by J. Kenner
"Carl fired me. Don't even pretend like you didn't know."
"I didn't," he says. The tension leaves his body. "Fuck, Nikki, I swear that I didn't, though I probably should have expected it." He reaches for my hand, and I'm numb enough that I let him take it. He presses his lips to my fingertips, and the contact is so gentle and sweet it makes me want to cry. "I'm so sorry."
"Why did you say no? The proposal was amazing. The product is amazing. You were impressed--I know you were. And now Carl thinks that I snubbed you or fucked you or otherwise got under your skin enough that you want to get back at me through him."
"He told you that?"
"He hasn't told me shit. He didn't even have the balls to fire me himself. But I'm not an idiot. I know what it looks like and what he must think."
"You have gotten under my skin," he says. "But that's not why I said no."
"Then why did you? I mean, come on, Damien. It's a damn good product."
"It is." He pulls a small device out of his pocket. It takes me a second to realize it's a remote control. He pushes a button and the room grows dark as the lights dim and the windows shift from clear to opaque.
"What are you--" But I don't bother to finish the question. A menu appears on a drop-down screen. Damien scrolls down to select one entitled Israeli Imaging 3IYK1108-DX.
A moment later, a grainy image appears. It's difficult to see everything, but it's clear that what Damien's showing me is a product similar to the one Carl pitched.
"An Israeli company called Primo-Tech has already received a patent on a similar product. They have a marketing plan in place, and they're deep into beta testing. They expect to roll out the full product next month."
I shake my head. "Carl doesn't know anything about this."
"No? Well, maybe he doesn't. Or maybe he was hoping that I would invest so that there would be enough capital behind his product to beat Primo-Tech in the marketplace."
I look at him. Carl can be a shit, but surely he wouldn't do that. Would he?
"I don't play those kinds of games, Nikki. When I invest, it's because I have a clear path in the market. I said no to C-Squared because of the Primo-Tech product. It has nothing to do with you."
I nod. "I'm glad to hear it."
"Would you like me to explain that to Carl?"
"Hell no. I don't want to work for a man who jumps to those kinds of conclusions."
"Good." He looks me up and down, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"What?"
"Nice suit."
It's an innocent compliment, but it doesn't sound innocent at all. I notice that the lights in the room are still dim and bite my lip in nervous anticipation.
"Not that I like to see you unemployed, but this works out well. Your day job was interfering with my plans for you."
"Oh." My mouth is dry. I swallow. "Yes, well, I'm hardly joining the ranks of the idle masses. I'll need to find a new one."
"Why?"
"I have this thing about eating and paying my rent. I'm just wacky that way."
"In case you forgot, you'll have a cool million in a week. For that matter, if you need money now, I'm happy to advance you a portion."
"No, thanks. That money's going into the bank. I'm not spending a dime until I'm ready."
"Ready?"
I shrug. I know Damien could help me launch a start-up, but I'm not ready to share that dream with him. Not yet.
"Secrets, Ms. Fairchild?" His voice is playful. He moves closer, so that I have to tilt my head up to look at him. "Shall I beg you to tell me what you intend for my money?"
"Your money, Mr. Stark? I don't think so. I'm earning every last penny."
"Oh yes," he says. His low, sensual voice curls through me. "You most definitely are."
His thumb grazes my lower lip and my breath hitches. Beneath my thin blouse, my nipples are stiff against the lace of my bra. I want to draw his thumb into my mouth and suck on it. I want to slide my tongue over it and listen as Damien moans. I want to feel his hands on me, our bodies pressed together, his erection straining against the expensive weave of his tailored slacks.
I want it, but I don't take it.
Instead, I back away. "Our time hasn't started yet, Mr. Stark," I say.
His eyes burn with dark fire, and then he laughs, the sound as smooth as fine whiskey. "You're a tease, Ms. Fairchild."
"Am I? Well, I guess you'll have to punish me."
He sucks in a sharp breath, and I flash a seductive smile. I'm playing a dangerous game, but right then I don't care. I feel powerful, and I like it.
"Nikki ..." His voice is raw and needy and I feel the quickening in my belly, the tightening in my thighs. I want his hands on me, and I feel my resolve weakening.
I'm saved by the sharp buzz of his intercom. "Mr. Maynard on line two."
"Thank you, Sylvia."
He holds up a finger, signaling me to wait, then taps his earpiece. "Charles," he says. "Give me an update."
He listens for a moment. "No," he says, and I'm certain that he's just interrupted Mr. Maynard. "You know damn well that I'm not interested in playing games or idle threats. I will file a defamation action if this goes any further. Make sure he understands that. Yes, of course I realize that. No, Charles, I'm not concerned about how difficult our case might be, I'm interested in stopping the son of a bitch. Well, then I guess you'll just have to bill me for all those extra hours, sounds like a win-win as far as your firm is concerned." His expression hardens. "Well, if he digs that up, then I'll really have to play hardball." He listens for a moment, then frowns. "No, you know she wouldn't. You took care of the new facility?" He nods, his expression weary. "Just make this go away, Charles. That's what I'm paying you for."
He hangs up without saying goodbye. I can feel his tension.
I'm tense, too. I'm certain the call was about Sara Padgett and her brother. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He looks at me, but it's as if I'm not even here. "No. It's just business."
I press my lips together, forcing myself to keep silent. After a moment, he seems to shake it off. He smiles slowly, then reaches for my hand. "Come with me."
Hesitantly, I twine my fingers with his. "Where are we going?"
"Lunch," he says.
"But it's not even ten yet."
His grin is boyish. "That should be just enough time...."
17
We take Damien's private elevator down to the parking level, and when the doors open, I recognize the red sports car from last night. I glance sideways at Damien. "Nice car. Looks familiar. Probably a lot of them in Los Angeles, huh?"
"Hundreds, I'm sure," he says dryly.
I don't know much about cars, but I can tell this one is sweet. It's cherry red and polished to a mirror shine. The windows are tinted as dark as a limo. It's so low to the ground that I'm afraid my ass will get bruised if we hit a pothole. It's sleek and beautiful and definitely the kind of toy I'd expect a billionaire to own.
"What?" he says, seeing my smile.
"You're predictable, that's all."
His brows lift. "Am I?"
"What is this, some kind of fancy Ferrari? I mean, what billionaire doesn't own a Ferrari?"
"Ah, it's much worse than that," he says. "This is a Bugatti Veyron. It costs about twice as much as a Ferrari. Nine hundred eighty-seven horsepower, a W16 engine, top speed of two hundred fifty-three, and she'll go from zero to sixty in under three seconds."
I force myself to look unimpressed. "In other words, you don't own a Ferrari?"
"I own three." Before I can react, he grins and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. "Watch your head getting in. She's low to the ground."
He opens my door, and I slide in. The all-leather interior smells amazing, and the seat hugs me like--well, I don't know like what, but I could get used to it.
"Where are we going?" I ask, as he gets in behind the wheel.
"Santa Monica."
The beachside town is mayb
e thirty minutes away, and that's only if we hit a ton of traffic. "Oh. So we're having an early lunch?"
"The Santa Monica Airport," he clarifies. "That's where I keep the jet hangared."
"Of course it is." I lean back in the seat and decide I'm either going to have heart palpitations or just go with it. The latter seems healthier. And more fun. "And we're taking the jet where?"
"Santa Barbara," he says.
"Really? With this car, I'd think we'd just drive."
"If I didn't have a meeting at three, we would." He presses a button on the steering wheel and the car fills with a dial tone, then begins to ring.
"Yes, Mr. Stark?"
"Sylvia, I'm taking the Bombardier out. Call Grayson and get her ready and put in a flight plan for me to Santa Barbara."
"Of course. Shall I arrange for a car to meet you at SBA?"
"Yes. And let Richard know I'm coming. We'll be dining on the terrace."
"Consider it done. Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Stark."
He clicks off without saying goodbye.
"She sounds efficient."
"Sylvia? She is. I expect only two things from my employees, loyalty and competence. Sylvia excels at both."
I am, I realize, slightly jealous of Sylvia and her pert smile and pixie cut hair sitting right there outside Damien's office every single day. It's a stupid, petty emotion and I'm ashamed to even entertain it. I console myself with an even pettier truth--that I'm the one he's taking to lunch.
"Looks like traffic is with us," he says as he pulls onto the relatively clear Interstate 10. He hits the accelerator, and I immediately see that he didn't lie. The car is sweet and it rockets up to sixty before I even have time to draw in a breath.
"Wow," I say.
Beside me, he's grinning like a teenager. "I'd really open her up, but the cops tend to get testy."
"Why buy a car like this if you can't drive her fast?"
He glances sideways at me. "Spoken like a true pragmatist. I didn't say I never drive her fast. But I'm not willing to risk your life--or the lives of any of the other commuters stuck out here on the 10."
"I appreciate the courtesy."
"But if you're interested, we can take her out to the desert one day and I'll show you what she can do."
"Show me? I can't drive her?"
He eyes me with interest. "You know how to drive a stick?"
"I bought my Honda my second semester at UT," I say. "It had decrepit upholstery, primer instead of paint, and a standard transmission. I replaced the upholstery, painted it on the cheap, and learned how to work a clutch." I'd been damn proud, too. When my mother had cut off the flow of money, she'd also taken my BMW. I'd wanted wheels, and I'd scraped together just shy of fifteen hundred dollars to get the Honda. It was a total piece of shit, but it was all mine, and it's still chugging along.
"In that case, maybe you can drive her." I hear the heat in his voice. "If you're very, very good."
"To have all this power beneath me?" I say, pitching my voice low and breathy. "I think that's incentive."
Beside me, Damien groans. "Jesus, Nikki. I thought we were trying to avoid a traffic accident."
I laugh, feeling sexy and powerful. It's one hell of a nice feeling.
Despite not going close to three hundred miles per hour, it takes almost no time to get to the Santa Monica Airport. Damien pulls up in front of a hangar beside a futuristic-looking jet with wings that seem to extend forever from the belly of the plane and bend upward at ninety-degree angles at each end.
"Wow," I say. I glance around and see an older man with graying hair and a beard striding toward us. "Is that Grayson? Is he the pilot?"
"That is Grayson," Damien says. "And he's the mechanic, flight guru, and all-around grease monkey. Good morning, Grayson. She all ready to go?"
"That she is. Great day for it, too."
"Grayson, this is Nikki Fairchild, my date for the afternoon."
"It's a pleasure," he says, shaking my hand.
"How long have you been flying?" I ask him.
"Over fifty years," he says. "My dad used to take me up in his Cessna when I was a little thing and let me control the stick." He passes a clipboard to Damien, along with something that looks like a test tube. "She's fueled up and ready, but I know you're going to give her your own once-over."
"My bird, my responsibility."
He takes the clipboard, then walks to the plane. He checks the pressure in the tires, then circles the jet, pausing occasionally to open something so that liquid can drip into the tube.
"What's he doing?"
"Checking for water in the fuel and for fluid in the lines," Grayson says. "I've been prepping planes for him for five years now, and he's never once not double-checked me."
"Isn't that a little annoying?"
"Hell, no. It's the sign of a good pilot, and Damien Stark is a damn good pilot. I ought to know. I'm the one who taught him."
"Pilot," I repeat, as Damien returns and passes the tube back to Grayson. "You're flying?"
"I am," he says. "Ready?"
I glance at Grayson, who chuckles. "You're in good hands."
"Very good," Damien says, but I have a feeling he's not talking about flying. Or, at least, not about flying in jets.
The access stairs are already down, and Damien gestures for me to go first. I climb up and find myself in a cabin so fine it makes commercial first class look like prison. I aim myself at one of the seats, only to feel Damien's hand on my arm holding me back. "We're going left," he says, and I follow him into the cockpit. Still polished and shiny, but this is a workplace, not an area to kick back with music and a cocktail.
He gets me settled into my seat, then gives the belt a tug, making sure I'm nice and snug before seating himself. "Why not let Grayson fly?" I ask. "Isn't it a shame to forgo all that luxury and have to do all the hard work?"
"I have comfortable chairs and cocktails on the ground. Flying is where the thrill is."
"All right," I say. "Thrill me."
His grin is wolfish. "I intend to, Ms. Fairchild. In the air, and when we're back safely on the ground."
Oh ...
He puts on a headset and checks in with the tower. Then we're taxiing to the runway and Damien is maneuvering the plane into position. "Ready?" he asks, and I nod. I hear the power build before I feel it, and then suddenly we're moving, racing down the runway. Damien's hands are on the wheel, firm and in control. And then he pulls back and I feel the ground fall away beneath us. I'm leaning back in my seat and we're flying.
I gasp. "Wow." I'm no stranger to commercial airplanes, but somehow the whole experience is different when you're sitting in the copilot seat.
We climb for a while, with Damien talking back and forth with the tower. Then we level off. When I look out, I see the California coastline far below us, and the mountains rising in the distance. "Wow," I say again, then rummage in my purse for my iPhone. I take a few snapshots, then turn to Damien. "I wish I'd known we were going to do this. I'd love to get some real shots."
"I doubt you could get anything decent through the glass. Grayson keeps it clean, but it's still going to cause some distortion."
He's right, and I feel a little better about the missed opportunity.
"Do you shoot digitally or on film?" he asks. Now that we're in the air, it's surprisingly quiet.
"Film," I say. "My camera's pretty old."
"Do you develop your own film?"
"No." I shudder involuntarily and hope that Damien won't notice. Of course, he does.
"I didn't realize that was such a loaded question."
"I'm not crazy about small, dark spaces," I admit.
"Claustrophobia?"
"I guess. It's being enclosed in the dark, mostly." I lick my lips. "And locked rooms. I don't like feeling trapped." I look down and realize I'm hugging myself.
He reaches over and presses a gentle hand to my thigh. I close my eyes and concentrate on steadying my breathing. It's easier
now that I have his touch to center me.
"Sorry," I finally say.
"You don't have anything to apologize for."
"I should be over it. It's stupid. Just childhood crap, you know?"
"Things that happen in childhood stay with you," he says, and I remember what Evelyn said about shit being piled onto him when he was a boy. Maybe he does get it. And right then, I want to share. I want him to see that there's an explanation for my quirks. Maybe I think that without a reason, I just look weak, and I don't want to seem weak to Damien Stark.
Or maybe I just want him to truly know me.
I don't know, and I don't want to wallow in self-analysis. I just want to say the words. "My mother had me competing in pageants from the time I was four," I say. "She was strict about a lot of things, but the one we battled the most on was me getting my beauty sleep."
"What did she do?" he asks. His voice is gentle, but clipped, as if he's holding on tight to control.
"At first, she just told me lights out at whatever time she set for my bedtime. Always at least two hours before my friends. I was never tired, so I'd go to bed, turn out the lights, then pull out a flashlight and play with my stuffed animals. When I got older, I'd read. She caught me one too many times."
He doesn't say anything, but I can feel the heaviness in the air between us. He's anticipating my next words.
"She started searching my room. Taking away my flashlight. Then she moved my bedroom to an interior room so that I didn't have a window, because there was some light that crept in from a streetlamp, and she'd read somewhere that you can only truly sleep well if you're in pitch-black." I lick my lips. "And then she put a lock on my door. From the outside. And had an electrician move the light switch to the outside, too." I'm damp with sweat, wondering if I should have started talking about it, because even though the sky is bright outside the windows, the darkness feels like it's pressing in around me.
"Your father did nothing?" The anger in Stark's voice is palpable.
"I don't know my dad. They divorced when I was a baby. He lives somewhere in Europe now. I almost told my grandfather once, but I never quite worked up the courage before he died."
"That horrific bitch." He spits out the word, and though I completely agree, I can feel social niceties rising to my lips, as if I have to find excuses for my mother.
I tamp them down. "My sister tried to help." I smile as I remember the way Ashley used to shine a light under the crack in my door and read me stories until I got sleepy. At least until our mother found out.
