Claim Me

  I glance at her and see that she's frowning. I swallow, afraid that my fears show on my face. "What is it?"

  "You're really wearing a skirt? I thought you tech folks were all about the jeans and T-shirts with math equations."

  I scowl, because I happen to own several T-shirts with truly funny math jokes. "First day on the job, and I'm not doing the tech side, remember. I'm management. I want to look professional."

  I've zipped up the blue skirt, and now I slide my feet into my favorite pair of pumps, then slip on a white silk shell that I top with a darling jacket I found at one of the studio resale shops that Jamie took me to during our Nikki-just-arrived-in-LA shopping spree. It has a classical cut with a muted pattern in gray and blue. The clerk told us that it was worn by one of the characters on some television show I never watched, but that Jamie assured me was great fun.

  "I want to hear more about this guy," I tell her as I move back into the bathroom to fly through my makeup routine. "But I have to get going." She follows me and leans against the door as I finish up by carefully lining my eyes and brushing mascara on my lashes. When I'm done, I do a little spin in the tiny area between the tub and the sink. "Do I look okay?"

  "When don't you?" she asks. "And if anyone asks, Lauren Graham wore that jacket on Gilmore Girls. Trust me, it's cool."

  I nod, taking her word for it.

  "Want to meet after work? I'll tell you about Raine and you can tell me all about your nights away from home, too. I want to hear everything."

  "Sounds good," I say, not bothering to tell her that where Damien is concerned, there is no way that I'm going to be revealing "everything." "Du-par's?" I ask.

  "Are you shitting me? I want a drink. Meet me at Firefly," she says, referring to a local bar on Ventura Boulevard that we went to my first night in town.

  "I'll text you as I'm leaving work," I say, then pull her into a hug. "I'm really glad about this guy. I can't wait to hear more."

  "I can't wait to see more," she says with a wicked grin. "Trust me, I could look at that man all day."

  I leave Jamie sighing and probably replaying last night's coital gymnastics in her mind, then hurry down the back stairs to the parking area. As I pull out, I see the limo in my rearview mirror. I keep an eye on it until I turn, but it doesn't move from the spot, and as I turn onto Ventura Boulevard, I can't help but smile. After all, it's not every day I manage to outmaneuver Damien Stark.

  Despite the fact that my ancient Honda has very little spunk and has lately taken to stalling out at stoplights, I manage to get from Studio City to the Innovative Resources office in Burbank in less than fifteen minutes, completely stall-free. I consider this a stellar beginning to the day. I park next to a red Mini Cooper that I eye jealously, then lock my car and head toward the ugly four-story stucco building that houses the Innovative offices along with a few subtenants.

  My phone beeps and I pause in the middle of the parking lot to pull it out of my purse, then smile when I see it's from Damien.

  Thinking of you. Be good on your first day. Get along with the other kids. But don't share your candy.

  I laugh and tap out a reply. I only share my candy w/ u.

  His reply makes me smile. Very glad to hear it.

  I answer quickly. Heading into building now. Wish me luck.

  His response is just as quick. Luck, though you don't need it. Meeting reconvening, must go. Tonight, baby. Until then, imagine me, touching you.

  I always do, I reply, then sigh happily as I slide my phone back into my purse, but not before noticing the time. It's only 9:45, which means that I have fifteen minutes before I'm supposed to report for work.

  My phone rings, and I pull it out. Damien again. "I'm imagining," I say, keeping my tone sultry.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He doesn't sound sultry at all. In fact, he sounds downright pissed. I grimace. Apparently, he's just spoken to Edward.

  "Going to work," I say.

  "I'm supposed to be in a meeting right now."

  "So why aren't you?"

  "Dammit, Nikki--"

  "No," I snap. "I'm the only one who gets to say that. Dammit, Damien, I am perfectly capable of driving myself. And if you want to hire out Edward then ask me. It's easy. You walk up to me and say, 'Nikki, darling, light of my life, can I have my driver take you to work?' "

  There is a pause, and I hope that he is laughing. "And you would have said yes?"

  "No," I admit. "But that's the way you should have handled it. It's my job, Damien. I want to drive myself. I will drive myself."

  "I don't want you around the paparazzi without someone there with you."

  Oh. I feel a little bit better. I don't agree with what he did, but at least there was a reason for doing it. "Nobody's here," I say.

  "But there could have been."

  "And I would have dealt with it," I say, probably too sharply. I count to five. "You can't be with me every second of every day. No matter how much I wish you could. I'm going to see them when I'm alone. It's going to happen, and we both just have to deal with it."

  I hear him exhale. "I don't like it."

  "Me, neither."

  "Dammit, Nikki."

  I don't answer. I don't know what to say.

  Finally Damien speaks. "I'm going to my meeting," he says, but what he means is, I'm worried about you.

  "I'm fine," I say. "And, Damien?"

  "Yes?"

  "Thank you. Right emotion. Crappy execution."

  That gets a laugh out of him. "We'll have to agree to disagree on that," he says. "It is not an argument I can have from Palm Springs."

  I frown. Apparently it is an argument he can have in Los Angeles. Great.

  He really does have to go to his meeting, so he ends the call, and I'm left scowling at my phone and the knowledge that I'm going to have to deal with not only the paparazzi, but with Damien trying to babysit me through my day.

  I shove the problem out of my head and hurry into the building. I no longer have time to grab a coffee, but that's okay because I don't want to risk spilling it on my white blouse. As my mother's voice in my head reminds me, there are better ways to make a first impression than coffee stains on your outfit.

  The reception area is on the fourth floor, and I punch the elevator call button and wait impatiently for the elevator to arrive.

  The doors finally slide open and I shift to one side to let the passengers get off. I'm about to step into the car when I hear a throaty, familiar voice behind me.

  "Well, look at you, Texas. All dressed up with someplace to go."

  I turn and find myself facing Evelyn Dodge, a brassy broad if ever there was one, and one of my favorite people in the world. She's wearing flowing black pants and gold sandals that look like something imported from Morocco. The pants are mostly obscured by a blustery multi-patterned shirt that, as far as I can tell, was created by stitching together dozens of Hermes scarves. She looks a bit like a gypsy with very expensive taste.

  "I knew today was your first day," she says, "but I didn't think I'd get lucky enough to see you."

  I realize that I'm still staring at her in complete surprise--and blocking the entrance to the elevator. I step to the side so that the small group that has gathered can get on, and force myself to speak despite the grin that is plastered across my face.

  "What on earth are you doing here?" I ask. Evelyn lives in Malibu, not far from Damien's new house, and she's not the type to make the trek to the Valley unless the apocalypse is upon us.

  "Same thing you are, Texas."

  I lift a brow in amusement. "You're going into the tech industry? Designing an iPhone app to feature Blaine's work?"

  She taps her nose and points at me. "Not a bad idea, actually, and I just may have to wrangle some advice out of you about that later. But no. I'm here to see Bruce."

  "Why?" The question is out of my mouth before I realize how completely rude it sounds.

  Evelyn, however, isn't the kind to take
offense. "I need one of his keys," she says, then barks out a throaty laugh. "But don't worry. It's not for a tryst. Blaine's more than I can handle in that department--and now he's decided he wants to touch up some of the paintings for Saturday's showing, but apparently they're in the gallery's off-site storage facility."

  Now I really am confused. "Can't Giselle let you in?" Giselle is Bruce's wife and the owner of a few Southern California art galleries. Saturday's cocktail party will not only feature the portrait of me--though only a handful of guests will actually know that I am the model on the wall--but also a number of Blaine's other paintings.

  "If she hadn't hauled her ass to Palm Springs, sure. But she called me from the road. Apparently she's on her way to get a few pieces from her gallery there, and her assistant doesn't have the spare key to the unit. Why the hell Giselle gave it to Bruce instead of her assistant, I don't know. Sometimes, that woman baffles me."

  "Damien's in Palm Springs, too. He went there this morning."

  "Too bad Giselle didn't know. She could have dumped the job of bringing the paintings back on him. Would have saved me a trip." Evelyn shakes her head. "Frankly, I would have much rather gone to Palm Springs than Burbank, and I'm sure she knows it, but I think she and Brucey boy are having another tiff."

  "Why are they fighting?"

  "With those two? Who the hell knows." She brushes the conversation away, as if it is old news, but to me the topic of Giselle is one of unpleasant but undeniable interest. I'd been jealous of the woman for about five minutes when I'd first met Damien at Evelyn's party because it had seemed to me that she was the girl on Damien's arm. Once I'd learned that she was married, however, the jealousy had been shoved into a dark corner where it belonged. I wouldn't say that the jealousy has returned, but my hope that Bruce and Giselle quickly regain a state of marital bliss is definitely more selfish than altruistic.

  "And what about you?" Evelyn continues. "I keep hoping you and that camera of yours will take me up on my offer so that I can ply you with drink and wrangle some gossip, but I guess you don't need me now that you've got Damien's view at your disposal."

  "It is one hell of a view," I admit. "But I'd still love to come over sometime."

  "Anytime. Bring your camera if you want," she says. "Or just come for the liquor and the gossip. Both flow free at my house. Advice, too, if you need it. But from what I'm hearing, you're doing just fine."

  "Blaine's been telling stories on me." I can't help my grin. The skinny young artist and the large brassy woman don't seem like a couple at first glance. And while Evelyn will say she only keeps Blaine around to warm her bed, I have a feeling there's a lot more to it than that.

  "Hell, yes. What's the point of sending that boy out in the world if he doesn't bring me back the dirt?"

  "And?"

  "You're boringly dirt-free," she says. "From what I hear, you're swimming in bliss."

  I laugh. "I'll go with that."

  "Good. Glad I'm not the only one getting hot sex regularly."

  My cheeks burn, and I have to press my lips together not to burst out laughing.

  "But it's more than that, I take it? From what Blaine says, it sounds like you've tamed the savage beast." I don't reply, but her words please me so much that I'm pretty sure I must be glowing. "So there's no new dramas on the horizon?"

  "No," I say warily, because this is neither the time nor the place to tell her about Carl's threats. From her tone, though, I can't help but fear that she already knows. "Why? Is there something I should know?"

  She waves an airy hand through the air. "Not a thing."

  I narrow my eyes at her. Evelyn may have been a good liar back in her agenting days, but she has lost the knack.

  She eyes me, then snorts with laughter. "Aw, hell, Texas. I meant what I said. There's nothing you need to worry about. Not now, anyway."

  Several groups of people have gotten on and off the elevator during our conversation, and now the car once again opens in front of us.

  "Time to go to work, right?" Evelyn says.

  "You are not getting off that easy," I retort, following her on. I have every intention of interrogating her, but there's no time during the short ride up, and when the doors open, there's no privacy. The receptionist, a girl my age who I remember is named Cindy, immediately stands.

  "Wow, it's so cool to have you here," she says to me, then blushes. "I mean, you're going to fit in great. We can do lunch if you want."

  "Thanks," I say, with a sidelong glance toward Evelyn, who only looks amused. "I think I'm having lunch with Bruce today."

  "Oh, right. Mr. Tolley's ready for you. Just a sec, and I'll walk you back." She turns to Evelyn before I have the chance to tell her I'm supposed to meet first with the lady from Human Resources. "May I help you?"

  "Evelyn Dodge," Evelyn says. "I called Bruce about picking up--"

  "Oh, sure thing, Ms. Dodge." She comes around the desk and hands Evelyn an envelope that presumably contains a key.

  Evelyn slides it into her humongous purse and points a finger at me. "We'll see each other tomorrow, Texas."

  "Yeah," I say meaningfully. Evelyn is one of the few people who knows the identity of the woman in Blaine's portrait. "You'll certainly be seeing plenty of me tomorrow."

  Evelyn guffaws and then steps back onto the elevator. I follow Cindy down the plain gray halls to Bruce's office, Evelyn's laughter still ringing in my ears.

  8

  We don't even make it to the office before Bruce emerges. When we met during the interview, he'd been the picture of corporate calm. Now he looks undeniably harried. "Nikki, great to see you." He holds out his hand for me to shake. It's firm and no-nonsense, and I think that bodes well for Bruce as a boss.

  Cindy returns to reception and Bruce starts down the hallway, easing farther into the bowels of the company. He's moving fast, and I hurry to keep up. If the fight with his wife is weighing on him, I don't see it. He looks like a man with a work problem, not a marital one.

  "If this is a bad time," I begin. "I mean, I'm pretty sure Human Resources is expecting me."

  "I talked with Trish. She'll take care of your paperwork this afternoon. Right now, I've got something I'd like you to handle." He comes to a stop outside an office, its closed door covered with taped-on cartoons and various band logos. "I hope you don't mind getting thrown to the wolves."

  I eye the door curiously. The truth is that I have no idea what he's talking about, but what I do know is that the proper response to such a question from your new boss is "Not at all. What's going on?"

  "Calendaring screw up and I'm double-booked. I need you and Tanner to head downtown to meet with the IT team at Suncoast Bank. They're interested in the 128-bit encryption algorithm we've been beta testing. You'll be stepping in to head up marketing on the product anyway, but I had hoped to give you a little time in-house to get your feet wet. Sorry to bring all this down on your first day."

  "Not a problem," I say. My voice is calm, but inside I'm doing cartwheels. Bruce told me about Innovative's cutting-edge encryption software during my interview, and I know that it is shaping up to be the company's gold-standard product. I hadn't expected to actually land such a choice assignment right off the bat, but since I have, I fully intend to use this meeting as a chance to prove to my boss that I can do this job, and do it well.

  "It shouldn't be too hard a sell," Bruce adds. "The product is exactly what they need, but we're going to want to put our own team on-site to make sure their IT group gets trained properly and that we have eyes on and a fast response to every bug and every glitch."

  "Of course."

  "That's why I'm sending Tanner in, too," he adds, tapping lightly on the cartoon-covered door. "He worked on the development of the project and, frankly, I think it would be good for him to work six months in-house with a client."

  "Why?"

  Bruce frowns. "If you don't mind mixing business with pleasure, we can go into that when I see you tomorrow. Right now, I'll j
ust say that when I was talking about the wolves, I didn't mean the client."

  "Sure," I say, realizing with a mental head-thwap that of course he's going to be at the party. The first hour will be intimate--just our friends who know that it's me up there on Damien's wall--but then Damien is opening the third floor to a whole slew of Blaine's clients.

  A voice filters out from behind the still-closed door. "I said 'come in,' already."

  Bruce pushes the door open, and a blond man with a surfer's tan and the air of a salesman looks up at us. His desk is buried under an array of papers, and probably twice as many sheets are splayed out across the floor. He looks up at us and smiles widely. I know I should wait until I have more to go on, but I instinctively do not like this man.

  "Bruce!" he says, his voice full of friendly bluster. "Just got off the phone with Phil. He's sending up the information on the Continental Mortgage proposal. I'll make sure he stays on top of it."

  "Sounds good," Bruce says, but I have the feeling he's only half-listening. "Tanner, this is Nikki."

  Tanner's smile grows even wider and for an odd second I feel as though I'm looking at a mirror of myself. That's not a real smile any more than my practiced pageant smile. Or any more than the Social Nikki smile I paste on right now.

  "We've all heard a lot about you," Tanner says. "Everyone's been eager to meet the flavor of the month." He half-laughs as his eyes dart to Bruce. "So welcome aboard and all that."

  I meet Tanner's eyes and deliberately let my smile grow wider. "I'll try to live up to expectations." I shift just enough so that I'm looking at both men, then I pull out all the stops, dazzling them with my "what I really want is world peace" pageant-perfect smile.

  "I'm sure you will," Bruce says. "We're thrilled you've joined the team." The sincerity in his tone is unmistakable, and I can tell by the look on Tanner's face that he realizes it, too.

  "We really should get going," Tanner says, then grabs a messy sheaf of papers off his desk and shoves them into a leather messenger bag.