit on the side of the bed. "Just making sure we understand each other, Mr. Stark. Once I take my clothes off, that's it. What you see is what you get."
"Be careful, Ms. Fairchild. You're making me hard."
"Dammit, Stark, I'm serious."
"Oh, I'm serious, too. Believe me."
I mutter a soft curse and hear him chuckle on the other end. "So we agree?" I ask, probably too sharply.
"To your terms? Absolutely. Of course, I have a few deal points of my own to address."
"Deal points?"
"Certainly. You've changed the original terms with a counteroffer. It's my privilege to do the same."
"Oh." I hadn't thought he'd change the original deal, but I realize now I should have.
"And let me be just as clear as you were, Ms. Fairchild. This is no longer a negotiation. These are my final terms. You agree, or you don't."
"Um, okay." I lick my lips and squirm some more. I'm suddenly very interested in what he has to say. "So what are the terms?"
"From now until the painting is completed, you're mine."
"Yours?" The word tastes like chocolate in my mouth.
"What exactly does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?"
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I try again. "That I belong to you." My voice is a whisper. Hell, it's a prayer, and I'm surprised by how turned on I am by his words. I mean, I'd moved to LA to take control of my life, but here I am getting hot at the idea of putting myself in Damien's hands.
"What else?" he asks.
"That I do as you say." I slip my hand down between my legs and into my shorts. I'm wet, slick, and hot.
"Yes," Damien says. His voice is hard, tense. He's on edge, too, and that knowledge makes me even more turned on.
"And if I don't?"
"You studied science, Ms. Fairchild. Surely you're aware that every action has an equal and opposite reaction."
"Oh." I slide my finger over my sensitive clit, then gasp, not expecting the fast, hard tremor that shoots through me in release.
"You like that, Ms. Fairchild?" he asks.
My cheeks flame. I'm not sure if he means his terms or my orgasm. I draw myself up. "What if I don't agree?"
"Then I don't get my painting, and you don't get your million."
"Why make me agree? I've already said I'll pose."
"Because I can. Because I want you. Because I don't want to court my way up to our first fuck. And because I don't want to play games."
"Isn't a game exactly what you're playing?"
"A fair point, Ms. Fairchild. But I want this on my terms."
"You say you want me, but you don't. You say you want my portrait, but you won't."
For a moment, I hear nothing. Damien Stark is trying to figure out my angle. "You're wrong," he finally says.
"I don't think so. And that's why my terms are important. You call it off--the painting, this game--and I still get my money."
"Is that an agreement?"
"It's a condition."
"Very well. I accept your condition."
"And we don't start now. We start at the first session with the artist."
"You're a tough negotiator, Ms. Fairchild. But I accept your proposed commencement date."
I roll my eyes. He's getting weary of my tweaks to his deal. Well, too bad. "And it's not open-ended," I add. "For all I know, you're paying the artist by the hour, and he'll take a year to complete it. One week, Mr. Stark."
"One week?" He doesn't sound happy.
"That's my best offer. And, of course, you'll have to work around my day job. But my evenings and the weekend are yours."
"Very well. One week. Now, do we have a deal?"
I want to say yes. Instead, I say, "What--what exactly do you want to do with me?"
"So many things, but mostly I want to fuck you. Hard and fast and very thoroughly."
Oh my.
"I--will it be kinky?"
He chuckles. "Would you like it to be?"
I don't know. "I'm not--I mean, I haven't ever." I feel my cheeks start to burn furiously. I've been out on a horrible number of first dates, courtesy of my mother, but have had only two real boyfriends. The first was more experienced than I was, and by that I mean that he'd dated a college girl even though we were in high school. But unless a fast fuck on top of his parents' pool table counts, there was nothing remotely kinky about our relationship. As for the second, there was definitely pain with Kurt, but only the emotional kind.
All in all, the types of things Damien might be talking about are outside my realm of experience.
Stark seems to understand my hesitation. "I want to give you pleasure," he says. "That's all I want to do. Will we do things that are kinky? You may think so. But I also think you'll like it."
I tremble, surprised by how much I want to know what things he wants to do with me. Under my tank top, my nipples are hard. Between my legs, my sex throbs. I think you'll like it. Yeah, I think so, too. Assuming we get that far. Assuming he doesn't call off the deal once he sees me naked.
I close my eyes wishing things were different. Wishing I was different.
"Take a chance, Nikki," he says softly. "Let me show you how far I can take you
."
I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. I remember our game in the limo. "Yes, sir," I finally say.
He sucks in air sharply. I've surprised him, and the thought thrills me. "Good girl," he says. Then, "Dear God, I want you now."
Me, too. "The first session, Mr. Stark," I say, but the tremble in my voice gives me away.
"Of course, Ms. Fairchild. I'll send a car for you tomorrow evening. I'll text you when it's on the way. Stay in tonight and relax. I want you refreshed. And open your door. There's something for you on the mat."
On my mat?
"Sweet dreams, Ms. Fairchild," he says, then clicks off before I can ask what he's talking about.
I hurry from my bedroom, passing Jamie who's still napping on the couch. I open the door to find a small box wrapped in silver paper.
I don't even bother taking it into the apartment, just tear off the paper and lift the lid. There's a stunning ankle bracelet inside. Diamonds and emeralds set in platinum and strung on a delicate chain. It sparkles in my palm, the weight negligible.
Beneath the bracelet, I find a handwritten note. For our week. Wear this. D.S.
Our week? He must have just written this. Must have just been here, outside the apartment.
The realization sends a shiver up my spine. I unclasp the latch, bend down, and hook it around my ankle. Then I stand up and look defiantly out toward the street.
I see a car, red and sporty and obviously expensive. I can't see through the tinted windows, but that doesn't matter. I am certain that it's Damien.
I watch, silently daring him to come to me. Or maybe I'm begging? I honestly don't know. But the car door doesn't open. The car doesn't move.
Our time hasn't begun.
Finally, I have reached my limit. I turn and go back into the apartment. I close the door and sag against it, feeling warm and edgy. But I'm smiling. Because out there in the world, Damien Stark is waiting for me.
16
I wake up when the sun coming through the blinds hits my face and I realize I forgot to set an alarm. Except for the diamond and emerald ankle bracelet, I'm naked under the covers. My hand is cupped between my legs, and I'm slick with desire.
I'd fallen asleep thinking about Damien, and I think I must have dreamed of him, too.
I roll over and grope for my phone--then immediately panic when I see that it's already after seven.
Shit.
Any lingering erotic fantasies dissolve. If I don't hurry, I'm going to be late for work.
I take a longer shower than I should, but I need it. The water is near scalding, and it pounds at my body, dissolving fantasies and desires. I need to be in work-mode now; Damien Stark has no place in my head.
I don't have time to blow-dry and style my hair, so I towel-dry it to dampness, then comb it out. It will air dry on the drive, and I can brush it out into its natural waves as I'm making the trek from my crappy parking place to the elevator.
Traffic is a bitch, and by the time I finally pull into that crappy parking place, I'm a bit bitchy myself.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab my brush, then furiously brush my hair as I stomp to the elevator on two-inch heels.
The receptionist, Jennifer, looks wide-eyed at me as I pull open the glass door to the C-Squared offices. I frown and do a quick mental check of my outfit, but as far as I can tell, everything is buttoned and zipped.
"Is he in?" I say. "I have an idea about tweaking one of the algorithms." Jennifer probably doesn't care, but it's one of those ideas that hits you like a blast furnace, and I want to talk it out with Carl and then get Brian or Dave crunching the numbers.
"He didn't call you?" Jennifer squeaks. "I thought for sure he would call you."
Something's very weird. "Why would he call?"
"He--oh, shit. Here. He said to give this to you." She hands me a thin envelope.
I don't want to take it, but I do. It seems to weigh a thousand pounds. "Jennifer," I say very slowly. "What is this?"
"It's your check. And that's your stuff." She cocks her head to indicate something behind her. For the first time, I notice the copy paper box filled with my personal things. Jennifer bites her lower lip.
"I see." I square my shoulders. "You never answered my question. Is he in?" I am not going to cry or lose my temper in front of Jennifer. But I am damn well going to talk to Carl.
She nods, then shakes her head. "No. I mean, yes, he's here. But he said he wouldn't see you. I'm sorry, Nikki, but he was really, really clear on that. He said that if you didn't just take your stuff and go, that I'm supposed to call security."
I feel numb. This is shock. I'm in shock. "But why?"
"I don't know. Honest." Jennifer looks like she's in physical pain, and even though I want to melt into the carpet, I feel sorry for her. And pissed at Carl. What a fucking coward to make the receptionist fire me.
"He didn't say anything?"
"Not to me. But I think it has something to do with the pitch."
"The pitch?" My voice is a squeak. "But it went great."
"Really? Because Stark called first thing this morning and told Carl he wasn't going to invest."
My stomach roils. "You're serious?"
"You really didn't know?"
"I really didn't." But I think I know why I was fired.
I'm in a weird kind of fog as I take my stuff down to my car. I drop the box in the trunk, but I don't get in the car. It's only when I'm halfway across the parking level that I realize I'm on my way to Stark Tower.
Since it's not the weekend, I don't need to sign in with Joe. But I stop by the security desk anyway since I have no idea what floor the reception area for Stark International is on.
"Thirty-five," Joe says.
"Thanks. Do you happen to know if Mr. Stark is in today?" I am amazed at how calm my voice sounds.
"I believe so, Ms. Fairchild."
"Great," I say, surprised he remembers my name.
I hurry to the proper elevator bank and drum my fingers on my leg as I wait for the car to arrive. Finally, it comes and I pile on with a half dozen other people. The car seems to stop at every floor, until I'm the only one left for the final leg of the journey. The car stops on thirty-five, the doors glide open, and I step out into another well-appointed reception area, my heart pounding so hard I'm surprised I haven't cracked a rib.
A young woman with curly red hair smiles at me from behind a polished desk. "Ms. Fairchild? Welcome to Stark International. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to Mr. Stark's office."
"I--what? Oh ..." I am a stuttering mess. This isn't what I'd scripted when I rode up. I'd intended to demand to see him, refusing to leave reception until he spoke to me and explained himself. And for that matter, how does this woman know who I am?
I would ask her, but she's already leading me through a set of frosted glass doors. We've entered yet another reception area, this one done in a contemporary style. There are photographs on the wall featuring waves, mountains, tall redwood trees. There's even a close-up of a bicycle tire, a winding road visible through the spokes. Each is artistically composed, with such precise and startling perspectives, that I'm certain they were all taken by the same photographer. I shove my irritation aside long enough to wonder who took them. Damien, perhaps?
Another girl sits behind another desk. This one is a brunette, with a short pixie cut. She also smiles at me. "Ms. Fairchild," she says as she pushes a button on her desk. "You can go on in."
The woman who escorted me leads us forward as a set of beautifully polished wooden doors swing open in front of me revealing the impressive form of Damien Stark. Today, there's nothing casual about his outfit. He speaks into a headset as he paces behind his desk in a perfectly tailored double-breasted suit in a dark pewter over a crisp white shirt. The outfit is pulled together with a red tie and onyx cuff links. The sheen from the material reflects some of the light coming in from the window behind him, making Stark look like he's radiating heat and power. It's a
n outfit meant to intimidate and impress, and I have to admit that it works.
"Go ahead and have a seat," my escort says. "He'll be with you in a moment." Then she's gone, the doors swinging shut behind her.
I don't sit, but stand right in front of his desk, my arms crossed over my chest. I want to hold on to my anger, but it's hard, because Stark is right there, and I've already learned that just being in the same room with him makes my head go all fuzzy. I think it's because when I'm close to him, all the air seems to vanish.
"I'm looking at the quarterlies right now," Stark says, snatching a sheaf of papers from his desk. It's huge, and every inch of desktop is covered with papers. From where I stand, I see neat stacks of magazines--Scientific American, Physics Today, Air & Space, even the French La Recherche. Charts and graphs are spread out in the middle, both marked up with handwritten notes made with red and blue pencil. A stack of correspondence rests on the far side of the desk, the corner of the pile held down with a battered copy of Isaac Asimov's I, Robot.
"I'm not interested in excuses," Stark continues. "I'm interested in hard, cold numbers. Yes, well, tell him that the time to ply me with projections was when he pitched the project in the first place. And the time for excuses is never. If he can't live up to the schedule we agreed to, then I'll put in my own team. Hell yes, I have that right. No? Well, have him read the contract again. Then we'll talk. Fine. No, I think this conversation is over. All right, then."
He clicks off, and turns to me, and it's as if I'm watching a computer graphic of a man shifting into the form of another. The executive seems to melt before me, leaving only the man. Albeit one insanely sexy man in a tailored business suit that probably cost more than Jamie's condo.
"What a wonderful surprise," he says as he crosses the room, his long strides bringing him right in front of me. He looks so cool, so fucking innocent that the anger that had been fading spews back up like hot lava out of a volcano.
"Goddamn you," I snap as I lash out and slap him hard across the cheek, shocking myself as much as him.
The way his expression shifts from pleasure to shock to anger and then, finally, to confusion would be amusing if I didn't feel so sick to my stomach.
"Oh, God," I say. "I'm sorry." I'm speaking from behind my hand, which I've pressed to my mouth. "I'm so, so sorry."
"What the fucking hell?" he asks. His body is rigid and his eyes are burning. The amber one seems to hold some compassion, but the dark black one looks like it could suck me down, down, down. Dangerous, I think. Ollie's right. That temper is dangerous.