by J. Kenner
I don’t exhale until the doors close behind him, then I sag with relief and watch as Rachel does the same.
“I take it back,” she says. “That was one hell of a good performance. You might just manage this after all.”
“Are you kidding?” Jamie says. “You’re never going to pull that off. Rachel’s insane. And frankly, I’m a little concerned about your mental health, too.”
“Very funny,” I say, as Lady Meow-Meow, Jamie’s fluffy white cat, kneads my skirt with her claws and purrs as loud as a lawn mower. “Yes,” I say, running my hand over her head, “I miss you, too.”
We’re in Jamie’s condo, which hasn’t changed that much since I used to live here with her. It’s still decorated in Early American Garage Sale, but she’s added more movie posters to the wall.
My old bedroom is now an office, although when I was in there earlier, I noticed that she’s stopped using the closet as a giant filing cabinet. Now, it holds a full wardrobe of men’s clothes.
“So where’s Ryan?” I ask, referring to Jamie’s boyfriend, Ryan Hunter, who also happens to be the Security Chief for Stark International.
“Oh, he’s at his place today.”
I frown. “His place? I saw the closet and assumed he moved in with you.”
She lifts a shoulder, then pulls her legs up under her, yoga-style. She’s in the rattiest clothes she owns, isn’t wearing a bit of make-up, and still manages to look glamorous enough she could be mistaken for an A-list star. “Well, he’s here most of the time,” she says, “but it’s not a one-hundred percent thing. I mean, a girl needs her space, right?”
I shift on the sofa so that I can see her better, and in the process disturb Lady Meow-Meow, who nips the back of my hand, then hisses lazily before jumping down to the carpet. “Is something going on with you two? I mean, you’re okay, right?”
“Of course we’re okay. In case you missed the memo, I’m head over heels, one-hundred percent in love with Ryan.”
“Actually, I got that memo.” My best friend—who used to approach sex as if it was a hobby—is now devoted to just one man. Or, I’d been assuming she was. Now, though, I’m getting a weird vibe.
“James,” I say, calling her by the familiar nickname. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Really.”
I cross my arms. “Tell.”
She sighs heavily. “Honestly, Nicholas, it’s no big deal. He just started up with the wedding talk and. . .” She trails off with a shrug.
“Really?” I couldn’t be happier. “I’ve been wondering when I could go shopping for a matron of honor dress.”
Jamie shakes her head violently. “No, no, no. That conversation is way off limits. I can love him without marrying him.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No,” she says adamantly. “Conversation over. Done. Fini. End of story.”
“Fine.” I hold up my hands, because I know better than to push. Despite the fact that her parents are amazing and have been happily, blissfully married for decades, Jamie reviles the institution of marriage. “Not yours,” she once told me. “You and Damien were absolutely right to get married. It fits you perfectly. But me? Not so much.”
I don’t know why she feels that way, but I do know that I’m afraid for her and Ryan. She adores him, and he’s mad for her. But if he pushes too hard, he may end up pushing her away.
And since I don’t want to accidentally contribute to that possible rift, I back quickly and firmly away from the topic. “Just as well, because you and Ryan are so not my problem. I need to figure out where to have the party and how to keep it a secret.”
“Like I already said, the secret’s gonna take a miracle,” Jamie says. “As for the location, I figured you were having it at your Malibu house. But you could have it at the apartment. He wouldn’t expect a party in Stark Tower.”
She has a point, but neither of the ideas thrill me. “I want something different. Something unexpected.”
“The island?”
“We go to the resort all the time,” I say, referring to The Resort at Cortez, a Stark Vacation project that’s also all in the family considering Sylvia was the project manager and Jackson the architect.
“Not that island. I’m talking about the one out in the Caribbean. The island he bought you after your honeymoon.”
“Oh!” I consider that. We’d been hounded by paparazzi on our honeymoon, and in order to get truly, completely, one-hundred percent away, Damien had bought a small island. As one does. If one happens to have billions of dollars tucked away, anyway.
“That would be great,” I say, “except there’s just a tiny house with only one bathroom. Somehow I don’t think that’s the kind of destination party our friends would appreciate.”
“Are you saying we’re all too prissy?”
“Pretty much.”
“You got that right.” She stretches her legs out so that they rest on the coffee table, then pats her lap, trying to urge the cat back up. No luck. “Sophistication and class, then. Okay. So, um, what about Starfire?”
It’s not a bad suggestion—the Starfire Resort & Casino in Vegas—also a Stark property—is one of the most opulent hotels west of the Mississippi. But it’s not really what I had in mind.
“Well, why not?” Jamie asks, when I tell her as much.
“One, it’s Vegas. And Vegas just doesn’t scream classy to me, even if the hotel itself is amazing. Two, we were there not that long ago. Three, I was thinking it would be a relaxing weekend with friends. Vegas is a loud, all-night kind of place.”
“For some of us, loud and all-night is relaxing.”
“Yes, but the only one of us that applies to is you.”
Jamie pouts. “Are you saying Damien’s birthday isn’t all about me?”
I whack her with the pillow, and Lady Meow-Meow—who’d been considering leaping back up to the couch after all—lifts her tail straight up, turns around, and heads for the kitchen.
“Think,” I order as I reach for my phone, which has just pinged with an incoming text.
I grab it, assuming it’s Marge, the receptionist at my office suite.
It’s not. It’s Damien.
Miss you already. Dinner under the stars when I get home? I’ll keep cocktails with Noah short. If I tell him you’re waiting for me, I’m sure he’ll understand.
I bite my lower lip, fighting an almost painfully broad smile.
When have I ever said no?
His response is almost immediate.
And I do so like that about you.
I laugh out loud, and Jamie, who’s been watching me, shakes her head with mock disapproval.
“Get a room, you two.”
I lift a brow as I type out another response. “That’s kind of what I’m planning.”
Looking forward to tomorrow night. And to the stars.
There’s a brief pause, and then one final text.
Me, too. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
I sigh and look up at Jamie.
“Don’t get all gooey on me. You’re supposed to be focusing.”
“I have a date,” I say. “Dinner under the stars tomorrow night. I presume he means at home, but if he’s going to take me out, all the better.” Or not, I think. Because at home provides another level entirely of sensual possibilities.
“Where can you eat on the roof, anyway?” Jamie asks.
“Le Caquelon,” I say, referring to our friend Alaine’s restaurant. “Although we always eat in one of the private booths on the inside. When we first got together, Damien took me to the Pearl Hotel. We ate outside on the terrace.”
That had been a magical day. At the time, I barely knew him, and I’d stormed to his office to chew him out about a work fiasco. He’d calmed me down and invited me to lunch. I’d expected a restaurant downtown. Instead, he’d flown me to Santa Barbara.
“Actually, what about that?” I say, my mind suddenly whirring.
“What about what?”
/>
“Damien owns the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel. And we could use the jet to ferry anyone there who doesn’t want to drive.”
“That’s kind of a great idea.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I’m completely pleased with myself. “Now I just have to get it arranged with the hotel, invite everyone, figure out the decorations, and at least eight thousand other things I’m forgetting. All within a week. And keep Damien from clueing in.” I frown at Jamie. “I can do it, right? Tell me I can do it.”
“Oh, totally,” she says dryly. “No problem at all.”
Chapter Two
Friday is a complete waste of a work day—but I don’t mind because I manage to make a ton of progress on the surprise party. And I don’t care what Jamie and Rachel think, I am so going to pull this off.
Even though Damien was in New York most of the day—and is now en route from the airport to the Stark Century Hotel where he’s meeting Noah for cocktails—I’d done most of my legwork from my office in Studio City. Just because there’s less risk of Damien running across a stray scrap of paper.
I’d started the day with the guest list, methodically creating a spreadsheet with the name of everybody I want to invite, and then going one by one through the list and either calling or emailing them. Most responded right away, and so far I only have two regrets—my friend Ollie, because he’s in Munich doing some sort of corporate legal work for a major client; and Sylvia’s brother Ethan because he’s in Australia with a girl he met recently.
I still have a few more people to call, and some who haven’t reported in, but it’s shaping up to be a nice crowd.
I’d also spent over an hour on the phone arranging for decorations and the cake. Sally Love, the owner of Love Bites, did the cupcakes for our wedding reception, and she’s agreed to not only create a massive cake for the party, but to also take care of transporting it to Santa Barbara. I’m leaving her to decide on design and flavor—she’s the hottest celebrity dessert chef around these days, and I trust her completely. She’s also a good friend, and I know she’ll do us right.
As for the rest of the food, I was planning to have the hotel cater, but when I invited Damien’s childhood friend Alaine Beauchene, he insisted on handling at least one station. Alaine is the owner of Le Caquelon, a popular fondue restaurant, and although I’d intended him to only come as a guest, I’ve had his fondue and it’s amazing. So no way was I going to turn down that offer.
Unfortunately, by the time I had to leave the office to head to Stark Tower, I still hadn’t touched base with Richard Layton, the manager of the Pearl. Instead, we’ve been playing phone tag all day. Which makes me nervous, considering the hotel accommodations are pretty much the cornerstone of my whole birthday scheme.
Now, I’m heading down the 101, hoping to get back to the apartment in record time.
Because tonight, I have a plan.
My phone rings, and I press the button on the steering wheel to connect the call.
“Mrs. Stark?”
“Call me Nikki, Edward,” I say for the billionth time, even though we both know that as Damien’s primary driver, he’ll never back off the formality.
“Of course, Mrs. Stark.”
I bite back a smile. “Where is he?”
“I just left him at the hotel. I told him I needed to get gas and asked when he wanted me back.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “How long’s he planning on being with Noah?”
“Apparently Mr. Carter has plans later this evening. Mr. Stark told me to expect him to be ready to leave by six-thirty.”
I glance at the clock and realize I need to hurry. “Okay, thanks. I’ll be home in ten. I’ll text you when I’m all set.”
“I’ll be in position,” he says, and it’s my turn to laugh. The way we’re talking you’d think we were doing espionage.
No sooner have I hung up with Edward than my phone rings again. This time it’s Richard, and we’re able to smooth the way through the hotel plans. Basically, I want the party to be in the Presidential Suite. It’s an incredible suite with a marble staircase, a wall of windows that rises two stories with a view of the ocean, and a rooftop garden.
The hitch is that Damien always stays in that suite when we go to the Pearl. Which means we either have to lie and tell him it’s occupied—which is risky as he might find out otherwise during the trip—or I have to come up with some clever way to get him out of the room so that the party guests, food, alcohol, and decorations can all move in and get set up.
“How long will that take?” I ask Richard, wincing a little even before he answers.
“An hour minimum.”
“Could you pull it off in forty-five minutes?”
He makes a strangled, helpless sound. “For Mr. Stark, I think we can manage.”
“You’re amazing,” I say, and then we turn to the next task—trying to figure out what the excuse to leave the room could possibly be.
“I’ll keep working on it,” I say as I turn into the Stark Tower parking garage. Nothing I’ve come up with is even remotely convincing or certain. A birthday dinner is logical, but dicey. Because first, I want Damien to be hungry for the spread of food at the party. And second, what if he decides that ordering room service and having dinner in bed is a more entertaining way to spend his birthday? If I disagreed, he’d know right away that something was up.
I frown, considering. Maybe theater tickets? Richard would probably like the extra time.
I make a mental note to see what’s playing, and then park my car and hurry toward the elevator.
Less than fifteen minutes later, I’ve freshened my make-up and am wearing my favorite casual dress. I love it because it’s made of soft jersey material and is incredibly comfortable. I chose it because it’s easy to get on and off.
I text Edward, pack a tote with the few essential items I need to carry out my evening’s plan, and then head back down into the parking structure.
The limo is waiting for me by the elevator alcove, and Edward comes over to open the door for me. “Good evening, Mrs. Stark.”
“Thanks for doing this, Edward,” I say.
“Now, you know it’s no trouble. The more I’m driving, the further I get in my book.”
“What are you listening to now?” Edward is addicted to audiobooks, and we’ve been comparing notes on the classics.
“To Kill a Mockingbird. Can you believe I’ve never read that book before?”
“It’s one of my favorites. I’m surprised you got through school without reading it.”
He winks at me. “I managed to get through school without doing a lot of things. I regret some of them now. But not all,” he adds, with a devious smile.
“I re-stocked the bar,” he says as I slide in. “And everything else you asked for is stocked as well.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like the privacy screen up on the way back to the hotel?”
“Please,” I say. Often I keep it down when it’s just Edward and me, but today I have a wardrobe change to take care of.
Traffic is light, but I work quickly, and by the time we’re close to the hotel, I’m putting the finishing touches on my surprise.
“Are you ready, Mrs. Stark?” Edward asks over the intercom. “I can circle once if you need more time.”
“I’m good,” I assure him. “Do you see Damien?”
“He’s just stepping out of the hotel. Have a lovely evening, Mrs. Stark.”
“That’s my plan,” I reply as the limo pulls to a stop outside the hotel. I’m sitting on a rear-facing bench just in front of the privacy screen. There’s also a black velvet curtain that bisects the limo just a few feet in front of me, and I’ve closed it. The result is that I’m in a small, secluded section with no view of the rest of the passenger area.
All I can do is wait, which I do impatiently until I hear the click of the handle and then the door being opened at the far end of the limo. I lean forward, then peek through the slit
between the two halves of the curtain and watch as Damien enters and gets settled. He has his phone out, the bright screen illuminating his face as he taps something out. I bite my lower lip, hoping that I’m right about the message he’s sending.
“Are you heading home, Mr. Stark?” Edward asks, and though it may be my imagination, I think I hear a note of amusement in his voice.
Damien nods as Edward shuts the door. A moment later, I hear a sharp ping from the storage area on the sidewall of the limo, just a few feet from Damien. I press my lips together, my heart starting to beat faster. Yeah, I think. The game is on.
I know I should move further back to ensure he doesn’t see me, but I can’t resist watching, and so I hold the curtain tightly shut and peer through the only gap that remains, barely larger than a pinhole.
I watch as Damien frowns, then slides across the bench seat to the compartment designed as a holding place for small personal items that might otherwise roll across the floor or get misplaced in the usually dark interior.
I know of course what he’ll find in the compartment: My phone. And a pair of lace thong panties.
He pulls out both, and even in the dim lighting I can see amusement in his eyes—along with a rising heat.
His gaze moves slowly around the limousine’s interior, and I can almost see him running through the possibilities. Is Edward taking him to meet me? Or am I right there, just a few feet away?
He eases forward, crouching as he moves toward my end of the limo. I back away, careful not to move the curtain, and sit down, my arms casually thrown over the back of the bench, my legs crossed, and a sparkly high-heeled sandal dangling from one foot.
I see his fingers first as he reaches into the gap between the halves of the curtain. Then he pushes them apart in one quick, efficient movement that has the drapery rings clacking—and which reveals him on his knees in front of me.
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, as he looks me up and down. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” I run my fingertips down my cleavage to the silk bodice of the gown I’m wearing. Except it’s not a gown—it’s actually a robe that’s designed to look like an elegant garment. And it’s held together by one simple tie around my waist.
