Complete Me

  "Yeah," I say, looking hard at Jamie, whose sheepish expression only makes me more nervous. "She's here. What's up on Tuesday?"

  "Nothing specific. But I don't have any trips this week, and we haven't seen y'all in forever. I told Ollie that we should all go to Westerfield's. You know it, right? That place in West Hollywood."

  "I know it," I say wryly. Westerfield's is one of Damien's properties.

  "So can you come?"

  Part of me wants to say no, because I'm terribly afraid that there will be drama. But a bigger part of me still hopes that Jamie and Ollie and I can get back to where we were. "Sure," I finally say. "We'll be there."

  By the time evening rolls around, we have lounged by the pool, walked along the beach, played air hockey in a game room that I didn't even know the property boasted, and watched the first two Sean Connery Bond films while stuffing our faces with popcorn.

  For dinner, Jamie suggests that we roast hot dogs on sticks over the fire pit, and then make s'mores. It's calorie-laden and gooey and fun, and as I lay beside Damien and lick chocolate off his fingertips, I can't help but wonder if life can go on like this forever.

  It can't, of course, but for these few hours I am enjoying the sanctity of life within this bubble.

  It ends all too soon, though. At ten, Sylvia calls to patch Damien in on a conference call with one of his Tokyo suppliers. He kisses me lightly, then heads inside to take the call. I watch him go, sipping my whiskey and enjoying the way his ass looks in his favorite threadbare jeans. Jamie, I see, is also appreciating the view. She meets my eyes, then grins. "What? Like you don't know he's hot?"

  "Trust me," I say as I lean forward to grab another square of chocolate. "I am fully aware of his hotness."

  "Making another?" Jamie asks, passing me the bag of marshmallows.

  "Nope. Just eating the chocolate."

  "You okay?"

  I glance up at her. "Chocolate isn't always a sign of a deep emotional crisis."

  "Good. Glad to hear it."

  I put down the chocolate, suddenly wary. "Why?"

  "No reason." She holds up a hand as if warding off my nonexistent protest. "Really. I was just wondering what was going on with the whole stalker thing. Not that I don't totally love it here," she adds quickly. "But, hey, I like being around my stuff."

  "I get that," I say. "But I don't think Damien's security folks or the police have learned anything new."

  "Must be driving Damien nuts."

  "It is," I say. "That and trying to find Sofia."

  "Who?"

  I realize that I haven't told Jamie about Sofia, so I give her the abridged version, mentioning only that she's a friend of Damien's from his tennis days, that she's a little fucked up, and that she's missing. Probably doing the roadie thing with some band, but until that's confirmed, Damien's worried.

  "And you're not jealous?" Jamie says.

  I raise my brows. "Are you saying I should be?"

  "Ex-girlfriend, and now he's obsessed with finding her again? Shit, I'd be pulling my hair out."

  "Thanks," I say dryly. "I appreciate the mental health pep talk."

  "Yeah, well, as we've established several times over, I'm not anywhere near as together as you."

  "I think you have me confused with someone who doesn't cut," I say.

  The look she gives me is as serious as I've ever seen on Jamie. "I think you have you confused with someone who does."

  I stay still for a moment, not answering, but looking at myself through Jamie's eyes. Have I really gotten my shit together? Maybe not entirely, but I've been doing pretty damn well. And I owe all that to Damien.

  I think about the times when I've started to slide--the times when Damien has caught me--and I wish that Jamie could find someone, too. Someone who gets her and doesn't put up with her shit. Someone who's not just looking for a fuckbuddy or a one-night stand.

  Someone who'll love her.

  "What?" she says, peering at me through narrowed eyes. I just shake my head.

  She reaches out for the candy bar, and breaks off two squares. Then she uses the squares to sandwich a marshmallow. She doesn't bother to melt it over the fire; she just bites in, her eyes closed in what looks like near-orgasmic joy. "Damn, but I do love chocolate."

  I stand up. "I'm going to bed before I eat any more of that. Do you want me to wake you in the morning? I'm getting up early to go to the office." Those words are at least as delicious as the chocolate. I have an office. My very own office. Seriously, how cool is that?

  "I'll disown you if you wake me up," she says. "Now go." She waves her hand regally. "If I can't have sex, I'm going to at least finish off the last of this chocolate.

  I'm asleep by the time Damien comes to bed, and he's gone again when I wake up. I have a vague memory of being wrapped in his warmth at one point during the night, but for the most part, I'm feeling bereft. At least until I find the note in the bathroom promising me something delicious that night--and maybe even dinner, too.

  Cooper has magically appeared at the Malibu house, and I can only assume that one of Damien's elves drove him there while Damien and I were at the hospital with Jamie. However it arrived, I'm grateful, and I slide happily behind the wheel and head out for the long trek to Sherman Oaks. I'm starving, and my usual traveler's mug of coffee isn't cutting it this morning. Damien once introduced me to the world's best croissants from a local Malibu bakery, and since I can arrive at my own office at whatever the hell time I want to, I decide to make a detour.

  The Upper Crust actually has a drive-through, but I decide to park and go inside. I think I want a plain croissant, but I'm more than willing to be tempted by something truly decadent like pain au chocolat or a sticky, gooey cinnamon roll that is positively dripping with icing. As it turns out, it's the apple fritter that seduces me, and as I pay for it and an extra large latte, the little bell on the door jingles and Lisa walks in.

  I lift my hand to wave, then immediately drop it. She's hand in hand with a man I know--Preston Rhodes. The head of acquisitions at Stark Applied Technology.

  For a second, I think this must be one of those Big, Amusing Coincidences. But then I see Preston's smile of recognition--and Lisa's grimace.

  Well, fuck.

  "Damien," I say, my temper rising as each piece of the puzzle falls into place. "You didn't talk to me that first day in Burbank because I was the new girl at Innovative," I accuse. "You did it because Damien asked you to." I'm proud of myself for keeping my voice level, but considering the way Preston looks between us and slinks away, I don't think I'm quite as calm as I think I am.

  "It wasn't like that," Lisa says.

  I cock my head. "He didn't ask you to reach out to me?"

  "Well, yes," she admits. "I guess it was like that." Unlike mine, her voice really is calm. Perfectly level and perfectly reasonable. Which, naturally, pisses me off more.

  I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down.

  "He told me that you were considering going out on your own. That you already had some smart phone apps on the market that were doing well, and that you were working on developing some web-based apps that he thought would make a serious splash in the market."

  "And?"

  "And he told me that you were unsure of yourself as a business owner."

  "So he figured if I wouldn't listen to him, maybe I'd listen to you?" While I've sought out Damien's advice on the financial end, I've hesitated to ask him to step in to help me with the business. At the same time, I've been reluctant to launch until I felt like I knew what I was doing. Lisa is the perfect bridge between my insecurities and my needs, once again proving how well Damien knows me--and that he is still keeping secrets and pulling strings.

  I remember how he told me that he'd checked Lisa out. Damn the man! He didn't have to check her out--he knew her. Hell, she's engaged to one of his top employees.

  "I'm so sorry," Lisa says. "He asked me not to tell you, but the truth is I didn't even think about it after
that first time we met in Burbank."

  I exhale. "Honestly, it's not you I'm annoyed with."

  She sighs, and the professional veneer slips. I see the core of the woman I've come to know--the woman I thought was becoming my friend. "Come on, Nikki, you know how he feels about you. He wasn't trying to be underhanded--he only wanted to help you."

  "Help drive me crazy," I say, and Lisa laughs.

  "I really am sorry." Her expression is genuinely contrite. "So are we still on for happy hour sometime?"

  "Sure," I say, because no matter how mad I might be at Damien--and right now, I am very mad--I'm not going to screw up this nascent friendship with Lisa. "Actually, I'm meeting some friends at Westerfield's tomorrow. Why don't you guys come, too?"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely," I say firmly.

  "I'd like that," Lisa says. "Text me the details?"

  "Will do," I promise.

  "And don't kick Damien too hard," she adds. About that, though, I'm making no promises at all.

  It takes all my willpower, but I manage not to call Damien from the road. We are definitely talking about the whole Lisa bullshit, but we're going to do it in person once I've cooled down a bit--and have figured out what I want to say and exactly how I want to say it. Damien is far too adept at distracting me, and I have no intention of being distracted.

  Giselle calls while I'm in the car, and we make plans to meet at the office to go over a color palate she's picked out. As soon as I hit the freeway, though, I can tell that traffic will be a bitch. I have no idea what time Giselle left Malibu, but it's possible that she's got a thirty minute head start, so I call my own office and tell the receptionist--whose name I have forgotten--to let Giselle into the space if she gets there first.

  As it turns out, traffic isn't just a bitch, it's a raging, angry bitch from hell, and it takes me well over an hour to get from the Upper Crust in Malibu to my office in Sherman Oaks. I've finished both the coffee and the fritter by the time I arrive, and so I park Coop and walk down to Starbucks to get a refill on caffeine. Monica is at the same table, and she looks up and waves when I come in.

  "How'd the audition go?" I ask.

  She frowns and makes a thumbs-down motion. I make the appropriate sympathetic noises and get in line for coffee. I get a fresh latte for me and then, because I'm in a bit of a mood, I add an extra black coffee, and have the barista put a container of cream and some sweetener in a bag. Then I deliver the coffee to the security guy who tailed me from Malibu and now sits in his car in the office's covered parking area. "You must be bored out of your mind," I say. "But I really do appreciate it."

  He thanks me, tells me his name is Tony, and assures me that it's not boring at all. I don't believe him, but I appreciate the lie.

  I'm not surprised to find Giselle in my office when I get there, but I am surprised by the wide swaths of color she has painted on my walls. She must see the surprise on my face, because her eyes go wide, and she immediately starts apologizing. "It's so much easier to pick a color if you have an actual patch on the wall. Those cardboard paint chips will only get you so far."

  "No, it's okay, really. I like the blue," I add, pointing to a patch of sky blue she's painted by the window.

  "One of my favorites as well," she says. She glances at her watch. "I know you have work, so let me finish putting some of these colors up, and then I'll come back tomorrow with a few canvases for you to choose from, and you can tell me which colors sing to you."

  I agree readily, though I don't know how much singing the colors will do. As far as I'm concerned, the blue is just fine. But Giselle seems determined to make this a process, and since it's important to her--and I'm going to get a freshly painted office out of the deal--I am happy to go with the flow.

  My cell phone rings right as I'm firing up my laptop. It's Jamie, who is calling to gloat about the fact that she going to spend the day luxuriating on the beach while I slave over a hot keyboard.

  "Not that I wouldn't rather be shooting a commercial," she adds. "But I'm all about the glass being half full."

  I laugh. "Glad to hear it. And, James," I say, "just because the beach is private doesn't mean it's private, you know?"

  "No naked body surfing?"

  "Not even topless," I say, smiling.

  "Tell your man that I'll fix dinner tonight. We can call it rent. What do you want?"

  "I'm good with anything," I say. "And if you need to go to the store, just get Edward to drive you." I frown, realizing how easily the instructions have come from my lips. Edward doesn't work for me, after all. And yet here I am sliding into the mistress-of-the-house role.

  I have to admit I like it--even if I am still irritated with Damien.

  "My friend Jamie," I say to Giselle after I hang up, even though she hasn't asked. "She's vegging at the Malibu house today."

  "Sounds nice."

  I glance around my office feeling a bit smug and very happy. "Maybe," I say. "But this is good, too."

  "I'm excited for you," Giselle says. "And impressed by how quickly you're working to get your name out there."

  I frown, confused.

  "The article in today's Business Journal," she says, as if that will make it all crystal clear for me. "About the app you're designing for Blaine. I think it's great that you're turning all that nasty press about the portrait around and using it to promote your new business."

  "I didn't contact the Journal," I say.

  "Oh." She frowns. "I guess Evelyn or Blaine must have. Either way, it's great publicity."

  Great, maybe. But also odd. And as soon as Giselle leaves, I pick up my phone to call Evelyn and ask if she sent out a press release. I don't mind if she did, but I would have liked advance notice. If for no other reason than I'd like a copy of the article for my scrapbook.

  Before I get a chance to dial, however, the receptionist tells me that I have a delivery. I open my office door to find a messenger with a huge box of chocolates. I take it, bemused, and read the card. Forgiveness and chocolate go together.

  A wry smile twists my lips. Apparently Damien spoke with Preston Rhodes.

  I consider calling him, but decide to wait. It will serve him right to squirm.

  Promptly ten minutes later, there is another delivery. A gift basket filled with fancy liqueurs surrounding a huge bottle of Macallan whiskey. The man knows me well. I check the card and laugh out loud. Forgiveness goes even better with alcohol.

  Funny, maybe. But I'm still clinging to my irritation.

  Still, I can't deny that the edge on my anger has dulled a bit.

  When the next delivery is announced, I'm already waiting by the door. I tug it open and gasp to see Damien himself standing there. He's holding a shopping bag and carrying a single red rose. There is both amusement and apology in his eyes, and I have to fight the familiar tug that urges me to take the packages from him and wrap myself in his arms.

  I realize we've been standing like that for too long when he clears his throat. "Can I come in?"

  If I'd heard even the slightest hint of laughter in his voice, I would have slammed the door in his face. But his voice was flat and respectful and despite the whimsical nature of his gifts, it is clear that he knows my frustration with him is genuine.

  "For a bit," I say. "I have work to do."

  I step aside, and he eases in, his arm brushing mine as he does so. I feel that frisson of awareness that I associate with Damien and draw in a tiny little breath. If he hears me, he doesn't show it. He just strides into my office, puts down the bag, then hands me the rose. "I'm sorry," he says.

  I shake my head and face him, legs parted, my hands on my hips, totally exasperated. "You are a brilliant man, Damien Stark. Which is why I don't understand why you can't get it through your head that this kind of thing pisses me off. It's one thing--one very annoying thing--to ask Lisa to seek me out and help me. It's another thing to lie to me about checking her credentials."

  "I have checked her credentials,
" he says. "It's just been a while."

  "You know what I mean."

  "I do," he admits. He steps toward me and the air between us thickens.

  I step back. "Dammit, Damien. You can't just pull shit like that."

  "Are you going to ignore her advice? Cut her off?"

  "No. She's my friend. Despite you," I add. "Not because of you. And don't you dare argue that what you did makes no difference because we ended up genuinely liking each other."

  "I know the difference," he says seriously. "But I have a blind spot where you're concerned, Nikki."

  "Aw, really? That's so romantic." I cross my arms over my chest. "Get over it."

  He chuckles, then crosses the space between us before I can back away again. His arm is around my waist and he pulls me close so that my pelvis is hard against him. I feel the length of his erection, and I want to be annoyed that he's hard despite the fact that I'm mad at him. I can't, though. Because I'm turned on, too, my body tingling and already melting against him. Hell, I'd gone damp the moment he stepped into my office. "You can fuck me," I say breathily. "But I'll still be mad at you."

  He closes his mouth over mine for the kind of kiss that positively melts a girl. "Tempting," he says. Then he releases me, takes two steps back, and returns to me with the shopping bag. "For you."

  I take it warily, then peek inside. It's full of tissue paper, which I pull out to reveal a box shaped like a doghouse. I glance at him, confused, then pull the box out of the bag and open it. Inside are a dozen sugar cookies baked in the shape of dog bones. Each has I'm sorry lettered upon it in silver icing.

  "Okay," I say with a grin. "You're officially out of the doghouse. Thank you for the cookies," I add. "And don't do it again."

  "I'll do my best," he says. "But it's safer not to make promises."

  I can't help but laugh. This is one of the foibles of being in a relationship with a man like Damien Stark. But the more important fact is that as much as he drives me nuts, we are talking about this stuff. It's light in the shadows. It's glue on the bubble. Because the more solid we are, the longer we can hold back the world.

  "Thanks for coming," I say. "You could have waited and talked to me tonight."

  "No," he says simply. "I couldn't have."

  "Lunch?"

  "Unfortunately, that I do have to pass on."

  "Too bad, though I suppose it's just as well. I've accomplished absolutely zip today. I take it your day is busier what with a universe to run."