by J. Kenner
"She didn't have to have her beauty sleep, too?"
"She didn't win enough, so my mom eventually quit entering her in pageants." The freedom had given Ashley time. It had given her back her life. I had adored my big sister, who'd always been my guardian angel, but I'd been incredibly jealous, too. I used to think she was the lucky one.
And then she'd killed herself.
I shiver. "I really don't want to talk about it anymore," I say.
He doesn't acknowledge my words, but after a moment he speaks again. "I thought I knew a bit about photography, but I guess I know less than I thought. I always assumed some light was allowed in."
I glance sideways at him, grateful for his discretion. He's stepped away from my personal issues with the dark, but kept the thread of our original conversation. "At a certain point in the process, yes," I say, letting my fears and memories fade under the weight of a subject I love. "And a red or amber safelight is common when making black and white prints because most of the papers are sensitive only to blue or blue-green light. But if you're working with color like I usually do, then the prints need to be kept in total darkness until they're properly fixed."
I shrug. "It's really not a big deal. Access to a darkroom is expensive and doing your own developing eats up a lot of time. One of these days I'll get a digital camera, but in the meantime, I send my film out and get back a contact sheet along with all the pictures on disk. Then I sit down and play with the images in my native environment."
"The computer?" he asks, grinning.
"Ever since I got my first one at age ten," I confirm. I don't tell him that the computer was my escape. I could turn it on and tell my mother I was doing homework, then lose myself in games and later in writing my own code. For a week or so, I'd even used the screen as a nightlight, but my mother caught on. My mother never missed a thing.
"Doing photographic work on the computer is like holding magic in your hand," I say. "I mean, I could take a picture of you and then find stock footage of the surface of the moon and make it look like you're standing in space." I grin wickedly. "Or I could put your head on the body of monkey."
"I'm not sure that would show me off to my best advantage."
I have to agree. "No, it wouldn't."
"That's one of the apps you have for sale, isn't it?" he asks.
I blink, surprised he knows about that. I've designed, coded, and am selling three smartphone apps across various platforms. I designed them while I was at UT, though not for any particular class. Turns out there's actually a market for apps that allow you to paste a headshot onto a provided stock animal photo, then share the new image across various social media.
"How did you know about that?" I ask. That app is reasonably popular, but it's not bringing in so much money that it would be on Stark's radar.
"I make it a point to know everything I can about the things I care about." He's looking at me as he speaks, and there's no mistaking that he means me and not the app. I don't know why I'm surprised. Damien never misses a thing, either.
I smile, feeling flattered but also exposed. I can't help but wonder what other things he knows about me. How deep has he looked? Considering the resources at Damien Stark's disposal, he could have looked pretty damn deep, and that truism gives me pause.
If he notices my mood this time, he ignores it. "I've always thought of science as magic, too," he says, returning to the thread of our conversation. "Though not just computer science."
"I was pretty impressed with your questions during the pitch," I say. His questions had covered the technical aspects of the software design as well as the anatomical components, reflecting an understanding of both tech and basic anatomy. "What did you study in college?"
"I didn't go to college," he says. "For that matter, I didn't go to school. I had private tutors from the time I was ten. My coach insisted, and my father agreed."
An unfamiliar edge sharpens his voice, and although I want to know more, it's clear I've stumbled upon a sore subject. "So, do you know much about photography?" I ask, grappling for a shift in the conversation. I remember the photos in his reception area. "Did you take the pictures outside your office?"
"I know just enough to be dangerous," he says lightly, and I'm glad of the change in mood. "And no. I tried to find photos that represent my hobbies. Those are done by a local photographer. He has a studio in Santa Monica, actually."
"He's very skilled. His use of contrast and perspective is stunning."
"I agree, and I'm flattered you thought I might be the photographer."
I shift in my seat to look at him better. "Well, you are a remarkably talented man. And very full of surprises."
His decadent grin is pure Damien, promising more surprises to come, and I feel an answering tingle between my thighs.
I drop my eyes and clear my throat. "Your hobbies, huh? So there were photographs of the ocean, some mountains, redwoods, and a bike tire. I'm guessing sailing, skiing, I have no idea, and biking."
"Not bad. The ocean represents diving and the trees are for hiking. Other than that, you got it right. Any of those appeal to you, Ms. Fairchild?"
"All of them," I admit. "Although I've never tried diving. Not many opportunities in Texas."
"California has excellent diving," he says. "Though a wetsuit is a bit cumbersome. I much prefer the warmer waters of the Caribbean. There," he says, pointing out the window.
It takes me a second to switch gears, but then I see that he's pointing to Santa Barbara.
"I'll need to put her into the landing pattern soon, but why don't you take control for a bit."
"What?" I clear my throat and try that again without squeaking. "I'm sorry, but what?"
"It's easy," he says, releasing his hold on the wheel. He reaches over and takes my hand. The contact burns through me--why do I feel this man's every touch so intensely? Right then, I wish I didn't, because he's putting my hands on the wheel and I'm supposed to keep this plane in the air, and he's making it really hard to concentrate.
"Oh, fuck," I say as he lets go of my hand. "Shit, Stark! What am I supposed to do?"
"You're doing it. Just keep her steady. Push in, we descend. Pull out, we climb. Go ahead, pull out gently."
I do nothing.
He laughs. "Go on. Give it a try."
This time I do, and then gasp with pleasure as the plane responds to my command.
"I like that sound," Damien says. "I think I need to hear that sound on the ground." He puts his thumb on my cheek and strokes it softly. This time, I try very hard not to make a sound. "There you go, baby. Okay, steady it out."
His hand grazes down my neck and rests on my shoulder. He squeezes it lightly. "Good job."
My breathing is coming fast, and I'm not sure if it's the exhilaration from the flight or from the man. "I am flying," I say. "I am really flying."
"Yes," he says. "And you will again."
We're the only guests on the terrace dining area at the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel on Bank Street. We're just a few blocks from the ocean, and from where we sit, we can see the pier at Stearns Wharf and, in the distance, the Channel Islands rising like sea creatures from the water.
I'm sipping a white chocolate martini, and I'm pleasantly full after a lunch of raw oysters and stuffed salmon. "This is amazing," I say. "How did you find this place?"
"It wasn't difficult," he says. "I own the hotel."
I don't know why I'm surprised. "Is there anything you don't own, Mr. Stark?"
He reaches out and takes my hand. "At the moment, everything I want is mine."
I take a sip of the martini to hide my reaction.
"Don't worry, Ms. Fairchild. I take very good care of the things I own."
My cheeks flush, and I'm suddenly very aware of my body, especially the parts below my waist. I savor the feeling, because the truth is that I'm a little afraid he's going to want to back out of our deal once he gets a full view of the condition of the merchandise.
A man
in a tailored suit steps onto the terrace and approaches us. He's carrying a white shopping bag, which he hands to Damien. "This just arrived for you, Mr. Stark."
"Thank you, Richard."
As Richard leaves, Damien passes me the bag. "I believe this is for you."
"Really?" I put the bag in my lap, peer into it, and gasp. It's a Leica, shiny and new.
I look to Damien and see his wide, delighted grin. "You like? It's digital. Top of the line."
"It's wonderful." I laugh. "You're amazing, Mr. Stark. You just blink and things happen."
"A bit more than a blink, but it was worth the extra effort. How else will you get shots of the beach today?"
I stand and walk to the edge of the terrace. "I can see the ocean from here, but not much of the beach."
"The view will be better when we're walking on it."
I lift my foot and show off my pumps with the two-inch heels. "I don't think I'm dressed for the occasion."
The ankle bracelet sparkles in the sun. He runs his finger over it, the heat from his skin radiating over mine.
"It's beautiful," I say.
"Beauty for beauty," he replies. "The emeralds match your eyes."
I smile, delighted. "I'm feeling showered with gifts lately."
"Good. You deserve to be. And that's not a gift," he says, brushing his finger over the bracelet. "It's a bond ... and a promise." He's looking right at me as he speaks, and my cheeks heat with a blush.
"I don't want to miss walking on the beach with you," I admit. My words come out a whisper. "I can go barefoot."
He chuckles. "You could. But have you looked under the camera box?"
"Under?" I go back to the table and pull out the box. Sure enough, there's something else there, wrapped in blue tissue paper. I look at him, but his expression gives nothing away. Slowly, I pull out the tissue paper. Whatever's hidden is flat and firm. I peel back the paper until I reveal a pair of black flip-flops. I look up at Damien and grin.
"For walking on the beach," he says.
"Thank you."
"Anything you want. Anything you need."
"Not everything can be bought," I say.
"No," he agrees, and he's looking hard at me. "But I stand by my promise."
His words twist deliciously inside me, and I'm saved from answering by our waiter's entrance. We return to the table for coffee and a chocolate lava cake that is so perfect I wish I'd let Damien order two instead of insisting that I only wanted a few bites.
"What else did you do this weekend?" I ask him.
"I worked."
"Earn another billion?"
"Not quite, but the time was profitable. And you?"
"Laundry," I admit. "And we went dancing Saturday night."
"We?"
"Ollie," I say. "And my roommate, Jamie."
His expression is tense. Is that jealousy? I think maybe it is, and I'm just petty or vain or something enough to be a little bit glad of that.
"Shall I take you dancing this week?"
"I'd like that," I say.
"Where did you go with Jamie and Ollie?"
"Westerfield's," I tell him. "It's that new place on Sunset close to the St. Regis."
"Mmm." He looks thoughtful. I'm guessing that loud clubs aren't his thing.
"Too wild for you?" I ask. "That harsh beat? Those bright lights?" I know he's only thirty, but he usually seems so much older. I wonder if he belongs to a ballroom dancing club. Surely they have those in Los Angeles. I consider the idea, thinking of all the movies I've watched with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Yeah, I could handle dancing like that in Damien's arms.
"Did you like Westerfield's?"
"I did. But, you know, I just left college, and Austin has a lot of clubs. So the loud music and the heavy beat don't really--" I stop, suddenly aware of the amused expression on his face. I feel my shoulders slope as I figure it out. "You own the place, don't you?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Hotels. Clubs. What happened to your little technology empire?"
"Empires are often widespread," he says. "I believe there's strength in having a varied portfolio. And my empire is not little at all."
"I pegged you wrong," I admit.
"Did you?"
"I was picturing us as Fred and Ginger. When you take me dancing, I mean. But I'm okay with a nasty little bump and grind, too." I give him my most flirtatious smile and am shocked at myself for doing so. I blame it on the martini. Well, the martini and the man.
He smiles enigmatically, then stands and crosses the terrace. I see him fiddling with something on the wall. A moment later, I hear music. It's "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," one of my favorite Astaire and Rogers numbers. He returns to me with his hand out. "Ms. Fairchild, may I have this dance?"
My throat constricts and my pulse races wildly as he pulls me up and into his arms. I'm not a good dancer, but with Damien leading I feel like I'm floating. We glide over the terrace, his hand on my back as light as a feather. And when the music ends, he pulls me close and bends me backward, smiling down at me with devilish intent.
I'm breathless, my chest rising and falling in his arms. His lips hover over mine, and I find myself unable to think of anything but the way his lips would feel pressed against mine. The touch of his mouth. Of his tongue.
"Is there something on your mind, Ms. Fairchild?"
"No."
He lifts an eyebrow, and I hear his voice in my head. No lies.
"I just--I was just wondering."
"Wondering what?" He eases me up, and our bodies are pressed close. Hips touching. My breasts against his chest, my hard nipples revealing my arousal. "Tell me," he whispers, his lips grazing my ear and making me shiver with desire.
"I was wondering if you were going to kiss me."
He turns his head slowly, then looks me in the eye. I want to lose myself in the heat I see there, and my lips part in anticipation of a kiss.
"No," he says, and then he takes a single step away from me.
I blink, confused. No?
His smile is wicked. "No," he repeats. And that's when I understand. He's punishing me for pulling back in his office. "Our week begins when you arrive for your first sitting."
"Tonight?" I ask.
"At six."
I nod, disappointed but excited.
His hand slides down the curve of my ass over the thin material of my skirt. "And, Nikki," he adds, "don't bother wearing underwear. You really won't need any."
I swallow and realize I'm already wet with anticipation.
Oh. Fucking. My.
18
I hang the Leica around my neck, but we leave the rest of our stuff with Richard and exit the back door of the hotel, following a path that takes us past the pool, an outdoor dining area, and then the tennis courts. Two couples are playing doubles, laughing and teasing each other as they miss most every stroke.
"Not a lot of hotels have courts," I say. "Was that your idea?"
"The courts were here when I bought the place," Damien says. It may be my imagination, but I think he's begun to walk faster. I, however, am slowing down. There's a bench just off the courts, and I pause there, my hands on the backrest. I'm looking at the players, but I'm imagining Damien on the court. His legs taut and tanned. His broad shoulders and strong arms. His jaw tight with determination.
After a moment, I feel him come up behind me. "We should go," he says. "I want to show you the wharf, and I need to be back in the office by three."
"Oh. Sure. I forgot." I take his hand and we continue walking, leaving the hotel grounds and then strolling past the charming stucco houses on Mason Street.
"Do you miss it?" I ask, as we turn right off Mason into a small, green park. Ahead of us is the beach and the Pacific Ocean, shining blue-green in the afternoon sun. "Tennis, I mean."
"No." His answer is flat, without any hesitation or guile. Even so, I don't quite believe him, and I say nothing, hoping that he will elaborate. After a few mor
e moments, he does. "At first, I loved it. But after a while, the fun went out of the game. There was too much baggage."
"The competition?" I ask. "Maybe you could get the fun back if you just played. I'm terrible, but we could hit a ball around sometime."
"I don't play anymore," he says. His tone is hard and firm, and doesn't mirror my light suggestion at all.
"Okay." I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. It's obvious I've touched a nerve, and I'm not quite sure how to get the flirtatious, laughing Damien back. "I'm sorry."
He looks at me sideways, then exhales, as if in frustration. "No, I'm the one who's sorry." He smiles, and I see the ice starting to melt, revealing nice underneath. "It's just that I'm done with tennis. Like you're done with pageants. You don't compete anymore, do you?"
I laugh. "Hell no. But there's a difference. I never thought it was fun." Dammit, I should have kept my mouth shut. I don't want him icing over again.
But he's not icy at all. He's looking at me with interest. "Never?"
"Never," I say. "Well, maybe when I was little I liked the dressing up. I honestly don't remember. But, no, I don't think I liked it even then. I can't remember feeling like anything other than my mother's personal Barbie doll."
"And dolls don't have a life of their own," he says.
"No, they don't," I say, pleased that he understands so well. "Did your parents push you to play?" I'm edging up against a sore point, but I want to get to know this man better.
We've reached the end of the park, and he takes my hand as we cross Cabrillo Boulevard. We reach the beach and walk in silence toward the surf. I've pretty much decided that I'm not going to get an answer when Damien finally speaks.
"At first I liked it. Loved it, actually. I was so damn young, but even then I loved the precision and the timing. And the power. Damn, I could hit that ball. It was a crappy year--my mother was sick--and I took out all my frustration on the court."
I nodded. I got that. When I was younger, I lost myself in the computer or behind a camera. It was only when that stopped being enough that I started cutting. Somehow, everyone finds a way to cope. I think of Ashley and bite back a frown. They find a way--or they don't.
"I started staying after school and the gym teacher coached me, but pretty soon he said that I'd blown past him. My dad worked in a factory and I knew that we couldn't afford a coach, but that was okay. I was a kid, only eight, and I just wanted to play for fun."
