by J. Kenner
The thought—the fantasy—makes my body tighten. “We can’t,” I repeat, as much to underscore the point as to remind myself of that very basic truth.
“No?” His mouth brushes my ear, his breath disturbing my hair and sending shivers down my spine. “What if I told you that Emily was busy at her computer. That she’s locked the door for lunch. That I’m certain we won’t be seen.”
I swallow and say nothing, afraid that if I speak, my desire will betray my common sense.
“She won’t want to disturb us. Not when we might be contemplating a purchase. Destroy the moment, and she could lose a sale. She knows that. Knows that a client needs to get lost in the art. In the moment.”
His thumb has been making small circles on my breast, and my heart is beating so hard now that I’m surprised Emily can’t hear its echo on the far side of the gallery. On my legs, his fingers move subtly. Not rising, but neither are they still. Instead, his fingertips brush my bare flesh in sensual movements designed to entice and tease.
“What do you want, Nikki?” His words are as tender against my flesh as his fingers. “Do you want me to move higher, millimeter by millimeter, up your wet thighs as you hold your breath in anticipation? Would you cry out if I stroked your clit, unable to hold back the explosion?
“Or maybe I shouldn’t stroke you there at all. Maybe I should slide my fingers deep inside you. Feel how slick you are, the way your body will clench around me, drawing me in as I use my thumb to tease around your clit. Never quite touching, but drawing you up and up, until you can’t take it anymore.”
I can’t take it right now, and I’m certain he knows it. I want to tell him to stop—except I don’t want him to stop.
And so all I do is whisper his name. A plea. A prayer.
“Damien.”
“That’s right, baby.” I hear heat in his low, melodic voice, a passion now equal to my own. “Would you scream my name when you explode? Or would you be so quiet as you tremble in my arms, that I’d be the only one who knows the force of your orgasm rocking through you?”
I’m trembling now, so close to the explosion he’s describing that my skin seems to sizzle. The thin whisper of air from the ducts above does nothing to cool my heated flesh. I want the release, crave it, and yet I can’t quite let myself go. Not here. Not like this.
Damien knows that, of course. His real purpose isn’t to make me come—it’s to take me to the precipice. Pleasure, yes, but underscored by frustration. By need. And, ultimately by anticipation.
“Tonight,” I whisper, then boldly—and a little regretfully—ease his hand off my thigh.
“I look forward to it, Mrs. Stark.”
He takes a step backward, releasing me entirely. I draw a breath, mourning the loss of contact. And, maybe, perhaps, regretting that this encounter didn’t go further.
“It was both, by the way,” he adds.
He is still behind me—just as he’s been since he first approached me in the gallery. Now, I turn, but only enough so that I can see the shape of him in my peripheral vision. “What was?”
“The model. Pleasure, yes, but tinged with a hint of embarrassment. Not because she’s on display—that isn’t what embarrasses her.”
He falls silent, the obvious question going both unspoken and unanswered.
“Then what is?” I ask, when the quiet becomes too much.
He bends toward me, his breath tickling the back of my ear. “That she likes it.”
The words shoot through me, and I tremble from the force of that simple sentence.
“I’ll see you at home,” he says, taking another step back, and this time I don’t mourn the distance. On the contrary, I need it. Distance and time if I’m going to pull myself together by the time I get to Santa Monica.
I turn, taking his hands as I look into his face. It’s the first time I’ve looked straight at him in days, and I revel in his beauty. The raven-dark hair. His dual-colored eyes, one black and one amber. That lean, muscled body that seems to have been designed for a tailored suit, but looks damn perfect without one.
But it’s not his looks that make him so compelling. It’s his bearing. His confidence. As if there’s nothing in the world that he wants that he can’t have. Including me.
The thought makes me smile, and as always, I’m struck as much by the beauty of this man as by the love for me reflected in his eyes. “I’m glad you came.”
“But I didn’t,” he says, managing to keep a straight face.
I bite back a laugh, then flash him a stern look. “Mind out of the gutter. You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says. “And we’ll take care of my interpretation later.”
I flash a coy smile. “Is that a promise?”
He hooks a finger under my chin, his eyes locked on mine. “Baby, it’s a demand.”
“It’s a wonderful gallery,” Damien says to Emily as we walk back into the reception area.
“I’m so pleased you enjoyed the exhibit. Is there anything that called to you in particular?”
“The Blaine piece with the woman in the chair. I believe it’s called Woman and Blue.” He releases my hand so that he can take a slim wallet from the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out an American Express Black Card and hands it to her. “Please ask Blaine to call me to arrange a time for delivery and installation. He has my number.”
She doesn’t even bat an eye at his request that doubles as an order. Or at the fact that he didn’t even ask the price. “Certainly, Mr. Stark.”
They finish the transaction at record speed, and after Emily and I say goodbye, I step through the door with Damien and blink in the sunlight.
“Where do you plan to put it?” I ask. “It’s not very kid friendly.”
“That’s true,” he says, with a slight downward curve to his mouth that tells me he hadn’t thought of that. He simply wanted the painting, and so he bought it.
His smile fades, and his expression grows serious. “You do like it?”
“The painting? Of course.” That’s the truth, but I hope he doesn’t see the rest of the answer in my eyes. Because there’s more to it than that. The power of money. The wish fulfillment. And the messages that we send to our kids. But that’s a different conversation. A harder one. And definitely not a conversation we need to have on a Beverly Hills sidewalk.
“Good.” He tilts his head, looking back toward the gallery, presumably picturing the painting and imagining it inside our home. Maybe he’s thinking about the Blaine portrait that hangs on the third floor, affixed to a stone wall at the top of the stairs. A nude of a woman standing, her wrists bound, her face turned away. It’s me, of course, and that simple fact makes it difficult for me to look at it objectively.
Difficult, but not impossible, and the truth is that while there is an element of eroticism in the image, it is not an erotic painting. That wasn’t what he’d commissioned. Instead, the portrait is a life study of nude woman, her face hidden. It’s beautiful and tasteful.
And the girls, of course, don’t yet know that the model is their mother.
In contrast, Woman and Blue is one of Blaine’s overtly sexual images, especially so since the woman is facing the viewer, her legs spread, her body bound.
“We’ll find a place,” he says. “Maybe our bedroom. We can install a recessed frame with automatic shutters. When the girls are in the room, we’ll have a remote that can hide the painting.”
I can’t help myself. I laugh, then slide into his arms. “You have an answer for everything, Mr. Stark. And I think you just increased the cost of that painting—including installation—by several thousand dollars.”
“A small price to pay for the memory of this afternoon.” He releases my waist, then cups my cheek. “I want to see it and remember the package on my desk, then finding you here with your gaze locked on that painting while you remembered that first night at Evelyn’s when we saw the painting of the woman bound in red. And I want to look at the woman in
blue and think about the way I held you today. Touched you. I want to hold the memory of the things I said close, along with the knowledge that if I’d taken it further, you would have gone there with me.” I see the movement of his irises as he studies me. “Wouldn’t you?”
“You know I would.”
A smile touches his lips, conveying both gratitude and a hint of melancholy. “And that’s my final reason. I want to stand in front of it and recall the satisfaction of knowing the depth of your trust today. Do you know how much that means to me?”
“Of course, I do.” I search is face, and for a moment I think I see a flicker in his eyes, as if there’s something troubling him. “Damien?”
He reaches out, then slides a strand of my hair through his fingers. “You should have called me.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, and it must show on my face, because he continues. “The reporter. The security buzzer. Nikki, dammit, why the hell didn’t you call?”
His voice has gone from soft to urgent, and my stomach twists as I understand his fear. Of course, he receives alerts when our security system goes off. That hadn’t even occurred to me.
“It was nothing,” I say. “You must have called the guardhouse. You know I was fine. It was no big deal.”
He searches my eyes, but says nothing.
“I’m fine, Damien,” I assure him. “But, yes, I was a little shaken. That’s why I went to the office. Just leaving you that note calmed me down.” I rise up and brush a kiss over his lips. “I’m fine,” I repeat. “Truly.”
He draws me to him and wraps his arms around me, one hand cupping my head as I press my cheek against his chest. I hear the steady beat of his heart and close my eyes, wishing I could reassure him even more.
Except it’s not my reassurance he needs. He already knows I was fine. Knows that I would have called him first thing if I weren’t. This is about something else entirely.
I ease away, then tilt my head up to look at him, my expression like a question mark. He answers with a kiss, hard and deep and so deliciously intimate that I moan and move closer, ignoring the passersby on the sidewalk. Ignoring everything, even the certain knowledge that I’ll see a picture of this moment if I log onto social media later today.
But I don’t care. He needs this. Needs to touch me. To hold me. Our moments in the gallery were for play, a follow-up to the present I’d left on his desk. This is for him. For reassurance that all is well. That I’m here. That I’m his.
I don’t know why he needs that now, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll always give Damien what he needs.
My knees are weak when he finally releases me, and as I step back, I notice the gawkers nearby. I focus entirely on my husband as they pass on, realizing that the show is over. “Careful, Mr. Stark,” I say, lacing my voice with a tease. “I have to get to Santa Monica to meet my team. We don’t have time to rush over to the Beverly Wilshire for a quickie.”
The corners of his mouth tug into an amused smile, but a shadow remains. Something dark and impenetrable. Something I’m certain has nothing to do with me.
Something I don’t understand.
Not yet.
But I will. Because I’m going to make it a point to find out.
8
My phone rings as I’m turning onto Wilshire Boulevard, a few miles from my new office space. I hit the button to connect the call, then hear my sister-in-law’s voice over Coop’s speaker system.
“Where are you?” Sylvia asks.
“Santa Monica,” I say. “What’s up?”
“You’re heading to the walk-through and final punch list, right? Do you want me to come?”
Since I’m not leasing space in a Stark building, Sylvia wasn’t involved in finding the office or finalizing the deal. But real estate’s her business, and she’s family, so I know she’s sincere in the offer. Even so, I decline. “I appreciate it, but I think we’re in good shape.”
“Fair enough, but if you hit any snags, just text me. I’m all done at The Domino, so I can be there in fifteen minutes, tops.”
“What happened there? Rachel said there was some big crisis.”
“She got that right. Hang on.” I can make out voices, some shuffling, then I hear her swallow. “Sorry,” she says when she comes back. “I’m trying to cut down on caffeine, but this is one of those days.”
I imagine that she’s sipping a coffee at The Domino Cafe, a kiosk with outdoor seating that’s already opened on site. It’s a breezy, sunny day, and she’s probably settled into one of the colorful plastic chairs. She’ll be wearing sunglasses that hide her whiskey-colored eyes, and the ends of her short brown hair will be fluttering in the breeze, giving her an elegant, but carefree look.
“I’m having a day, too,” I say. “Tell me yours and make me feel better. Plus, I want the Stark office gossip.”
As I’d hoped, she laughs.
“Today was supposed to be no big deal. I had a few onsite meetings about the new phase, and that was all. But then all of a sudden Richard Breckenridge was there, and he’s shouting at me and telling me that he’s getting an injunction to block construction and freeze occupancy and that he’s going to destroy The Domino and Damien and me and anybody else who stands in his way.”
“Shit,” I say, which really doesn’t sum up the situation. Breckenridge is a local businessman with international holdings, and he was one of the original investors in The Domino. He seemed perfectly nice when I met him for a business dinner with Damien one night. A little self-involved, but easy enough to talk to.
Not that long ago, however, he got caught up in a #metoo scandal that had all the signs of being not only legitimate, but pretty damn nasty. And rather than stay in business with the man, Damien—or rather the company—utilized an escape clause in the deal to buy out Breckenridge’s investment, cutting him out entirely. Good for Stark International, but Breckenridge was royally pissed.
“Damien and Jackson came right over, of course, and security had to escort Breckenridge off the property. Honestly, I thought our guys were going to have to call the cops. And I didn’t hear what Breckenridge said to Damien when they were talking, but if Damien’s face was any indication, it wasn’t good.”
“No,” I say thoughtfully, as I recall his shadowed expression, “I don’t think it was.”
“It’s over now, though. Damien and Jackson headed back downtown ages ago. I’ve been here playing catch-up on other stuff. So, like I said, I can meet you if you need me. But if you really don’t, I’m going to head home early and cuddle my kids. It’s been a day.”
“I hear you,” I say, thinking that as soon as I’m done at the office, I’m going to do the exact same thing. “We’re still set for tomorrow, right?”
“Totally. Ronnie’s beside herself,” she says, referring to her precocious daughter. “She’s already rearranged the playroom. She says they’re going to play school. I think she’s mostly giddy for an opportunity to boss around her brother and cousins.”
“Well, the girls won’t mind. They idolize her.” Jackson’s daughter was three when he and Sylvia met, and after they married, Sylvia adopted little Veronica Steele. Now Syl and Jackson have a son as well, and the four cousins are best friends despite the staggered ages. We’ve all been so busy that it’s been a while since the kids got together, though. So tomorrow, since all the adults are going to the Foundation brunch, the kids are staying in the Palisades at Jackson and Sylvia’s house.
“Who’d you end up getting to watch them?” I ask as I slow down for a right turn. I’d originally intended to ask Bree to watch all the kids, but when she asked if she could come to the brunch to hear me speak, I had to revise that plan.
“Moira’s on deck,” Sylvia says, referring to Ryan’s little sister. She might be my best friend’s sister-in-law, but since she’s in grad school at UCLA, I don’t see her that often. But she’s responsible and sweet, and she’s babysat for both me and Sylvia before, so I know she can handle the kids.
“S
he’s not coming to the brunch?” While I’m fine with not having all my friends and family watch as I share my deepest secrets with the world, I am surprised that she’s not coming. After all, both Jamie and Ryan are deeply involved in the organization, serving on several committees and sponsoring two kids.
“She wants to, but she’s got something due to her advisor on Monday. She said she’d bring her laptop and work while she watches the kids.”
“So Ronnie’s school day theme is on-point.”
Syl laughs. “I guess so.”
“I just got here, so I’m going to let you go.” I slide into a sweet parking place in front of the building, not bothering to head into the parking structure. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. Fingers crossed you don’t hit a snag on the property.”
I second that, then kill the ignition. I’m leaning over to grab my purse when I shiver, a sudden sensation of being watched rolling over me. I jerk up in time to see the glass doors into the lobby swing shut. Someone’s just stepped inside, and once again a familiar glimpse of short blond hair jerks me to attention. A man, I think, and I lean forward, trying to focus. But the reflection on the doors prevents me from seeing through the glass. And though I hurry out of the car and into the building, there’s no one in the lobby when I get there.
The eight-story building is half a block off Wilshire in a mixed-use area of Santa Monica with offices, storefronts, and plenty of restaurants. Fairchild & Partners Development now occupies the northwestern corner of the top floor. I enter, expecting to see the mystery man, but there’s no one in the lobby. Just four chairs surrounding a low coffee table to form a waiting area.
I glance toward the elevator bank and look up, but there’s no display to show me which floor either of the two cars are on. The button, however, is not lit. Presumably the man has already reached his floor. Either that, or he left through the delivery entrance in the rear.
