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  "He knows," I say, firmly and without further explanation. "Dammit, Stark, you can't just waltz into the lobby and pluck me up like a flower."

  "Speaking of, I hope you liked the flowers. I had considered something more exotic, but you remind me of daisies and wildflowers."

  "That's not the point."

  "What?" His brows lift in mocking amusement. "Ms. Fairchild, I'm surprised. Such a well-bred young lady, and you don't even say a simple thank-you?"

  "Thank you," I say coldly.

  "And for the record, I didn't pluck you. Though I would be more than happy to remedy that oversight anytime you wish."

  I fight to keep my ire up even though he has begun to amuse me. "I don't appreciate being treated like a puppy who's been told to heel," I snap.

  Some of the amusement fades from his eyes. "Is that what you think?"

  "I--" Shit. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. I don't like being ordered around, but at the same time, Stark isn't my mother, and maybe I'm not being fair. "No," I say. Then, "I don't know. But dammit, Damien," I continue, as I try to shift myself back to solid ground, "think about how it looks. He knows."

  "So you said. Carl, you mean? And what exactly does your boss know? I assure you that I didn't tell him anything." He eyes me, the amber one alight with amusement, the dark one firm and steady. "Did you say something?"

  "Don't be obtuse," I say. "He knows that something is going on between us."

  "I'm very glad to hear you say that something is."

  "Went," I correct quickly. "That something went on between us."

  He says nothing. It's a good plan, that silence. I, however, am not so strong.

  I clear my throat. "It, um, was fun," I begin, but close my mouth tight at his burst of laughter.

  "Fun?"

  I can feel my cheeks heat. He has me blushing again, and I don't like it. "Yes," I say primly. "Fun. A lot of fun, actually. A rollicking good time that I will probably replay over and over again as I lay in my bed alone and touch myself until I come." I'm staring hard at him, my voice matter-of-fact, my words like a lashing.

  The amusement fades from his face, replaced by heat and desire. I suddenly want to take it back. My temper has made me take it one step too far.

  "Fun," I repeat and square my shoulders. "But it's not happening again."

  "Isn't it?" He takes a single step toward me--and the elevator chimes as the car glides to a stop.

  "No," I say, then draw in a sharp breath as he leans closer. I anticipate his touch, and then find myself disappointed when it doesn't come. All he's done is press a button on the control panel. Behind us, the opposite set of doors slides open. I turn and find myself looking into the foyer of Damien Stark's Tower Apartment.

  "No," I repeat, not sure if I mean the apartment or a repeat performance or everything all mixed up together. Considering my senses and emotions are all in a tumble, I think the latter is the best guess.

  "Why not?" He straightens, but now he's standing even closer than he was before. I'm having a little trouble breathing and I'm suddenly so warm that little beads of sweat have gathered at the nape of my neck. Honestly, it's a little hard to think.

  "This isn't a good idea," I say as he takes my hand and leads me into the apartment. The entry hall is elegantly furnished, but inviting and comfortable, much like the offices on the other side of the elevator. A wall directly opposite the elevator blocks my view of most of the apartment.

  A massive flower arrangement on a low, glass table dominates the foyer. Curved benches surround the table, and I imagine Stark's dates sitting there to adjust shoes, check purses. It's not an image I like.

  The wall itself is almost completely covered by a huge painting, this one of a field of flowers so exquisitely rendered that I almost believe I could step into the canvas and lose myself in that world.

  "Your home is beautiful," I say. "It tells a lot about the man who lives here."

  "Does it?"

  "He likes flowers."

  Stark smiles. "He likes beauty."

  "Did you pick out the floral arrangement?"

  "No," he says. "Though Gregory knows my taste."

  "Gregory?"

  "My valet."

  Valet? I was raised in a family with quite a bit of Texas oil money, but nobody in my family ever had a valet.

  "The painting is beautiful. But I'm surprised to see a pastoral scene in your home."

  "Are you?" He sounds genuinely surprised. "Why?"

  "You're so intent on a nude for your new place." I shrug. "I just wouldn't have pegged you for flowers and trees and all that stuff."

  "I'm a man of mystery," he says. "But to be honest, the decision to hang a nude in the Malibu property is a relatively new one. You might say that inspiration struck me at Blaine's show. Of course, unless I'm able to acquire what I want, the wall will stay bare."

  He's looking hard at me as he speaks, and though his tone sounds perfectly conversational, I can't help the shiver of awareness that tingles up my spine.

  "Did you have some portfolio pages you wanted to show me?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay cool and businesslike. "If not, I should be going. I'd like to enjoy my Saturday."

  "I'd be happy to suggest some very engaging activities," he says.

  I keep my lips pressed together, and Damien laughs. "Ms. Fairchild. How your thoughts do wander...."

  I flush and have to force myself not to snap out a curse.

  "Come on in," he says, his voice still light with humor. He heads toward the passage leading into the main section of the apartment. "I'll make you a drink and we can talk."

  I hesitate, wanting to tell him we can park ourselves on the bench right there and chat about whatever pictures he wants. But I'm curious. I want to see where he lives--one of the places, anyway. And so I allow him to lead me into a stunning living room filled with contemporary furniture. Steel and leather, but highlighted with enough pillows and lamps and pottery to make it seem warm and inviting.

  The most stunning feature is the wall of windows, beyond which stretches an urban panorama.

  Damien nods to a wet bar that occupies a corner of the room. I follow him and sit on a bar stool, my back to the window. The placement of the stool in proximity to the window makes it seem as though I'm floating in space. It's exhilarating, though I have to wonder if it wouldn't be a bit unnerving after a few drinks.

  "I like your smile," Damien says as he steps behind the bar. "What are you thinking about?"

  I tell him, and he laughs.

  "I've never thought about it," he admits. "But I promise to keep you fully tethered to me. No sailing into space." His grin turns wicked. "Not unless it's me who's sending you there."

  Oh my. I squirm a little on my stool, thinking that maybe I should have insisted we stay in the foyer.

  "Wine?" he asks.

  I tilt my head. "I'd prefer bourbon."

  "Would you?"

  I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. "My mother used to pound into my head that a proper lady only drinks wine or feminine mixed cocktails. Never hard liquor. My grandfather was a whiskey kind of guy."

  "I see," he says, and I have the feeling he sees more than I've actually told him. "I think I may have just the thing." He bends down, disappearing beneath the bar. A moment later he appears again, setting the bottle on the bar, pulling down a highball glass, and pouring me two fingers of liquor without another word.

  I take the glass, a little in shock, because surely I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing. "Glen Garioch?" I ask, reading the name off the bottle. I take a tentative sip. It's exceptionally smooth with a woody flavor and floral undertones. I close my eyes to savor it, and take another sip. "What year is this?" I finally ask, fearing I already know the answer.

  "Nineteen fifty-eight," he says nonchalantly. "Excellent, isn't it?"

  "Nineteen fifty-eight? Are you serious?" This whiskey was my grandfather's idea of the holy grail. Only three hundred fifty bottles of the Highland whis
key were put out onto the market, and I happen to know that a single bottle retails at about twenty-six hundred dollars. And here I am, drinking it on a Saturday afternoon without a trumpet or a big band or a press release to mark the occasion.

  "You're familiar with this particular label?"

  "Yeah," I say. "Basically we're drinking gold."

  "Why would I offer you anything but my best?"

  He's poured himself a glass as well, and now he walks around the bar. I think he's going to sit on the stool next to me, but he doesn't. He simply leans against it, which means that he's a few inches closer to me ... and between Damien Stark and me, inches can be dangerous.

  I tell myself it's to quell my nerves and take another sip, then wait for Damien to say something else. He's quiet, though, watching me. I begin to feel a bit self-conscious under his unabashed inspection.

  "You're staring," I finally say.

  "You're beautiful."

  I look away. It's not what I want to hear. "I'm not," I say. "Or maybe I am. Does it matter?"

  "Sometimes," he says, which is the most honest answer I've ever heard to that particular question. "It matters to me."

  "Why?"

  "Because I like looking at you. I like the way you hold your shoulders back. The way you walk as if the world is yours for the taking."

  I shake my head a little. "That's just years of walking with a book on my head, and lectures from my mother, and endless etiquette classes."

  "It's more than that. I like the way you wear your clothes, as if you understand that it's you and not the cloth that matters. You are beautiful, Nikki, but it's because of what you exude as much as it is the standard of beauty that we see in pageants and on magazine covers."

  "What if everything you see in me is a lie?"

  "It's not," he says.

  I take a slug of my whiskey. "Maybe you're not as smart as you think you are, Mr. Stark."

  "Nonsense. I'm fucking brilliant. Or haven't you heard?" His grin is wide and boyish and I can't help but laugh. And then, before I even have time to catch my breath, the boyish expression is gone, replaced with one of fire and need. He moves fast, and before I can blink he's twisted my bar stool so that my back is to the bar and he has a hand on either side of me. I'm caged in, trapped in Damien's heat. "I am smart, Nikki," he says. "I'm smart enough to know that you feel it, too. This isn't just heat, it's a goddamned conflagration. Not chemistry, but nuclear fission."

  I'm flushed and breathing hard. He's right--so help me, he's right. But even so ...

  "There's nothing good about an atomic reaction," I say. "And the blast destroys everything it touches."

  "Bullshit." The word comes out hard. He's right in front of me, and I can feel the anger coming off him in waves. "Goddammit, Nikki, don't do that. Don't play those kind of games with me. Don't make this complicated when it should be so damn simple."

  "Should be?" I repeat. "What the hell does that mean? Nothing is simple. Am I attracted to you? Hell yes. But you don't even know me."

  I stifle a sigh. Sometimes I wonder if I even know myself, or if all those years of being molded by my mother--being told what to eat, what to drink, who to date, when to sleep, and all the other Mommie Dearest bullshit--had sucked Nikki right out of me.

  But no. No, I fought to keep the core of myself, even if I do keep it buried deep.

  I look fiercely at him. "You don't know me," I repeat.

  The intensity with which he looks back at me almost makes me stumble. "But I do."

  Something in his voice makes me feel exposed. He has me on edge again, and I look away, not liking the way he seems to be shining a spotlight on me.

  It takes me a moment to gather myself, and when I do, I tilt my head just enough to look up at him. "We're not taking this further, Mr. Stark. Absolutely not."

  "I don't accept that." His voice is a low growl that rumbles through me, weakening my resolve.

  I don't say a word. I can't seem to form one.

  "I liked it," he continues, as he traces his fingertips down the sleeve of my jacket. "You liked it. I'm not seeing a sound basis for cessation, Ms. Fairchild."

  I force myself to make a coherent sound. "I like cheesecake, but I only have it rarely. And I know it's bad for me."

  "Sometimes bad is good."

  "Bullshit. That's what people say to alleviate their own guilt or justify their own weakness. Bad is bad. A is A."

  "I didn't realize we were discussing philosophy. Shall I counter with the teachings of Aristippus? He held that pleasure is the highest good." His fingertip traces my collarbone. "And I want to be very, very good with you."

  I shiver from his touch, allowing myself one brief moment to savor the pleasure of basking in the glow of Damien Stark. Then I turn away, so that I'm speaking to the air, not to the man. "This isn't going anywhere." My voice is a whisper. My voice is the sound of regret. "It can't."

  "Why not?" I hear the gentleness in his voice and wonder how much of myself I've inadvertently revealed.

  I don't say a word.

  He exhales, and I can feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. "Ultimately, your free will is your own, Ms. Fairchild. As is mine."

  "Yours?"

  "I'm free to try to convince you otherwise."

  The space between us is so thick that it's a wonder I can breathe the air. "You won't convince me," I say, but not as forcefully as I want. "I have a job with someone you're going to invest with. I've already gone further than I should." I suck in a fortifying breath. "But it has to stop now. I'm not risking my professional reputation any more than I already have."

  "Why not work for me?"

  The retort is so quick that I can't help but wonder if he's already considered the possibility. "Not happening," I say.

  "Give me one reason why not."

  "Um, gee, let me see. Maybe because I don't want to be the poster child for sexual harassment?"

  The change in his face is instant and disturbing, and I am left with no doubt that I've angered him. My immediate instinct is to slip off the stool and scoot away, but I remain rooted to the spot. No way am I giving him the satisfaction of backing down.

  "Did you feel harassed last night?"

  "No," I admit. As much as I'd like to take the easy way out, I can't lie to him.

  I see the relief wash over his face, banishing the anger. Or was it fear? I'm not sure, and it doesn't matter. Right now, I see only desire.

  "I thought about you last night," he says. "Giselle and Bruce will probably never have me out for drinks again. I was terrible company."

  "I'm so sorry to have ruined your evening."

  "Hardly," he said. "And the ride home--I think that was the first time in my life I wanted a drive to be longer. Me, alone in the back of the limo, surrounded by the scent of you."

  He doesn't mention the panties. I wonder if he's found them. And if he hasn't ...

  Oh, dear. Who else does he let use that limo?

  I feel my cheeks warm, and from the way his eyes crinkle with amusement, I know that he's noticed.

  "I imagined undressing you," he says, reaching for the top button on my blouse. He pops it open effortlessly. "I pictured you naked." Pop, another button. "You're beautiful," he whispers.

  With the side of his thumb, he gently strokes the swell of my breast and the lace of my white satin bra.

  My breath catches in my throat. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but no words come out.

  His hands find the bra's front clasp, and as efficiently as he unbuttoned my blouse, he's released me from my bra, which hangs limp from my shoulders. His groan is low and needful and desperately arousing. I want nothing more than to close my eyes and surrender, but I can't, I can't--

  "Damien, please."

  He lifts his eyes to mine. He's breathing hard, and there's longing in the hard angles of his face. "Free will, Nikki. Tell me to stop, and I will. But tell me fast, because I'm going to kiss that damnable mouth of yours, and goddammit, Nikki, I
'm doing it to keep you quiet."

  Faster than I can react, his mouth covers mine. Claiming me, marking me. Making me his. My mind goes blank, all thoughts dissolving, replaced only by pleasure and the need to be claimed by this man. To open my mouth and take and be taken.

  Blindly, I grope for him, my fingers clutching at his hair, pulling him closer. It's as if all my protestations have been nothing but a sham, and now that they've been beaten aside, the pressure of emotion--of need--that's been building inside me has to burst out, wild and hot and desperate and demanding. The kiss lasts either seconds or an eternity, I'm not sure. But when he releases me, I suck in air, craving oxygen because I am light-headed and weak.

  This is my chance, and I know it. Tell him to stop now, and he will. Tell him to leave me alone, and he'll walk out of my life.

  I throw myself at him. Wanton. Willful. I'm risking everything, but right then I don't care. All I can feel is the fire.

  Our mouths clash as I draw him in, and he's right there, tasting me, his low moan of pleasure making all my risks worthwhile.

  He breaks our kiss roughly, then closes his mouth on my neck. I gasp and arch back, and as I do, his hands slide into my shirt, cupping my breasts, and then his mouth is there, suckling, drawing me in until my nipple is a tight pearl against his teeth. I realize he's tugged me closer, so that my ass is barely on the bar stool and his thigh is wedged between my legs. I'm bucking against him because the pleasure has shot like a hot spark from my breast to my sex.

  "Baby," he whispers, as he comes up for air. His fingers quickly finish unbuttoning my shirt, and his hands ease down to my waist, leaving my skin hot and prickly in his wake. He slides me off the stool so that I am standing in front of him. I'm damp from the heat of my desire, and my body aches all over, craving his touch.

  "So soft," he says, as he untucks my shirt and brushes his fingers lightly over my skin. His fingers skim around the waistband of my skirt, then slowly unzips it. It falls a bit, hanging loose around my hips. "So damn beautiful."

  The awe in his voice unnerves me, and cold fingers of trepidation creep in beneath the fog of pleasure.

  I tremble, not sure if it's from my fears or from his touch. "Reach back," he orders. "Hold on to the stool."

  "Damien ..." I hear the protest in my trailing voice, but my actions don't match my words. I do as he says, my hands clutched tight, my back arched, my head tilted back with pleasure.