by J. Kenner
“Not you?”
“While I would love to carpool with you, I’m afraid that’s not possible today.” He leans close and I expect a kiss. Instead, his hand closes over mine and he very deliberately brings the croissant to his mouth and takes a bite. He grins at me, his eyes dancing like a mischievous child. “You’re right,” he says. “Delicious.”
“You owe me now, mister. You can’t expect to steal a woman’s pastry and get away with it.”
“I look forward to your just and severe punishment,” he says, standing. He holds out his hand to me. “Or perhaps I could make it up to you in the shower.”
“I don’t think so,” I say archly. “I don’t want to be late for my first day.”
“I thought you weren’t due in until ten.”
I nod as I finish the croissant and wash it down with another slug of coffee. “I’m not. But I need to get home and get dressed.” I shoot him a wicked smile. “And I need to shower off last night’s sex.”
“That’s a very sad thought,” he says. “Of course, if you insist on taking such drastic action, I did offer to share my shower.”
I look him up and down. He’s clean-shaven and dressed in neatly pressed slacks and his usual white button-down shirt. His jacket is laid across the foot of the bed, and I can even smell the soapy fresh scent of him. “Looks like you managed just fine without me,” I say.
“Never.” The word is heavy with meaning. “And for you I’m willing to get doubly clean.”
“Tempting,” I admit as I push the tray away and slide out of bed. The air is cool, but it feels good against my still Damien-sensitive skin. “But don’t you have work to do? Things to merge? Cutting-edge technology to acquire? Perhaps a galaxy to purchase?”
He holds a robe open for me to slip on. It’s not the red one that I soaked in the pool, and I wonder how many robes he has stocked in that closet. “I did that last week. Apparently there’s nothing left to buy.”
“Poor you.” I twist in his arms and plant a gentle kiss on his chin as he tightens the sash around my waist. “Just like Alexander. No worlds left to conquer.”
He slides his hand up my silk-covered arm and I shiver from the touch. “I assure you that I am very content with my conquests.” The heated look in his eyes shifts to something more calculating. “Although you are right. I have a day full of meetings in Palm Springs starting at eight.”
I gape at him. “And you were offering me a shower? What would you have done if I’d taken you up on that?”
“I would have enjoyed myself very much, I assure you.”
“And been late for the meeting.”
“I’m rather confident they can’t start without me. That is not, however, an excuse to be late.”
As if on cue, a loud rush fills my ears and the house seems to vibrate. “What is—”
“My ride,” Damien says as a helicopter appears below the roofline and continues its descent below the balcony.
I hurry outside and watch as the helicopter lands on a flat, grassy area of the yard.
I turn and look at Damien. “What?” I say. “You couldn’t afford a proper helipad?”
“On the contrary, you’re looking at a state-of-the-art, eco-friendly, reinforced turf landing platform.”
I blink at him. “Seriously?”
“It’s quite revolutionary, I assure you. The ground is prepped with a high-tensile-strength mesh system that creates an anchored root system providing a surface area with remarkable load-bearing capacity. And because the Malibu hills are prone to mudslides, I’ve taken additional precautions and strengthened the area with a buried grid system into which that root area blends. The result is pretty damned impressive.”
“If you do say so yourself.”
He smirks. “I’m afraid this isn’t one of my projects. Not yet, anyway. I’ve begun talks with the company that holds the patent on the mesh technology.”
“To acquire the company?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe I’ll simply be a silent partner.” He fixes me with a steady look. “Not all of my business ventures involve my fingers in the pie.”
I ignore the unstated message. I want the million that I earned posing for the portrait in order to seed my business—a business I intend to kick into gear once I feel like I’m ready. Damien wants to help me—and he thinks I’m ready now. It’s not a discussion that I’m diving back into now, but he presses on.
“You’re ready, Nikki. You can do this.”
“Surprisingly, I think I’m a better judge of my ability than you are,” I say, more sharply than I intend.
“Willingness, yes. Ability, no. That’s a much more objective criterion, and I see more clearly than you do. You’re too close to the subject in question. Let’s examine the evidence, shall we?”
I cross my arms over my chest and scowl at him, but he presses on.
“You already have two reasonably profitable smartphone apps on the market, fully designed, marketed, and supported by you and you alone. You accomplished that entrepreneurial feat when you were still in college, so that in and of itself indicates the kind of self-sufficiency a successful business owner needs. Your degrees in electrical engineering and computer science are only icing on the cake, but your invitation into PhD programs at both MIT and CalTech demonstrate that I’m not the only one who sees your worth.”
“But I turned down the programs.”
“So that you could work in the real world and gain experience.”
I can see that I’m not going to win this argument, so I do the only thing I can do—I ignore it and kiss him gently on the cheek. “Your car pool’s here, Mr. Stark. You don’t want to be late for homeroom.” I turn to head inside, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back. His kiss is long and deep and makes my knees go weak, but Damien considerately holds me up so that I don’t collapse in a puddle on the flagstone tiles.
“What was that for?” I breathe when he releases me.
“A reminder that I believe in you,” he says.
“Oh.” His voice is filled with so much pride and confidence that I wish I could soak it up like a drug.
“And a promise of things to come,” he adds with a sexy curve to his lips. “I’ll call you when I get back. I’m not sure how late I’ll be.”
“The helicopter’s not as speedy as it looks?” I tease.
“More like my colleagues don’t conduct business as expediently as I’d like.”
“No prob. I should have dinner with Jamie tonight, anyway. I’ve been a best friend in absentia lately.” I start to pull away, but his fingers tighten around mine. “What?”
“I don’t want to go.” His grin is boyish, and I laugh with delight. Damien is so many things, and I am falling hard for all of them.
“But if you don’t, then how can I spend the day looking forward to having you back?”
“You’re a very wise woman,” he says, then presses a fresh kiss to my lips. “Until tonight.”
7
Edward greets me outside by the door of a gracious silver and burgundy car that looks like it belongs on Masterpiece Theatre. “New car?”
“No, ma’am,” Edward says. “Mr. Stark rebuilt her about three years ago.”
“Really?” I look the car over, wondering when on earth Damien found the time. I try to imagine him under the chassis, his hands dirty and a spot of grease on his nose. Surprisingly, it’s an easier picture to conjure than I would have imagined. As I’ve seen time and again, Damien can do pretty much anything. And look damn good doing it, too.
As for looking damn good, the car certainly fits that bill. It’s all soft curves and flowing lines, the epitome of automotive class and grace. It’s almost a crime that Edward wears a simple suit instead of livery, and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if his voice took on a British tinge.
He is oblivious to the way my mind is wandering. “We normally reserve the Bentley for formal occasions, but Mr. Stark thought you might enjoy arriving at your new position in style.”<
br />
As he speaks, the helicopter rises from behind the house, far enough away that it barely kicks up a breeze. It’s too far for me to see Damien, but I lift my hand anyway and wave a silent thank-you.
“I need to go home, actually. Not work. But Mr. Stark was right about the rest,” I say as I slide past Edward into the car. “I’m definitely going to enjoy this ride.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Stark was very clear that I am to see you safely to your office.”
“Was he?” I consider pulling out my cell phone and giving Damien a piece of my mind, but that would ultimately change nothing. I consider my options and then nod. “Fine,” I finally say, pushing my irritation aside. “But I do have to go home first.”
“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” He shuts the door, and I’m snug in a leather and wood cocoon, breathing in the scent of luxury.
The windows, I notice, are not electric but instead operate with old-fashioned knobs that appear to be mahogany and are polished to a sheen. The white leather seat is as soft as butter, and the seat back in front of me actually has a tray table. I defy convention and release it from its full upright and locked position. It eases down to form a perfectly positioned writing surface. I’m suddenly overcome with a longing for a quill pen and parchment.
“What year is the car?” I ask Edward as he maneuvers us down the drive.
“It’s a 1960 S2 Saloon,” he says. “Only 388 were produced, and I’m afraid there are very few still on the road. When Mr. Stark ran across this one in a junkyard, he was determined to bring it back to its former glory.”
I’m not at all certain what Damien would have been doing in a junkyard, but it takes no effort whatsoever to imagine his determination. What Damien wants, Damien gets, be it a classic car, a Santa Barbara hotel, or me.
I run my finger over the varnished surface of the desk, the motion reminding me of my earlier whimsy. “You don’t happen to have a paper and pen up there, do you?”
“Certainly,” Edward says. He leans over and pulls something out of the glove box, then passes a folio back to me. I open it and find a fountain pen and heavy linen stationery monogrammed with DJS—Damien’s initials.
I hesitate. I hadn’t really expected that Edward would have the things I asked for, and now that I’m faced with the prospect of putting my thoughts on paper, I am suddenly tongue-tied. Or finger-tied, as the case may be.
But this is too sweet an opportunity to squander, so I draw a breath, put the nib of the pen on the paper, and begin to write.
My very dear Mr. Stark,
Before I met you, I never gave any thought to the sensual nature of an automobile. But now, once again, I am surrounded by soft leather, snug in the warm embrace of this graceful, powerful vehicle. It is heady stuff, and I—
I continue to write, pouring out my teasing phrases through the intimate flow of ink onto paper. As I watch my precise handwriting fill the page, I almost regret the tech revolution. How wonderful to have received a letter from a lover. To open it and see his heart on the page, his handwriting bold and strong. There’s an immediacy to texts and emails that can’t be denied, but the intimacy of a letter really can’t be replicated.
By the time Edward pulls up in front of the condo that I share with Jamie in Studio City, I have finished the note. I fold it neatly, slide it into the matching envelope I find in the folio pocket, seal it, and print my return address on the top left corner. I realize then that I don’t know the street address of Damien’s Malibu house. Odd, considering how much time I’ve been spending there. But it doesn’t matter. The letter will reach him just as easily at his office building, which is also where his downtown apartment is located. I print his name and address neatly across the center of the envelope:
Damien Stark, CEO
Stark International
Stark Tower, Penthouse
S. Grand Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90071
I can’t remember the street number for the tower, but under the circumstances I imagine that the post office can deal. I find a stamp in my wallet and affix it to the envelope. Then I slip out of the car and smile at Edward. “I need to shower and change and grab a few things. I might be a while.”
“That won’t be a problem,” he says, and as I head toward the stairs, he slips back behind the wheel.
I feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever about my plan. Edward undoubtedly has an audiobook, and it’s not as if he needs to go back to Malibu in order to drive Damien around. By the time he realizes that I have snuck down the back stairs to my own car, I imagine he’ll have gotten in quite a bit of quality time with whatever book he’s enjoying.
I slide the letter through the outgoing mail slot before I hurry up the stairs to the condo, calculating the time I have to shower and change and get to the office. Traffic was worse than Edward had expected—there was a wreck on the 405—and I am going to be more rushed than I’d intended. I know I could have simply worn one of the zillion outfits that Damien has stocked for me, but this new job is my territory. And silly or not, I want to wear my own clothes and drive my own car.
I expect to find the door unlocked, because Jamie never remembers to lock the damn thing, so I’m surprised to find both the dead bolt and the knob locked up tight.
I dig my keys out of my purse, then frown as I enter the dark apartment. She’s probably asleep, and I hope that she’s alone. She probably is. Though Jamie drags men home like stray cats, she routinely kicks them out once they’ve given her bedsprings a thorough shaking. It’s dangerous and I worry, because it’s almost become a game with her. Unlike the games I play with Damien, though, I don’t think there’s any sort of safeword for Jamie.
Her door is closed, and I consider passing by. But this is my first day at work, and I want to see my best friend.
I tap lightly on the door, then lean close to listen. I expect either a groan or a startled apology followed by a rush to the door and a hug for me on my first day. But there’s only silence.
“James?” I tap harder, but there’s still no answer. I take hold of the knob and turn, trying to both look and not look, just in case she finally let the guy she dragged home stay for the entire night.
But the room is both dark and empty. I tell myself not to worry. Jamie probably just had somewhere to be this morning. Or else she crashed somewhere after a night of partying. Except I don’t really believe either of those explanations. Jamie’s not an early riser, and she rarely stays overnight anywhere. She’s not the kind to crash on a couch—she likes the comforts of home too much.
I hope I’m overreacting, but I pull out my phone and tap out a text. Where r u? Do I need to send out a search party?
I wait, staring at the screen, but my phone stays silent.
Well, shit.
I call, but the phone rolls over to voice mail.
Now my stomach really is in knots. I can’t call the police—I may not watch much television, but I’ve watched enough to know that they won’t do a thing unless it’s been twenty-four hours. I almost dial Damien, but my finger hesitates over his name. There might be nothing that he can do, but if I’m worried, I’m almost positive that he’ll cut his meeting short and come to me no matter how much I protest. He may be firmly perched on a white steed in my mind, but I am most definitely not a damsel in distress, and really don’t want to be.
Fine. Okay. No problem. Jamie’s probably just in the shower, which is where I need to be. I’ll shower and change, and if she hasn’t called me back by the time I’m ready to head downtown, I’ll call and text her again. And if she still doesn’t answer, I’ll call Ollie. I don’t know what he could do, but as my other best friend, I’m allowed to call him in a crisis. And with Ollie, my odds of interrupting a billion-dollar summit are significantly lessened.
Most important though—and as much as I hate to admit it—there’s a possibility that they’re together. They slept together one time that I know of. And though Jamie swears it was a singular event—and though Ollie has a
ssured me that he’s been otherwise faithful to his fiancée—I’m not certain that I really believe either one of them.
My doubts weigh on me, because Jamie and Ollie are my two best friends, and I don’t like the way their tryst has clouded up things among the three of us.
I’m frustrated as I head into my own bedroom and toss the phone onto my bed, barely missing Lady Meow-Meow, who has blended in so well with my white duvet I don’t see her. She lifts her head in sleepy protest, stares at me until I apologize, and then promptly goes back to sleep.
Apparently our cat doesn’t share my concern about Jamie’s whereabouts.
Partly because I’m running late, and partly because I don’t want to be away from the phone that long, I rush through my shower. I towel-dry my hair until it’s damp, then use some gel to twist a few curls into place. I’ve discovered that it’s much easier to take care of shoulder-length hair than the tresses that used to fall midway down my back. Not that I want to repeat my meltdown, but on this small point, I think it worked out okay.
I wrap a towel around me, then open the door to our tiny bathroom. A cloud of steam escapes ahead of me, and I follow it out, then jump about a foot when I hear the sharp crash of ceramic shattering against the tile kitchen floor.
For an instant, I’m terrified, imagining intruders and boogey-men and God knows what. But what would have been a scream breaks into a relieved burst of laughter when I hear Jamie’s voice cutting sharply through the apartment. “Oh, fuck a duck! Nikki! I just killed your favorite coffee mug!”
“I’m right here,” I call, hurrying down the two stairs, my back to our tiny dining area as I face Jamie in the kitchen.
She looks at me oddly, probably because I’m still laughing. She holds up the handle of my Dallas Cowboys mug. The rest of the shattered blue ceramic is scattered on the tile at her feet. “Sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay.” I’m still laughing. I don’t know why. Relief, I guess.
“It was a ridiculous favorite, anyway,” she says, as if I’m giving her grief about the mug. “You don’t even like football.”
