Lost With Me (The Stark Saga Book 5)

by J. Kenner

  A directory on the wall between the two elevator banks lists the tenants, and though I scan it, I have no clue who could have preceded me in. And since there’s no security desk, there’s not even a guard on staff to tell me if I’m imagining things.

  Which, of course, I am. Because Mary Lee threw me for a loop this morning, and I’ve been on edge ever since.

  I shake my head in frustration, like a dog drying himself after a dip in the lake. Then I push thoughts of Mary Lee and the mystery man from my head even as I push the button to call the elevator.

  There’s no security guard in the lobby, but a keycard or punch code is required to access the first floor stairwell or the elevator. I slip my card into the slot, watch the doors slide closed, and lean against the back wall as the elevator ascends.

  The elevator bank on the eighth floor opens onto a central area with a hallway leading off to the left and the right, and a set of glass doors between them. And right there on the doors, in gold lettering, is the name Fairchild & Partners Development. I smile, realizing in this moment how much I’ve missed having an actual office. I step out of the elevator, cross the open area to my office, then pull open the doors.

  They’re not locked, which makes sense, as Abby, Travis, or Luis probably got here before I did. “Hello!” I call, expecting an answer. But none comes.

  That’s not too concerning, as the space consists of a reception area with a view of the ocean, then offices that follow the wall and continue down around the north and south corners. My office is in the northwest corner, and two smaller offices have northern facing views, with only a sliver of ocean off to the left.

  In other words, we took space designed for growth, so there’s a significant amount of square footage. Plus, the offices—along with the interior break room, conference room, and file room—all have heavy doors to block out sound and other distractions. So I’m not surprised no one heard me.

  I’m about to step further into the office when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, so I almost don’t answer it. But then I realize it could be one of the many contractors dealing with getting the office up and running. “This is Nikki Stark.”

  “Ms. Stark. I’m glad I caught you.” The voice is clipped and business-like, and I don’t recognize it at all.

  “Who is this?”

  “Richard Breckenridge.”

  I remember everything Sylvia told me. “What do you want, Mr. Breckenridge?”

  “I want to know how you can live with a man like your husband. He cut me out because of my indiscretions? Fuck that. Hasn’t your husband ever heard of clean hands?”

  Anger bubbles through me. “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Do you think I don’t know what he and that little slut Sofia did?” The sentence comes hard and fast and so loud I hear it even as I’m pulling the phone away from my ear.

  “Bet that got your attention,” he says. “The incredible Damien Stark and the coach’s daughter? So what if he told the world? It still reeks. And he thinks he’s better than me? Do you think I don’t know what he paid you to do? That painting. That money? He paid you like a whore, little girl, and then he married you to make you both feel better about it.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say, then end the call, because I do not have to listen to this asshole, whose only purpose is to harass me and malign Damien. Fuck. No wonder Damien was in a mood at the gallery after dealing with this jerk. Hell, maybe he’s the one who left the note on my car, although I’m not sure how he would have managed that if he was at The Domino with Damien, Jackson, and Sylvia.

  I shove my phone in my purse, telling myself I’m shoving the creep out of my mind. Then I step further into the office and call out, “Abby!” Her office is next to mine, and if she’s in there with the door closed, soaking in her view, she probably can’t hear me. Surely she would have stepped out if she overheard the conversation I just had.

  I’m about to head that direction, when I hear the ding of the elevator behind me. I turn, and through the glass, I see the second elevator’s doors sliding open, revealing Abby, her shoulder-length blond curls framing her downturned face, and Travis beside her, his Paul Newman blue eyes looking right at her.

  Our contractor, Luis, stands behind them. A short, dark man with a genial face and a belly that protrudes over his belt, he’s flipping pages on a clipboard, oblivious to the tension that surely fills that small box.

  I frown, as they step off the elevator. Not because of the budding office drama between my two co-workers, but because the door was unlocked. I step through the glass doors and meet them in the open area in front of the elevator bank. “Did you guys walk through already?”

  Abby’s brow furrows, then she shakes her head. “We just got here.”

  I glance back inside. “Marge, maybe.”

  “She’s on her way up,” Travis says. “She left her phone in her car and went back for it.”

  I exhale in frustration as my eyes meet Luis’s. “It’s not that big a deal while the place is empty, but I’ve got furniture and computer deliveries on Monday, files and other paperwork on Tuesday, and we’ll all have our personal stuff in here by Wednesday. So long as your team is working here, make sure everyone locks the door when they leave. Lunch break and the end of the day.”

  I point to the short hallways on either side of the elevators that I know lead to other leased space. “There are two other tenants in those corner offices, and an access code for the elevator doesn’t keep the place secure.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Stark,” he says, looking embarrassed. I don’t blame him. I hired him because of his stellar reputation, and I expect someone on his team is going to get a stern lecture later today. “I will speak to my team personally. They all know better than this.”

  I nod, satisfied, then lead the others in after propping open one of the double doors. “Go check out your offices. I’m going to work my way down to mine while I wait for Marge and make sure there’s nothing left for Luis’s guys to do in the break room and the file room. Then I’ll go over reception with Marge when she gets here. Just give Luis your notes.”

  They both nod, and as they move together toward the hall that leads off toward the right, I see Travis raise his hand as if he’s going to rest it on Abby’s lower back, then quickly pull it down and shove his hand into the front pocket of his jeans.

  The aborted gesture is intimate enough to make me think that something went on between the two of them more serious than office flirting. And his swift recall of the motion makes me certain that it didn’t end well.

  I bite back a frown. In theory, I don’t have a problem with co-workers dating. But if there’s tension between them…

  I shake my head, frustrated by my own wandering thoughts. As far as I can tell, they’re both being professional. As long as that stays the case, I don’t need to worry.

  I’m saved from further musings by the ding of the elevator and then Marge’s hurried footsteps as she calls, “So sorry. My phone slipped between the console and the seat.” She arrives breathless, her pale skin ruddy with exertion and beads of sweat dotting her forehead where her short cap of silver-gray hair frames her face.

  After assuring her it’s no problem, she and I go over all the public and group areas that make up her domain as the office manager. We spend some time discussing the cabinetry in the file room and the placement of furniture in the break room and reception area. Then we head to Travis and Abby’s offices, too. Marge is going to be onsite for all the deliveries next week, so she’s taking copious notes about where everything can go. We pop into Travis’s office first, then move down to Abby’s.

  It’s next to mine, so while Abby describes how she wants her credenza in relation to her desk, I wander the few feet to my door, then push down on the handle and give the door a gentle shove. The lights are off and the blinds are down, so I reach to my right and flip the switch—and that’s when I see it. The wild X’s and streaks of red splattered across the walls and
blinds. And the vile, horrible word painted huge across the wall.

  BITCH

  I hear a strangled cry and realize that it’s coming from me.

  “Nikki?”

  I turn, only then noticing that I’m pressed against the far side of the hallway wall. Somehow, I backed out of the office and crossed the hall without even noticing. My hand is over my mouth and my heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear Abby, who’s standing in front of me now, her hazel eyes wide, concern painted all over her pretty face.

  I suck in air, determined to get myself together. “I’m okay,” I say. “It’s just—”

  What? What can I say? It’s just another shitty brick in a day stacking high with the stinking things? Is it Mary Lee? Breckenridge? Someone else entirely? Someone determined to gaslight me?

  Or is it just a stupid prank by someone who managed to wheedle their way into our personal space?

  All true, but no words make it to my lips. Instead, I point. By that time, though, I don’t need to. Travis has reached my office, Luis fast on his heels.

  I hear Luis curse, but Travis reacts more smoothly. He comes up beside me and hooks an arm around my shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here.” He’s tall, with a firm chest and well-muscled arms, and though it’s Damien I want, I appreciate his strength.

  “Thanks,” I say as we reach the reception area. I slide away from him and draw in a deep breath. “It’s just that this is getting to be a little too much for one day.”

  Abby’s brow furrows, and I see Travis catch her eye. Neither understands, obviously, and I’m not in the mood to explain.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” Marge hurries in from the other direction, and I assume she was checking out the storage closet at the southernmost end of our space.

  “Go see,” Abby says, pointing. “It’s awful.”

  “Who did this?” Luis demands at the same time, his complexion flush with anger. “Not one of my men. Mrs. Stark, you know this—”

  “Of course, I know that. But someone got in here, and—”

  Ding!

  Marge stops in mid-step, and we all turn and look out through the propped-open door. We’re staring straight at the brushed steel elevator doors, and my pulse picks up tempo as the reception area grows quiet and we hear the whirring of the cables and gears grinding to a halt.

  The doors slide open, revealing a flash of blond hair. I gasp, everything falling into place. The figure I saw at the Tower pavilion. The feeling that I was being watched. And most of all, the short blond hair and familiar beard stubble on a face and body I know only too well.

  “Eric?” I whisper, as someone even more familiar steps into view, my husband’s reassuring smile wide as he looks into my eyes.

  “Look who I found getting off the elevator in the lobby.” Damien leads Eric out of the elevator and into the open area as I stay frozen in place, my gaze firm on the young man who used to work for me but then moved to New York. And undoubtedly has a 917 area code now.

  “Nikki?” Damien takes one step toward me as Eric takes a step back. “Baby, what is it?”

  “Why the hell did you do that to my office?” I’m staring right at Eric, fury and hurt bubbling inside me.

  “No,” Eric says. “That wasn’t—”

  But he doesn’t finish the thought. Damien’s realized that something’s happened and that Eric’s at the center of it. And before I have time to process what’s happening, he has Eric backed against the far wall, his forearm tight against my former employee’s neck.

  “All right, Eric,” Damien says, his voice more dangerous than I’ve ever heard it. “I think we need to have a talk.”

  9

  “Tell me what happened,” Damien demands. I’ve moved out the reception area and into the open area outside the elevators. Damien’s eyes are locked on Eric’s, but I know the question is for me.

  “My office,” I say, pointing vaguely in that direction. “There’s red spray paint everywhere. And the word bitch. We got here. The place was empty, but the door was unlocked.”

  I look at Damien as I speak, but I can see Eric, too. There’s fear in his eyes, and he’s shaking his head in small, frantic jerks, as if he fears that any larger movement will prompt Damien to lean harder against his throat.

  My stomach curdles. He was my friend. A trusted colleague. And I don’t understand any of this. Not what’s happened today. Not now. Not why he would do something like that or why he’d want to hurt me.

  Damien’s expression never wavers. It’s cold. It’s ice. And as much as Eric sickens me at the moment, I hope he stays perfectly still. Because right now, I think that Damien is capable of anything. And God knows he has the strength in his arms to kill a man.

  I hear movement behind me, then Abby appears in my periphery. Travis is behind her, his hand on her shoulder, as if he’s holding her back from launching an attack. And I think that it’s a mark of just how confused and angry she is that she doesn’t shake it off.

  “Why?” The word snaps out of her, hard and fast and brutal. “Why the hell did you do this?”

  Eric’s eyes are wide, and he’s still shaking his head. Now, though, his lips are moving, too. “I didn’t.” I can barely hear his words. “It wasn’t me.”

  “You all came up together?” Damien asks, his attention on me.

  “I came up.” I take in a breath, determined to stay calm. “Then Abby and Travis with Luis. Then Marge.”

  “He must have been here before we arrived. Then gone down when we all went inside.” Abby nods toward the corridor that leads to the eastern facing offices that are leased by another tenant. “He could have been waiting around the corner until.” She looks at Damien. “You said he was getting off the elevator in the lobby, right?”

  “He was,” Damien says. “What floor were you coming from?”

  “Here, of course,” I say, then take a step toward Eric. “You’ve been following me all day. What the hell, Eric? Why would you—”

  “I didn’t do this. I swear. And yes, I’ve seen you. I called. And I wanted to talk to you at Stark Tower, but I chickened out. And then I called Rachel, and she gave me this address. And so I came here.”

  “And tagged her office?” Abby snaps.

  “No!” Eric’s eyes plead with me. “You know me, Nikki. You know I wouldn’t do this. Come on, Mr. Stark. Let go of me.”

  Damien looks at me, his brow rising in question. I draw a breath, then nod, trying to calm myself.

  One beat, then another. Then Damien steps back, releasing the pressure on Eric’s neck. He slides down the wall, then just sits there looking up at us.

  “It really might not be him,” I tell Damien. “Believe me when I say I’ve got suspects.”

  “The reporter,” Damien says.

  I nod. “And Richard Breckenridge.” I make a face. “He just called me. Said all sorts of nasty things, mostly about you. You’re not on his favorite person list today.”

  Damien almost smiles. “No, I’m not. And while I wouldn’t put graffiti past him, I’m not sure he’s had the time.”

  “Maybe not. But I don’t think Eric did it either.” I turn my attention to my former employee, still on the ground and looking miserable. “I’ll agree that vandalism really isn’t your style. But why have you been following me?”

  “Are you sure he was?” Travis asks me, his brow furrowed as if this whole situation is a line of code he’s trying to figure out.

  I start to nod, but then doubt overtakes me and I stay silent.

  “I was,” Eric says, and I see Damien’s fingers curl into a tight fist. I step to his side, and gently cup his wrist. “I wanted to talk to you about a job,” Eric continues.

  I blink. “You have a job. I saw the announcement when you moved to Austin.”

  “Yeah, well, that didn’t work out. And I missed California, and, oh hell, Nikki, I realized what a good thing I had with you. I should have called you, but I wanted to talk in person, without setting an app
ointment and having all sorts of preconceived ideas running through your head before we talked.”

  He presses his fingertips to his temples and rubs. “I went to Stark Tower to get your new office address. Then I came here since Rachel said you were coming by today. I didn’t even realize the elevator needed a keycard. I got in with some guy going to five, and I just pushed eight. I was going to wait in reception, but you have no furniture. So I walked the offices, thinking you might have moved in your desk. And that’s when I saw the graffiti.”

  “And you just bolted?” Damien asks.

  He shrugs. “I guess I figured that under the circumstances, today might not be the best time to talk about a job. And it’s not like I knew who did it.” He looks miserably at all of us. “It was stupid. I should have called and told you. Or called Rachel. But dammit I just … fuck, Nikki, I left with such big plans, and then everything crashed under me. And I just didn’t want to deal with this, too.”

  “The paint’s dry,” Travis says, stepping back into the open area where we’re all still gathered. I hadn’t even realized he’d gone back inside, much less down the hall to my office, but now he walks to Eric. “Hold out your hands.”

  Eric’s brow furrows, but he does as ordered, and both Travis and Damien look down at his fingers.

  “Hard to use spray paint without leaving any residue on your fingers,” Damien says.

  “He could have been wearing gloves.” Marge takes a step forward speaking for the first time. “But I don’t believe it. This is our Eric. He wouldn’t do this.”

  “Even if he was wearing gloves, the paint on the walls would still be tacky.” Damien looks over his shoulder at Travis. “I’m guessing it’s bone dry?”

  Travis nods. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Damien extends a hand down to Eric. He hesitates, then takes it, letting Damien help him to his feet.